One

"…Is this you?"

My stomach plummets so fast, scientists should study me. They should whisk me off to sea, track down a pod of deep-sea diving whales, and challenge them to a race. Then, all they'd have to do is put a hot guy in front of me and make him say, "Is this you?" and my stomach would drop, propelling me straight to the ocean floor faster than anything. Put me up against the baddest bitch in that pod. Bet I'd win.

Connor clears his throat with a low cough, his Adam's apple bobbing and casting a shadow under the bar's dim, fuchsia wall lights. His expression teeters somewhere between confusion and shock, but only briefly. The confusion quickly melts into mortification.

Right. I'm caught.

Shit.

Shit. Shit.

My hand clenches my bottle of Stella Artois until part of the label, damp with condensation, separates from its adhesive and curls into a thin tendril against the palm of my hand. I don't let up. Seconds pass, and somehow my hand manages to tighten, threatening to crack the parakeet green glass.

After three years in the business, I really should be used to this happening.

Shit.

My eyes drift back and forth between the phone in front of my face and the furrowed brow of the guy holding it.

I mean…I could lie, I guess. If I spin this right, I could probably convince Connor that the naked girl on his phone—the one gleefully licking a sparkly, hot pink vibrator—simply looks identical to me and has the same monumentally stunning tits as me, but definitely isn't me. It would have to be a masterclass in finesse, but I could manage.

"Valeria, is this you?" he repeats, waving the phone as if I can't see it three inches from my nose.

It takes me a beat to realize he's starting to panic. He's keeping it together and masking the obvious signs, but reading men is my game. His micro-expressions tell me he's losing it. Wide eyes. The flush in his complexion. The way he gulps down air. His brow is furrowed so tightly, it may actually be stuck like that. And his knuckles? Clearly turning white.

Yep—panic.

From experience, I know this conversation is about to go one of two ways: Connor is either going to drop his phone like a hot deuce and back away, or he's going to laugh awkwardly before asking a series of invasive questions. Those questions will then segue into him telling me he's cool with my job because he's not like other guys, and he'll promise to call me this week.

Both possibilities end with us never speaking again.

Sighing, I bid a silent farewell to Connor, vow to delete the dating app where I found his panicky ass, and mentally pour one out in memory of the two weeks I wasted texting him.

Time to get this show on the road.

"That's me," I confirm, nodding at his phone before I take an aggressively long drink of my beer. And another. And another.

…Okay, fine—I chug the entire thing in six seconds flat.

Connor finally lowers his phone, and wow—look at that. His eyebrows aren't stuck. In fact, I've never seen a pair reach more impressive heights in my life. They're practically stratospheric. Honestly, I'm shocked they're not gathering ice crystals at that altitude.

"Oh. I didn't know you were…" Connor trails off and tugs the collar of his nice button-down, the one I had been excited to see when he arrived. It was obvious he wanted to impress me, and it worked. I had giggled. Blushed. My tactless fingers twirled a lock of my hair for at least two minutes before I realized I was even doing it. For a rare stretch, I felt a glimmer of hope that my decision to get back into the dating game wasn't as pointless as it felt when I downloaded Radar three weeks ago.

Turns out, I was right. It was pointless. Being right has never felt worse.

For the next ten seconds, Connor stumbles over words, fiddles with that collar, and looks at anything in the gloomy bar except me before he finally finishes with: "…a porn star."

Twenty minutes later, I'm plodding into the lobby of my building, the Halcyon. It's still light out, partially a byproduct of these last weeks of summer, but mostly because my date lasted a grand total of ten minutes—a new record. I wave at the lobby concierge, who looks surprised to see I've returned so soon.

Aw. Well, that's a nice consolation: Apparently, I'm not the only one who thought I was going to get lucky tonight.

Exhaling slowly, I cross the lobby and make a stop at the resident mailboxes. While I sort through my stack of junk mail, I'm stuck on Connor and his questions.

Is this something you're doing to make money until a better gig comes along?

So, do guys fuck you on camera?

Are you planning on doing this forever?

