They both look at me with furrowed brows and wobbly legs on top of their high heels. Clearly my neighbor doesn’t care about intellect when he rolls out the party invites.

  “But . . .” Pink Dress sighs and bats her lashes.

  “That way.” I point down the hallway. The quicker they go, the sooner I can get back to my pretend peace and quiet.

  A loud giggle. Boobs almost spilling out as Black Dress bounces up and down. “Thank you so much. We owe you for life.”

  I just stare after them as they walk down the hall toward the party. Was I ever like that? God, I hope not.

  Within seconds I hear a rush of noise when the door is opened and a loud cheer followed by their giggly laughter.

  No. I most definitely wasn’t like that.

  And just as I’m about to shut my door, my delivery person rounds the corner with food in hand and shaking their head. “That’s one wild party.”

  “My headache agrees,” I say as I fish cash out of my purse to pay him.

  “I had a neighbor like that once. Talk about a fucking nightmare.” He hands the food over to me.

  “What did you do?”

  He shrugs. “I tried to be patient, but after a few months and trying to sleep with a pillow over my head, I’d had enough. I stormed down there and told him to either turn the shit down or I was going to tell all his partiers how he liked to sleep in women’s lingerie and that he held Bestiality Anonymous meetings at his house so to make sure they kept their pets away from him.”

  I bark out a laugh. “That’s brutal.”

  “Maybe, but it worked.” He looks down the hall and then back to me with a grin. “He thought I was exaggerating at first but then the next time he threw a rager, I joined the crowd, got on a chair, and shouted for everyone to listen up. That got his attention real quick and he held his hands up in surrender. The music was turned down. The drunk people stopped banging on my door. It was heaven.”

  “Sound advice. Thank you for it.”

  “There is no telling the lengths one will go when they’re exhausted and someone’s preventing them from sleeping.”

  “I can’t agree more.”

  He takes a step back and tips his imaginary hat. “Best of luck to you. And if you want sleep, it’s best you lay down the law sooner rather than later.”

  His advice runs circles in my mind as I eat my lasagna from the only restaurant here that makes it even close to what it tastes like at home. The worst part is that I’m so distracted by the party noise, I accidentally drop some of my food on my brand-new, white sweatshirt.

  “Grrr,” I say to no one as I strip the damn thing off and spray stain remover on it. But it’s right as I finally sit back down to the food that’s starting to get cold that another fist pounds on my door.

  But when I answer this time, no one is there.

  Seriously?

  Annoyed beyond reason that now my food is definitely cold, I put it in the microwave to heat it up.

  Just as it’s done, there’s another knock on the door.

  Ignore it, Cam. Eat your food. Pick up your book and your glass of wine, and try to enjoy all three.

  But that’s the thing—there is no peace to enjoy shit, especially when whoever is at the door pounds at it again.

  Irritated.

  Annoyed.

  Angry.

  I stalk over to the door and yank it open. “What?”

  Doe eyes stare back at me. “Um, is Wills in there?” She looks over my shoulder. Her face falls when she sees my place is empty.

  “Wills as in the future King of England?” I look over my shoulder like she did then back to her. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint you. I’m sure he’s at the palace somewhere.”

  She giggles. “No. Wills as in Wills Wentworth. You know who I’m talking about.” She waves a hand in indifference and holds her phone out to me so I can see the text on the screen. My flat number is listed right after the address of our building. “See? He sent the group text out to us telling us this was where the party was.”

  “Of course he did.” There isn’t an ounce of humor in my tone. “Dare I ask how many people are on that text?”

  She bites her bottom lip in concentration as she slides her finger over her phone. “Twenty-ish. I lost count.”

  “Great. Even better.” I glance back at where my microwave has alerted me several times that my food is done reheating and then back at her. “Why don’t I show you where the party is?”

  “How sweet of you,” she coos like I’m a little child.

