1. Renee

Is it still melodramatic to say it’s “the worst day of your life” if it’s true?

Yes?

Okay, fine. Then it’s not the worst day of my life.

But it still sucks.

I’ve got a heavy-ass box in my hand with about a jillion of them still left to haul up from the moving truck, I’m sweating like a pig despite the Arctic-level A/C in this gaudy condo complex, and my phone won’t stop buzzing in my back pocket.

Again. And again. And again.

I know who’s calling—the same people who’ve been calling nonstop for the last two weeks—which is why I’m not answering.

I’ve got enough drama in my life. I don’t need them to bring more of it.

I drop the box with a thump in the open foyer of Unit PH03 and breathe a sigh of relief. Yes, PH does stand for “Penthouse,” and no, I extremely cannot afford it.

Matter of fact, I don’t think I can even afford to set so much as a pinky toe in this place. The sign out in front of the building reads THE PALAIS in a trendy sans serif font etched in sandstone. I’ve refused to say the name out loud in case I butcher it and reveal myself as the ultimate peasant who does not belong here. I think they’re onto me already, though—the concierge looked at me like I was lower than pond scum when I schlepped the first load of my stuff into the freight elevator.

The penthouse in question belongs to my best friend Sutton. That’s Sutton, as in Sutton Medina, as in famous Hollywood starlet Sutton Medina, who is currently sipping champagne on a private plane somewhere between here and Paris, where she’s going to spend the next three months filming the Oscar-baitiest movie of all time.

“It’s pretentious trash, but it’s my kind of pretentious trash,” she’d explained when she first pitched this whole crazy house-sitting idea to me a week ago. “Lots of slow motion shots of me, like, sipping tea and gallivanting under the Eiffel Tower in sundresses and stuff.”

“What a challenging life you lead,” I’d laughed. “How ever will you survive?”

“I’m not saying I’m a martyr, but I’m not not saying it, either.”

I’m the real martyr in this situation, though. The movie studio has people tending to Sutton’s every whim—but here I am, transporting a decade’s worth of stuff out of the crummy apartment I used to share with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… and without so much as a single mover to help.

I sigh and pull the rag from my back pocket to mop the sweat off my forehead. I always sweat way too much, whereas Sutton just glistens. I guess that’s why she’s the movie star and I’m not.

As I lean against the wall, I hear a noise from further down the corridor. I open my eyes to see the door to Unit PH01 open. A man steps out.

My immediate first thought is, Maybe that’s why he’s the movie star and I’m not.

To call him “gorgeous” would be an understatement. You could slice a finger on the edge of that jaw. He’s the whole package: five-day-stubble, effortlessly swept back mahogany hair, and green eyes that seem lit from within. He’s wearing a white t-shirt that clings to sculpted biceps and a pair of ripped black jeans over those tan suede Chelsea boots that everybody loves these days.

He’s the farthest thing from “everybody,” though. He’s like a unicorn with testosterone. I can’t stop staring.

He frowns as he locks his door and walks past, hoisting a black canvas duffle bag over his shoulder. “You lost?” he asks me.

It’s unfair for someone to look and sound this cool. His voice is a raspy, just-got-out-of-bed rumble that vibrates up and down my body.

“No, I’m not—I don’t—this isn’t my—I’m just staying here for—my friend is a movie star.”

It all comes out in one panicked, garbled mess. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when he arches one eyebrow and backs away slowly, the way you do when one of those annoyingly persistent employees at the makeup kiosk in the mall tries to sell you on a crimson lip stain.

“Uh… right,” he says. “Got it.”

With that, any interest he might’ve had in me goes up in a puff of smoke. He pulls the aviator sunglasses from his shirt collar, slips them over those dazzling green eyes, and turns away.

I can’t help gawking at his ass as he gets in the elevator. It’s as perfect as the rest of him.

He doesn’t return my gaze, though. He just flicks through his phone like I don’t even exist. Then the elevator doors close and he disappears from sight.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Smooth, Renee,” I grumble at myself in the now-empty hallway. “Real smooth. A little symmetrical bone structure and you fall right to pieces. Get a damn grip.”

Sighing, I turn and make my way toward the freight elevator at the opposite end.

One box down.

One million to go.