My answer to all his questions had been an honest no, and—in a completely real and not at all fabricated turn of events—Connor got a page from the hospital where he works, saying he needed to come in.

Tragic.

On the walk home, I deleted his number right before I sent ten irate texts to Cora and Essie, demanding to know why they didn't stop me from downloading a dating app.

Cora Flores

Bitch, you were ranting about cuffing season. There was nothing we could do.

You literally texted us a stock photo of two random people wearing sweaters and hugging. You said you would trade a year of orgasms for ONE DAY of this.

Essie Romero

That's how we knew it was serious.

…Okay, they're right. I did do that. But in my defense, I saw a poster outside Starbucks announcing the return of the pumpkin spice latte at the end of the month, and everyone knows the return of the PSL means cuffing season is around the corner. So really, if anyone's to blame for my mistake, it's Starbucks and the motherfucker who invented the PSL, not me.

While I recycle my junk mail, Cora responds again (in classic Cora Flores fashion) with a wall of text, fuming about how men are so disappointing (thereby proving she's still not over her breakup with Gage). Then Essie, like always, sends an emoji of a middle finger. Both responses make me feel exponentially better. For a single glorious minute, I brush off Connor's rejection. I even resolve to go upstairs, light a candle, break out my vibrator, and turn this Wednesday night around.

And then he ruins all my plans.

Surprised, I stop in my tracks a few feet from the elevator bank, clutching my remaining mail to my chest like it can muffle the thump of my heartbeat. He's here.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he's the most exquisite "fuck you" in the universe. That face. That body. Even the way he stands. For an entire year, I've lived in excruciating proximity to a man so impossibly beautiful—and so off-limits—it hurts. Some days, I've seriously considered moving.

This exquisite "fuck you" is named Lander Dawson.

Dressed in an expensive, flawlessly tailored suit as usual, Lander is waiting in front of the bronze elevator doors with his back to me.

He sighs. I do the same.

He's holding a stainless-steel coffee thermos with Cavendish Waits, the name of the law firm where he works, imprinted on the side. Fixing his lips on the rim, he takes a lengthy sip. Wow. It's after eight on a Wednesday, he's only just getting home from work, and he's still drinking coffee. The whole thing is so fucking intense.

My heart stutters when he shifts in place and glances to the side, offering me a glimpse of his profile. His looks are jaw-droppingly classic. His eyes are so blue, they would piss off the waters surrounding Hawaii, and his jaw is so sharp, art historians might argue that the Renaissance came five hundred years too early because this is the standard of beauty the artists were trying to achieve. Everything about him drips with effortless perfection. The thick, runway-ready, light brown hair. The straight line of his nose. The flawless swerve under his defined cheekbones. Even his eyelashes are too ridiculously long to be wasted on a man.

However, amid all that perfection he projects a rawness that tickles the most dormant, primal instincts in me. That rawness makes my stomach tighten and tingle. He's sex on legs. Even under layers of bespoke shirts and suits, Lander's body moves with the fluid grace belonging only to a guy who fucks like a dream. And don't get me wrong—I'm not totally objectifying him. I know that body of his probably does tons of incredible things beyond sex. He's probably coordinated. Naturally athletic. I bet he's even a great dancer. But what was that body made to do best? Fuck. Undoubtedly, the man was built to fuck.

So, yeah. If I haven't made it clear already: The guy is ludicrously hot.

I'm still gripping my mail, still outright gawking, and only now realizing how fast my pulse is racing. It's always like this around him. In the year I've lived near Lander Dawson, my reaction has never diminished…but neither has my resolve: I will never, ever hook up with Lander—and that's a vow.

It's a vow I hold sacred. So sacred. So painfully, all-consumingly sacred.

The earbuds nestled in his ears tip me off: He's on a call. His shoulders rise minutely, highlighting the tension in his stately posture. He exhales roughly before saying, "…I don't give a flying fuck if he disagrees with the edit. He's a first-year associate and was literally snorting Adderall off his torts textbook four months ago when he had to retake the bar." His tone is so even, I get chills. He looks effortlessly easygoing, at odds with his harsh words.