  Maybe it’s time for Operation Bestiality.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Camilla

  We’re down the hall and knocking on the door in seconds. When it swings open, the girl beside me squeals and launches herself into the arms of the man standing there. He staggers backward under the force of her weight but doesn’t miss a beat when her lips find his.

  But it only takes seconds—and a few tongues stuck down each other’s throats no doubt—for him to notice me. He looks familiar but I can’t place from where. Probably because he’s your neighbor.

  “Uh. Hi. And you are?” he asks above the noise behind him that’s pouring out into the hallway.

  “Your neighbor.” My smile is quick and sarcastic as I try to place him.

  “Oh. Uh.” He moves the woman to his side so that he can face me. “Not my place.”

  “Whose is it then?” I stand on my tiptoes and try to look around, get my bearings, but all I find is wall to wall people who are clearly having a good time.

  Wills, I’m guessing, glances over his shoulder. “Um. One sec. I’ll try to find—oh, there he is. C’mon.”

  I follow Wills a short distance. I bump into people every few steps, decline drinks thrust at me, and weird glances slid my way, which I can only assume is because I clearly haven’t dressed the part.

  “Hey,” Wills shouts. I can’t see the person he’s shouting at but just as the crowd parts, just as I see the back of someone I recognize, he says, “Riggs. Neighbor’s here to complain.”

  “Fuck, man,” he says, but then turns around and jolts to a stop when he sees me standing there. I’m pretty sure we both have the same expression on our faces—shock that we live next door to each other.

  But my brain processes more than that. It brings me back to the damn dream. To the imagination-induced, hand-helped orgasm that rocked my world following said dream. The same place my mind has gone each and every time I saw him this weekend at the race.

  The reason I continue to avoid him.

  And this visceral reaction to an imaginary meeting of our bodies—the sound of him groaning as he comes and the feel of his fingers gripping my hips as he pounded into me—is why I had to.

  “Hey, you!” Riggs sways on his feet, clearly drunk as drunk can be, and a slow, crooked smile crawls over his lips. “Camilla. Cam. Cami. Cami-cam-cam.” He slurs the words out as he steps forward and wraps me in the biggest bear hug ever.

  The part of me that goes to push him away falters when my hands hit the hard plane of his chest, and my mind is brought back to all the reasons I’ve avoided him.

  To fingernails scoring his sweat-misted chest. To strong arms holding me against him. To my panted name on his lips.

  “I thought you didn’t drink during the season.”

  “This is my one exception. ’Member. I told you about it?” He angles his head and studies me.

  “How could I forget?” I murmur. How can he look both adorable and sexy at the same time?

  “Look who’s here,” he shouts to everybody as he leans back, arm still on my shoulders, and looks at me with eyes that are glassy but so damn adoring. “It’s Camilla who doesn’t like dare cards, bastards, or James Bond but loves good kisses, drivers, and champagne straight outta the bottle.”

  “Hello, Camilla,” the crowd shouts back followed by a roar of cheers going up. A roar that explains so much about the sound I keep hearing from my apartment. Clearly this is how they greet people.

  I shrink at the sound but raise my hand up in greeting.

  “C’mon, Gasket,” Riggs says.

  “Gasket?” I laugh the word out.

  He nods emphatically. “You blow a gasket so easily. Get so angry at the drop of a hat—especially when it comes to me . . . so I officially name thee Gasket.” He grins and waves a pretend wand at me, clearly proud of himself for the nickname.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Guilty as charged.” He raises his hand. “Did I tell you I liked your hair? Wait. I didn’t because you were too busy avoiding me this weekend—”

  “I was letting you work. Just like I was working,” I lie, but am flattered that in the midst of this weekend’s chaos he actually noticed the subtle change in my hair. The color is a little lighter and the face framing a bit more pronounced—thanks to the first step of Isabella and Gia’s glow-up plan.

  “Bullshit. You were avoiding me because you were so damn busy trying to talk yourself into believing that my kiss is for shit when you know damn well it’s the best you’ve ever had.”

