Chapter 4

The buzz of my refrigerator could be heard from my bedroom, and the silence in my apartment seemed to magnify the sound. Although the quietness of my solo living was once a source of discomfort, over time, it provided me with a sense of peace. I found myself not just tolerating but enjoying living alone.

My apartment was nestled above a reputable hair salon on Charleston's peninsula. As much as I loved it, I had my list of complaints. For one, I wasn't allowed to have pets—not even a fish. I lived in a historic building, so the regulations against pets weren't surprising; they were relatively common in the area. What I didn't like was the inability to make my own decisions. For the hefty price I paid, I should have been allowed to have four dogs, seven cats, and two parakeets if I wanted to.

After months of contemplation, I was finally ready to take the plunge and buy a house. The idea had been floating around in my mind for quite a while, but my indecisiveness had kept me from taking any real action.

My assistant, Noah, attempted to show me properties he thought I would love, but I hadn't found anything that felt right. I was extremely picky. I mean, I spent all my time scouting and touring houses. Before I would sign the dotted line, my future home had to be the epitome of perfection.

Unfortunately, something about a property always gave me the ick.

I was all too familiar with the ick. Though, most of my ick experiences were with men. Before house hunting for myself, I was unaware that a property could provide the same feeling.

As it turned out, I was not only selective when it came to dating, but also when it came to choosing a place to live.

Despite what society claimed, being selective wasn't a flaw. I had high standards, and I refused to settle.

I trusted that what was perfect for me would eventually reveal itself.

∞∞∞

My alarm went off bright and early the following morning. As soon as I got out of bed, I filled a mug with coffee and ventured out to my balcony with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

When I started my career, I used to roll over, grab my phone off my side table, and be bombarded with work. I was under the impression that being a real estate agent meant being available to my clients twenty-four-seven. It didn't take long for me to realize that wasn't possible. To be the best I could be, I had to set boundaries for my personal and work life. I didn't touch my phone until after seven-thirty every morning, and I was unavailable to clients after nine o'clock in the evening.

But the second the clock hit seven-thirty, I started scrolling through my emails.

"Yes!" I squealed and clapped my hands when I saw Mr. Gawker's offer had already been accepted.

Noah was a speed demon when it came to paperwork, and I couldn't have been more grateful for him. I quickly added a scheduled lunch to each of our calendars. He deserved lunch on me.

After spending too long perfecting my hair and makeup, I locked my apartment door and rushed down the stairs. As if on autopilot, I made my way to the front door.

One of the reasons I loved my apartment so much, even with the strict rules, was its proximity to my office. Walking a few blocks over was an irreplaceable perk, and I knew I would miss the short commute when I eventually moved.

As my fingers danced across the screen of my phone, responding to an email, I swung the front door open and stepped onto the hard concrete of the sidewalk. My eyes remained glued to the screen, oblivious to my surroundings.

Suddenly, a blur of movement caught my eye as a figure darted from around the corner and came barreling straight towards me. We collided with a thud, and a guttural shriek tore from my throat as I plummeted towards the ground. My bag slipped off my shoulder, spilling its contents on the sidewalk below me.

"Shit," the man standing over me said.

He had somehow stopped himself from falling with expert reflexes.

I, however, had not been so lucky.

"Are you okay?" he asked as his frosty blue eyes met mine. They were a striking contrast against his sun-kissed complexion.

"I'm fine!" I screamed.

He extended his sizeable hand to me. "Let me help you up," he said.

"Please, don't touch me," I shooed him away before I crawled forward to gather my belongings.

"I think these took the brunt of the damage," the stranger informed me, holding the cracked, mangled mess that once was my favorite pair of red, heart-shaped sunglasses.

When my face contorted with disgust, he began to defend himself, "I'm sorry, but you came out of nowhere."

"I came out of nowhere," I repeated. "Are you serious? I walked out the door, and you practically ran me over!"

"Were you watching where you were going?" he asked.

"Of course I was," I lied.

He rolled his eyes and sighed as he picked up the skateboard resting against the wall. "Whatever you say," he mumbled.

"So, that's the culprit," I pointed to the skateboard.

"If you were watching where you were going, you would have seen it long before this moment," he said.

"Or you could just not ride that danger board on a sidewalk meant for pedestrians," I replied.

I threw my belongings back into my bag. I couldn't let him rewrite history to make himself look blameless. He ran into me.

He combed his fingers through his dark hair, the long, curly strands weaving around them like a tangled web.

"Can we just let it go?" he asked. "It was an accident. No one is at fault."

"Right, sure," I replied. "I guess my sunglasses are just innocent bystanders."

He spun the wheels of his skateboard with his thumb. "Don't be a drama queen," he huffed.

"Don't be a public menace," I quipped.

His mesmerizing eyes drifted to mine again, and I assumed he was prepared to argue. We stared at each other, silently indicating that neither would back down.

"Look," he finally said. "If they are that important to you, I'll buy you a new pair of sunglasses."

"You don't need to do that," I told him. "I purchased them in the first place, and I am more than capable of doing so again."

"I assumed they were a gift," he shrugged.

"Why?" I asked with my hands on my hips.

"Because you seem to have an emotional attachment to them," he clarified. "That's all I was saying. You can get on with your day now."

"Don't tell me—"

He interrupted me once again, "What to do? Yeah, yeah. I've heard it all before. Do you want a new pair of sunglasses or not?"

"I don't have time to deal with this right now," I said.

"You're squealing over a pair of sunglasses," he replied. "I'm just trying to do what's right."

"Yes, I'm sure you've always done the right thing," I said, giving his skateboard the stink eye.

"Do you have a piece of paper, anything to write on?" he asked.

I nodded and reached into my bag, pulling out a crumpled receipt from the bar two nights earlier. He scratched down some numbers with a pen and returned it to me without making eye contact.

"If you decide you want me to correct the situation, that's my phone number," he told me before he tossed his skateboard onto the concrete. He jumped onto it with ease and sped down the sidewalk, his body moving effortlessly in perfect synchronization with the board.

My eyes flickered over the digits on the paper before I quickly folded it and tucked it away in my bag.