I hate how hot it all makes me.

"Sure," Lander goes on, "I could be straight with him. Or I could do things my way, which means methodically dismantling him and his career contract by contract, email by email, until his boss does the dirty work and fires him for me." Lander breathes out while he listens to the response on the other end of the line. "You may think this is conniving, but for me it's another Wednesday night—possibly Thursday morning if you don't end this call soon…"

When the doors open, he steps into the elevator first and heads to the back corner, where he props his shoulder against the wall. My brain is lusty mush, but my legs get their act together and follow him in. His eyes meet mine and he flinches almost imperceptibly, like he didn't know I was around until now. That tiny flinch does wonders to my ego—like it does every time he looks at me. If I had anything as normal as a professional resume, that would be the headline: Lander Dawson checks me out.

Tonight, his gaze is stoic, but vaguely apologetic, so I give him a forced, polite smile—no teeth. It's a look that says, Yeah, handsome. I just heard you being an underhanded dickhead.

He doesn't return the smile, but he does clear his throat and say, "Hey, I should go. I'm—" But before he finishes speaking, Lander exhales again, and the garbled, tinny sound of someone still talking on the other end of the call comes through.

I hit the button for the tenth floor. I don't have to ask what floor he's headed to because part of my daily misery is the fact that we're neighbors. Next-door neighbors. We share a common wall. And yes—it's as awful as it sounds.

The doors close, boxing us in together, and I let out a heavy sigh of my own. Huge mistake. Lander smells delicious, like expensive cologne and clean hair and manly pheromones.

This is the longest elevator ride of my life.

The cab whirrs to a stop on the second floor where the gym is located. Three more people join Lander and me: a duo of women who I assume work on the Hill because they're always saying things like, "I swear, one day I'm going to filibuster until he keels over and dies of old age," and ugh—Eleventh-Floor-Blake.

Dripping with sweat, Eleventh-Floor-Blake looks me up and down, a grotesque smile forming on his reddened face, and he heads right for me like a big, horny torpedo. When I don't immediately make room for him, he wedges himself into the minuscule space between me and the back corner of the elevator, bobbing his chin in greeting.

Returning the gesture out of politeness is my first mistake.

Blake beams and places his water bottle and towel on the floor between his feet, all in a thinly veiled attempt to check out my legs. Whatever he sees impresses him because he shifts closer. His body is exposed and shiny in his repulsive old frat tank, and he makes a show of pretending to wipe his face with the hem to show me his abs.

Annoyed, I take a step in Lander's direction and try not to look at Blake, but Blake is having none of it. He quickly fills the space I just vacated and shifts his gym bag to his other shoulder, leaving nothing between us except my blossoming revulsion.

Somehow—I'm not exactly sure how—the inventor of the PSL is to blame for this too.

Desperate, I glance in Lander's direction to see how much further I can get from Blake, and a strange pang of disappointment strikes when I see he's still on the phone. He glances at me, making momentary eye contact before he averts those extraordinary blues and mutters, "Got it. Send me the proposed edits and I'll review them. I do have to go—"

Relentless, Blake takes another step towards me, and the blossoming revulsion now twists into full-fledged disgust. He's so freaking close to me, and my eyes dart to his other side in a reflexive plea for the Hill staffers to help me out.

"…and then he had the nerve to tell me it was bipartisan," one is saying to the other, who nods, oblivious. "Can you believe that? Him telling me it was bipartisan?"

The sound of a throat clearing pulls my gaze over to Blake. "Valeria, how have you been?" he asks, finally going for it.

Ah, fuck me.

"Fine," I lie, straddling the line between aloof and outright dismissive.

Undeterred, he shifts a few more inches, bringing his body so close to mine that sticky heat radiates off his skin. Sporting a grimace, I take another step towards Lander, also putting myself into the territory of "way too fucking close."

Sorry not sorry.

But my attempt to escape fails when Blake tilts his head to the side and leans towards me. He runs his hand through his damp hair and oh my god he's going to put that hand on my shoulder. The thought makes my stomach roil, but before I can react, he bows and says into my ear, "I stopped by the other week." His sweaty arm touches my leather jacket, lingering there. Ruining it. I'll have to burn it now. When I flinch away, he chuckles. "You weren't around, I guess."