  “The man has jokes when he’s drunk.”

  “Baby, I got jokes all the time.” He takes my hand and holds it casually in his. “Is this the day you finally did it?”

  “Did what?” I ask above the crowd.

  “Draw the hearts on the calendar for me? I mean, you’re here and so very excited to see me . . . I figured it was. Were they pink? Or blue? Oh. Wait. Moretti red, I bet.”

  “Ignore him,” Wills says. “He’s an obnoxiously happy drunk.” And it’s then that he gets a closer look at me and his eyes shock open when he recognizes me from the track. Or the bar. He might be slow on at least one of them. “Holy shit. You’re—”

  “Mine,” Riggs says, shoving him playfully in the chest and stepping in between Wills and me. He lets out a big sigh as his gaze lands on my lips and then grins. “Hi again.”

  “Hi.”

  He puts his hand on my waist to move me out of the way of a bunch of people but once they pass, he doesn’t move it off. My skin ignites beneath it.

  “If I had known you were next door, I would have invited you over.”

  “If you had invited me over,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest, “I probably wouldn’t have come.”

  “That’s a shame,” he murmurs and by the flare of his nostrils, I swear the coming he’s talking about refers to more than an innocent party invite. “It’s good to let loose every once in a while.” He reaches up with his other hand and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “It’s good for the soul.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “No, you won’t.” He winks. “You’ll keep on the straight and narrow while I venture down an unbeaten path. You should try it sometime. The adrenaline high is like no other.”

  “I prefer my feet planted firmly on the ground, thank you very much.”

  “I think it’s time I prove you wrong.” He throws his head back and laughs, like a switch was flipped, and without warning, hops up on the coffee table beside us, his hand still holding mine.

  “What are you—”

  “Excuse me. Everybody, can I please have your attention?” he shouts, and when people don’t listen, Wills lets off one hell of a whistle that has voices quieting and necks craning. “Thank you.”

  “Give it to us, Riggs,” someone yells from the back.

  “You’ve already met Camilla,” he says and then unbeknownst to me tugs on my arm and coaxes me up to stand beside him. “Or as I call her, Gasket.”

  Not thrilled with this unexpected development, I stand on the table and glare at Riggs instead of staring out at what feels like a sea of people.

  “So, she’s the one responsible for thinking up this whole Am I the Arsehole advice column I’m doing on my socials.” Cheers go up. “But I only think it’s fair that I reverse the role tonight. How about I ask you guys the question and you give me advice this time around?”

  “Riggs. What are you doing?” I ask under my breath.

  “Relax.” He winks and tugs at my waist so that I’m against his side.

  “Spencer.” His name is a two-syllable warning.

  “You ready?” he asks to cheers. “Because I’m counting on you to give me the right answer here.” He holds up his hand for them to quiet down. “Here goes. Am I the arsehole for wanting to kiss her right now? For wanting to prove to her I’m good at it?”

  The entire crowd roars no.

  And before I can process that he’s serious, he tugs me flush against him and closes his mouth over mine.

  For a moment, I panic at the clumsiness of his motions and the fumbling of his hands as they frame my face.

  But it’s just the alcohol. It’s just Riggs.

  And once I bury the memory threatening to besiege me, the crowd slips away. My dream reemerges but in living 3D color as I taste the beer on his tongue and lose myself to his kiss.

  As I bask in the sensations it seems only he can evoke.

  Whistles break through the fog of lust and the staggering sensations his touch has created within.

  He leans back, a smile on his lips. “Change your mind yet, because if you need more convincing . . .”

  “Yes. Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “You’re a good kisser.”

  “Just good?” He scrunches his face up like a little boy waiting to be praised and it’s freaking adorable.

  I sigh and give the truth. “Better than good.”

  He throws his hands up and yells, “Victory,” as the room explodes in applause around us.

  I laugh. How can I not when I have a drunk Riggs in front of me who is completely and utterly endearing?

