Chapter 1

“Oh, fuck me. Of course. Go ahead and roll wherever you want. How about hiding under that planter? I swear to God, this day can’t get any worse. No, God. No universe. That is not a challenge. I take that back. I take all of that back.”

The woman in blue scrubs bends down to pick up the apples, oranges, and cans that tumbled down from her overflowing grocery bag. She mumbles while she shoves the fruit one by one into her paper bag, and I have to look around to check if she’s talking to anyone.

Nope. She’s talking to herself.

Her ass is in the air and at least four steps in front of me. She has nice round globes, of course, but I don’t let my gaze linger. She’s clearly in distress, and the last thing I need is for her to take out her frustration on me.

I’ve had a long day myself, so this I clearly understand.

There’s just one problem.

My apartment building has a small entrance, and for some reason, my pinchpenny landlord has added huge plant boxes on either side of the glass doors. Thus, the only way to get into the lobby is to side-step the woman, who’s blocking my way with her ass. There’s no point helping her because she’s done stuffing the fruits.

She continues to talk to herself, which makes me wonder if she’s actually here mentally.

Oh, well. Whatever.

Her business, not mine.

Since she seems unaware of her surroundings and me, I clear my throat to get her attention. Her head swivels to me, and the moment her eyes meet mine, my heart starts giving an erratic beat, which is weird. My legs forget how to move, and some oddly intense feeling comes to me in a blinding flash.

What the hell?

My hand tightens on my phone, so tight I think it’s gonna crack. It’s like my body tenses with just one look from her. What’s going on right now?

The woman, whose raven black hair is tied in a messy bun, grabs something from the back of her head and pulls it, leaving her long wavy hair cascading down her shoulders and back, framing her round face beautifully. The simple motion shouldn’t send me reeling, but it does.

It fucking does.

From out of nowhere, I see visions of her lying on my bed, her glorious hair fanning on my pillows.

Jesus Christ. I need to get out of here.

Her hazel eyes are drawn to the right side of my face—typical when I’m meeting someone for the first time—at the scar running from my forehead down to my jaw and neck and disappearing under my shirt. I try to resist the urge to cover it up with my hair and collar, but she quickly realizes what she’s doing and shakes her head.

“Hi. I’m Zara, your new neighbor.” She extends a small hand full of streaks and smudges of red and blue ballpoint pen ink. Her smile is genuine, and it reaches her eyes.

Most people, after they see me in broad daylight, look away with flashes of uncertainty on their faces, like they suddenly don’t know how to deal with me. Not her. Not only does she maintain eye contact, but she neither shows disgust nor pity. Just curiosity.

The reason why I chose this crappy complex over other more luxurious ones is because I rarely see the other tenants. They usually just come home to sleep and leave as soon as they can. I’m familiar with the faces, but we don’t greet each other or stop for small talk unless absolutely necessary. I can count the number of times I nodded in greeting to the people on my own floor.

But Zara.

I can’t touch her. Just looking at her already robs me of breath, like the floor has vanished from under me. I can only imagine what an innocent touch will do to me.

So I respond in the most mature way I can. I grunt, pick up one apple she missed, shove it into the paper bag in her arm, and swerve to avoid touching any part of her.

I know she’ll use the elevator, which is working for the first time in forever, so I head to the stairs. God, is this gonna be my life from now on?

I’ve lived here for three years and seen a revolving door of neighbors. None of them ever rattled me like this. Not the guy who parades in the second-floor hallway in nothing but his spandex suit, not the old lady from the third floor with the chihuahua who hates me, and not the family from the sixth floor whose kids like shooting bubbles in my face.

Who is she? This Zara?

She’s beautiful, that’s a given. With her eyes fringed by thick, long lashes and the dimple on her right cheek when she smiled, she was a vision. A vision that was enough to stop me in my tracks, like part of my brain didn’t believe I breathed the same air as her.

It’s more than that, though.

Maybe it’s the raw vulnerability and sadness in her eyes that mirrors my own. Or maybe I’m just seeing things that aren’t there. She intrigues me for sure, but it’s not like I can do anything about it.

She’s a neighbor. Nothing more, nothing less.

I’ve just sat down in front of my laptop when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It can only be one of my brothers. No one else has my number, and besides, if someone does call, the likelihood of me answering an unknown number is zero. I’ll watch it ring and figure out who it belongs to after.

“Jame?” I ask my eldest brother, sticking my phone between my ear and shoulder as I type furiously on the keyboard.

“It’s a bust.”

“The Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“It’s fine, Alec. Not the first time we’re given false leads.”

“They’re getting better at covering their tracks.”

“I know, but they don’t have you.”

That makes me smile. “Is this your way of pressuring me without pressuring me?”

Jameson laughs, and the sound of his chair scraping against the floor makes me wince. “No. But you’ll think like that anyway. See you tomorrow.”

“Yup.”

For the next two hours, I go over the maps and reports, weeding out which ones are unlikely to house dozens of kids and teens. I work until my eyes begin to sting and the words swim in front of me.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I take off my glasses and toss my head back, staring at the ceiling and letting my mind stray to my new neighbor. I’m pretty sure she resides below me because it’s the only vacant unit. Well, it was a week ago.

Interestingly, every unit has two CCTV cameras installed—one outside the terrace and the other outside our front doors. I’ve long wormed my way into the building’s security system so accessing hers won’t be an issue.

I mean, she’s new, so I need to at least check her out. She could be a security risk for all I know. She could be here to trap me or something.

Luckily, she’s on the terrace, directly on the sight line of the camera. She’s lounging on an oversized bean bag, her legs crossed and a book in one hand while she munches on cookies with the other. She’s tied her hair up, slim black-rimmed glasses perched on her button nose.

I thought I was only staring for five minutes. When I turn to look at the time, I’ve been apparently watching her for almost an hour. God, this is pathetic and not something I normally do. I understand boundaries, better than most I think, so trying to watch her through her own camera is disgusting, to say the least.

Yes, I am disgusted with myself. Maybe it’s the stress finally getting to me?

Still, I can’t shake off the feeling that my whole life’s about to change. The last time I felt like this was when both my parents died while on a boat in the middle of the ocean.

I’m not sure what Zara”s part is, but something has shifted. I can taste it in the air around me.

It doesn’t matter. We’ll rarely see each other, and I’ll make it a point to avoid her, which is just as well. Things are getting tense at work—the real one and not the front—so I can’t afford distractions.

The last thing I need is some random woman taking my mind off things that really matter. Many lives depend on us. We can’t let them down.

Besides, she’s probably not even thinking of me the way I’m currently obsessing over her.