"I'm so busy," I answer, unable to keep my lip from curling while I stare at a bead of sweat on his skin. I tug at the leather, pulling it taut while pretending to cross my arms. Surely this ride can't last much longer…

Behind me, Lander clears his throat. "I can get it all done tonight, but seriously, I have—"

"You've got to take it easy," Blake recommends, reaching out. Before I can process what's happening—before I can even weigh the possibility of fleeing—Blake puts both his beefy hands on my shoulders for a massage.

Gasping, I attempt to wiggle out of Blake's grip, but his hands are clamps. I'm so close to Lander, I can hear the coffee slosh in his thermos, but I can't worry about him right now. Blake is still digging his thick fingers into my body, allegedly working my muscles or something, but clearly just seizing an opportunity to touch me freely. To touch me without permission. Shocked, I open my lips to speak, but nothing comes out except a strained stutter. I'm the one panicking now—and it doesn't take a reader of micro-expressions to see it.

"Are you okay?" Blake questions, releasing a full, throaty laugh. His relentless hands pry deeper, gripping the skin on my shoulders. "See how tight you are? You need to—"

"Hey," Lander interrupts, speaking over my shoulder. "Don't touch her. If you put your hands on her one more time, I'll rip them off and then sue you for getting blood on my suit. Am I fucking clear?"

Everyone in the elevator freezes until Blake, after blinking through his confusion, somehow manages a less than eloquent, "What the hell, man?" His voice cracks at the end, right on the double-Ls.

"Am I fucking clear?" Lander repeats, somehow sounding more terrifying than his initial threat.

The elevator comes to a stop with a cheerful, out-of-place Ding! on the sixth floor where the Hill staffers live, but they don't leave. Their attention remains on Lander, and matching expressions of shock and appreciation read plainly on their faces.

When I crane to look over my shoulder, I'm met with a stony stare from a pair of blue eyes that radiate murder but bear a contradictory softness behind them—a softness meant for me.

But Lander's brief tenderness ends almost as soon as it begins. He swivels his gaze back to Blake, intimidating beyond measure. "No response? Doesn't matter. You're getting out here."

"This isn't my floor," Blake protests, gesturing at the sixth-floor landing.

"Do I look like I give a shit? Get out of the elevator, Blake." Lander raises his chin at the open doors.

Blake stammers, but he doesn't respond. At this point, I figure it's worth noting that Blake may be a creep, but he's no slouch. When he's not being a grimy perv, he's a hyper-confident management consultant who drives a stunning Lexus. He doesn't play loud music, he'll help anyone in the building carry their groceries upstairs, and he even led a building-wide compost initiative. But despite everything Blake has going for him, he still wanders aimlessly out of the elevator with his brow furrowed—simply because Lander told him to.

The Hill staffers follow (after more admiring stares), leaving Lander and me alone in the elevator once again.

My heart is a drumline. When the doors close, I turn to thank him—and I'm surprised to discover he's still on his work call. I have no idea how that's even possible.

He points at one of his earbuds. "I muted myself," he whispers in explanation before he hits a button on his phone. "I'll handle the draft on my own. I don't need a paralegal." He doesn't miss a beat.

I muted myself.

Those are the first and only three words Lander has ever said to me. Those three words may not be Jane Austen, but they sure as hell beat Is this you? by a landslide.

Shellshocked, I hold my mail tighter to my body and continue to watch Lander, whose eyes stay on mine. We've never stared at each other outright before.

Up close, his eyes are sky blue, the same pale shade as the April sky the year I moved to DC as a fourteen-year-old. That was the year I walked the Tidal Basin loop alone, jostling with crowds of tourists at the cherry blossoms and marveling at my new life in the United States. I took so many pictures of the delicate pink flowers and texted them to my friends in Mexico, who couldn't believe how stunning they were. At the time, I didn't tell them that the blossoms only stay open for three weeks before the immaculate blue sky shifts into the muggy haze of summer.