  He jumps off the table amid a raucous round of high fives as I stand there flustered with lips tingling and the apex of my thighs burning sweetly.

  I’m breathless and desperate . . . yes, desperate for more of him.

  But when Riggs turns to help me down, he freezes. His smile falters. He blinks a couple of times . . . as if he’s really seeing me for the first time.

  Oh shit.

  My own odd panic flutters up my throat as I realize that I’m standing here in a tight tank top and leggings—not my usual baggy clothes.

  Riggs’s eyes darken. I expect him to catcall. To make a smart-ass comment.

  He does the exact opposite almost as though, despite being drunk, he understands what a big deal this is for me without me having to explain a word.

  “Hey, Gasket?” He reaches his hand out to me to help me step down and keeps his eyes solely focused on mine. They don’t roam. They don’t take me in. For a man who just had his lips on mine and would normally study the whole package of me that he’s made comments about me hiding, he doesn’t look once. He waits until my feet are firmly on the ground and the party starts to move on around us before talking. “You okay?”

  I nod, my heart in my throat.

  So many people in this room.

  So much alcohol. Gyrating. Clumsy hands. Wandering, greedy hands.

  I need out of here.

  Now.

  “I uh . . . I’m going to get going.”

  He lowers himself so he’s eye level with me. “Cam?”

  “I need to.” I force a smile and take a step back. “Okay?”

  He just nods, returns my smile, and tries to lighten the mood. “I’ll be here waiting for Moretti-red-colored hearts to be colored on the calendar over me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Camilla

  I feel ridiculous.

  Like absolutely and utterly ridiculous for how I reacted. The mini freak-out was completely unwarranted. And the fact that I let the panic win the war over the way Riggs’s kiss and hands on my waist makes what I did even more annoying.

  Didn’t I accept this job and promise myself I had to be braver?

  First challenge and I cowered in a corner.

  First chance to maybe act on that attraction between us, and I up and bolted like a dog in a thunderstorm.

  To add insult to injury, the party continues to rage on the other side of the wall. More cheers go up. More laughter rings. More music thumps.

  I ignore the knock on the door.

  No doubt it’s another partier on Wills’s group text string. They’ll go away. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize the music is coming from down the hall.

  There’s another knock but this time it’s a fist pounding on the door followed by, “It’s me, Camilla. Open up. I’m not going away.”

  There’s no way he knows I’m here. For all he knows, I could have gone out for a drive. I’ll save myself from more embarrassment.

  The noise is what gets me. The loud, unmistakable thump of what sounds like a body hitting the floor.

  I run to the door and fling it open, thinking he’s passed out. Instead, Riggs is sitting with his back against the door so that when I open it, he falls inward and backward, his head on my feet. He looks up at me with a goofy grin and slurred laugh.

  “Howdy, neighbor. What do you know? You are home.” He chuckles like the drunk man that he is and then lifts his arms up to me. “I’m gonna need some help.”

  Within seconds, Riggs is upright and swaying a bit more.

  “Your flat is moving,” he says as he takes it upon himself to walk past me and survey my place. “But it suits you. Orderly. Fashionably conservative. Practical.” He turns to face me and chuckles. “I’ve slept in way worse places so no complaints here.”

  “I’m sure you have. Wait . . . what do you mean? You’re sleeping here?” I ask as he grabs his shirt by the back of the collar—in the way only guys can do—and yanks it over his head. He gives a quick look around, almost as if to ask where to put it before he crumples it up in his hand and tosses it onto one of my chairs. “Spencer.”

  “Ooooh, I’m in trouble now. She’s using my first name,” he says to no one in particular. And now I’m faced with the bare torso of a man I’ve seen online and enjoyed in my dreams.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You have to use my first and last name. That is if you’re mad at me. If not, Riggs will do just fine.” He grins and holds his hands out—which of course sets off a chain reaction of muscles moving and tightening in his chest. “So where do you want me?”