But unlike the DC sky, Lander's eyes are limitless, eternal blue. They're not going anywhere.

"Thank you," I say, even though I know I shouldn't talk to him right now. He's still on his call, focused on the voice in his ear. His job must be unfathomably stressful, and disrupting him for anything less than life or death is unacceptable. My father would have barked at me for interrupting. He would have stormed into my bedroom hours later, demanding to know what was so important that I would deign to disturb a billable hour. But Lander deserves my gratitude, at the very least.

I'm surprised when he offers me a muted shrug in response.

He doesn't throw back my words or shoot me a chastising glare. He doesn't wave me away. Instead, he taps his screen and removes one of the buds from his ear. "Anytime. If you ever need anything, ask me."

Ask me.

He continues to stare at me, his gaze unwavering and his expression mild—entirely absent of the harshness he showed Blake. His offer, I realize, is genuine. And Lander, I realize, has more to say than legalese and threats.

I turn the revelation over in my head until we reach the tenth floor and I walk to my condo with Lander's tall, elegant form moving behind me. At his door, he stops and twirls his key ring around his index finger, lingering.

"I'm Lander," he mentions, speaking down the length of the hallway.

My hand stops with my own key in the lock. "Valeria."

"Valeria Fuentes, right?" When he faces me, his phone's screen is black, so I figure he's done with his call. His expression is mostly relaxed for once, but there's a slight pinch in his brow. It's like he doesn't know how to speak to me—which is funny because I don't even know how to breathe around him.

I nod, acutely aware of my fingers squeezing my key. The force is involuntary, but unavoidable. He's really so fucking handsome.

"I should have introduced myself before," he continues, oblivious to the way he makes my body respond. "It's my fault. I—fucking hell." He glances at his phone, which has lit up in his hand. "I'm sorry. I should take this."

"No worries. You're a lawyer. I know how that goes."

I know all too well.

His eyes drift from his vibrating phone back up to me. "Maybe we can—"

"You should get that," I encourage, tamping down the unwelcome surge of anticipation that arises when he talks to me. There's a reason I've avoided speaking to Lander all this time, and I can't afford to forget it. I unlock my door. "I'll see you around."

"Valeria," he calls, stopping me halfway into my condo. When I look at him again, he's still giving me that uncertain stare. "I meant it. If you ever need anything, ask me."

I nod like I'm considering it, but I'll never ask him for anything. I've made it a year without caving and I'm not giving in now. "Night, Lander."

Without waiting for a response, I rush into my unit and shut the door with my back.

It's embarrassing how vigorously my heart is pounding after a simple conversation, and I immediately regret the entire ordeal. If I had just dealt with Blake myself, Lander never would have gotten involved, and I wouldn't be here yearning for someone I've forbidden myself from ever having.

Never date a lawyer.

Rules have never been important to me. I do what I want, however I want, and I don't give a shit if it's unconventional. But there's one rule I hold to, a singular rule I created and have never broken: Never date a lawyer.

Never date a lawyer. Never date a lawyer. Never date a lawyer.

Never date a lawyer, even if he makes every part of your body yearn in unprecedented, unholy ways.

The rest of the evening is dull by comparison. Essie talks Cora and me through our monthly camming data over FaceTime while I inhale a frozen pizza. I shower. I read. I take a whirl on my vibrator because it usually makes my heart rate level. The orgasm is mediocre, but I pretend it's fine. My pulse is still racing.

When I go to sleep, my body begs for another release, which I refuse to indulge at first. I end up restless—annoyed. Sometime after midnight, I grab my vibrator again and for once—just once—I allow my brain to travel to a place I've embargoed. I picture a man with infinite blue eyes, who looks lethally attractive in a suit. I picture his rare, mild expression—the one I saw for the first time today. I imagine his steady hands on my skin, his lips pressed against mine, and everything in between. The thought makes me come, but it's still not enough—it'll never be enough.

I know he's inches away, on the other side of the wall behind my bed, unaware of how he makes me fidget with need.

…Fuck it. I'm finding a realtor in the morning.