Four

VICTORIA GOT BACK to her loft shortly after ten o’clock that night. Deliberately ignoring the remaining unpacked boxes—she would deal with them later—she headed straight to her bedroom. After stripping out of her bar clothes, she changed into shorts and a T-shirt and practically rubbed her hands with glee as she eyed her bed.

She couldn’t wait to crawl in.

She made quick work of brushing her teeth and scrubbing off her makeup. Out of habit, she grabbed her e-reader as she climbed into bed. In her old place, to deal with her insomnia, she’d often distracted herself from listening for strange noises by reading. But tonight, she felt safer in the smaller space of her loft, protected not only by the alarm system for her unit, but also by the security of the building in general. There was an upside to being surrounded by neighbors—with all the people in the building awake on a Friday night, it made an extremely unappealing target for anyone on the outside.

With that in mind, she set the e-reader on her nightstand, next to her trusty phone. She turned off the lamp and pulled up the covers, feeling more relaxed and comfortable in bed than she had in a month. As exhausted as she was, she could probably sleep right through to Sunday.

She drifted off with a smile, thinking that would be just fine.

*   *   *

A DOOR SLAMMED shut.

Victoria shot up in bed when she heard footsteps on hardwood floors. Disoriented by the relatively unfamiliar surroundings, it took her a moment to remember that she was in her new place, the loft. She heard muffled voices, several of them, and instinctively reached for her phone.

Then she realized the sound wasn’t coming from inside her place, but rather through her bedroom wall, the wall she shared with the unit next to hers.

She flopped back down onto the bed and exhaled in relief.

The footsteps on the hardwood floors sounded like high heels, several pairs of them, and she could hear both men and women talking and laughing. She hadn’t met her next-door neighbor yet—someone named “F. Dixon” according to the mailbox next to hers in the lobby—but from the sound of things, he or she was having a late-night get-together.

As if on cue, the acoustic guitar intro of Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” began to play, and a woman—who sounded more than a little tipsy—yelled out, “I LOVE this song!”

Victoria covered her head with a pillow and tried not to weep.

It wasn’t that the music was overly loud. And, admittedly, the voices were muted; presumably F. Dixon and Co. were hanging out in the living area of his/her loft—which, yes, they were perfectly entitled to do. But it was two A.M., and Victoria had just been in the middle of the longest stretch of sleep she’d had in a month.

“Who wants a penis pop?” someone shouted.

And . . . that was her cue to take her leave.

She had no clue what a “penis pop” was—although it sounded kinky and quite possibly a little painful for all parties involved—but these were not things she needed to be musing over at two A. M. With a huge sigh of annoyance (not that the people next door could hear her given all their damn racket), she grabbed her pillow (yes, she was fussy and couldn’t sleep without her special pillow) and dragged herself out to the living room. She flopped onto the couch and tried to get comfortable.

Then tried some more.

Granted, when she’d bought the couch, she’d been going for style. Silly her, to not have presumed that one night she’d need the Edwardian-era sofa with its low-rolled arms and arched back for a campout in her living room because her neighbor would be throwing a raucous late-night sex soiree complete with penis pops.

She tossed the sofa’s too many damn throw pillows to the floor in frustration.

Then she got up and grabbed her iPad to Google “penis pop” because, seriously, what was that?

Ah . . . lollipops. Got it.

After tossing and turning for nearly an hour on the couch, she heard a door shut, and then several voices out in the hallway. When the voices faded, she got up to check on the situation in her bedroom.

Silence.

Thank God. With a spring in her step, she quickly grabbed her pillow from the living area and crawled back into bed. She snuggled in under the covers and had just begun to doze off when she heard a woman laugh.

Victoria’s eyes opened.

Next she heard a man’s deep voice—his words muffled—followed by the sound of something bumping against the other side of the wall. A headboard.

The woman moaned.

Oh . . . that was just great.

Not needing to hear any more, with an angry huff, Victoria carted her special pillow back into the living room, flopped onto the couch, and hunkered down for a long night.

*   *   *

EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning, grumpy and bleary-eyed after a less-than-ideal night spent sleeping on her sofa, she went on a quest in her new neighborhood for some much-needed coffee.

Fortunately, she didn’t need to walk far. Just around the corner from her place she found a café called The Wormhole that looked promising enough. She opened the door and blinked in surprise when she saw all the 1980s movie posters on the walls, as well as an actual DeLorean—yes, the car from Back to the Future—parked on the loft upstairs.

Wow. It was safe to say they took their ’80s seriously in these parts.

Charmed by the kitsch of the place, she ordered a large coffee and grabbed a seat at the table underneath the Raiders of the Lost Ark poster. She checked the morning news and her e-mail on her phone, in no rush to get back to her place.

So, her first night in her new loft hadn’t gone exactly as planned. Granted, she’d probably cobbled together around six hours of sleep, which was more than any other night this past month. But she hoped that last night had been an aberration, and not a sign of what she could expect from her neighbor in unit 4F during the course of this summer.

If not, she and this “F. Dixon” person were going to have some serious words.

Fueled by caffeine, she left The Wormhole and headed back to her place. After riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, she got halfway down the hallway when the door to the condo next to hers opened.

Ooh . . . the mysterious F. Dixon, she presumed.

A thirtysomething woman with shoulder-length brown hair stepped out, wearing a black skirt, sleeveless aqua top, and black strappy heels.

Fiona Dixon? Faith Dixon? Victoria silently mused over the possibilities. Eager to establish a good rapport with the person with whom she would be sharing a bedroom wall for the next three months, she smiled as she approached.

“Hi there. I’m Victoria—your new neighbor.” She gestured to her own front door. “I just moved in yesterday.”

“Um, hi.” Looking flustered, the woman in the aqua shirt blushed. “Actually, I don’t live here. But hey—congrats on moving in.”

Victoria chuckled as they passed each other in the hallway. “Thanks.” Feeling a little awkward—Note to self: don’t ambush innocent bystanders in the hallway—she grabbed her keys out of her purse. When she got to her front door, she looked up and caught the woman glancing over her shoulder, at F. Dixon’s place.

The woman smiled, looking decidedly pleased.

Ah, understood. Victoria had the feeling, from the looks of that smile, that someone had just spent a very enjoyable night with the owner of unit 4F, presumably the man with the deep voice.

After the woman in the aqua shirt got on the elevator, Victoria contemplated knocking on F. Dixon’s door to introduce herself. But then she decided it would be a little strange to drop by right after his overnight guest had left. So instead, she unlocked the door to her own loft and put her caffeine-fueled energy to good use by tackling the remaining unpacked boxes.

That took her all the way until lunchtime, when she broke to grab a quick sandwich at a deli down the block. When she got back to her loft, she took a look around for any unpacked boxes that she’d missed, and then happened to notice how quiet the place was right then.

A slow smile crept across her face.

Kicking off her sandals, she armed the security system for her unit and headed into the bedroom. She drew the shades and climbed into bed, feeling rather decadent to be napping on a Saturday afternoon. Undoubtedly, she had plenty of work she should be focused on—her firm would hardly run itself—but after the night, and month, she’d had, she figured she’d earned a little siesta.

She fell asleep almost the instant her head hit the pillow. A wonderful, deep sleep.

That is, until she was woken by the sound of someone sawing through her bedroom wall.

What. The. Hell?

Victoria opened her eyes, expecting to find dust and drywall falling all around her. She rolled over in bed and stared at her wall. On the upside, no one was actually coming through it. But from the sound of things, for some inexplicable reason, the owner of unit 4F had chosen this moment—during her much-needed nap—to saw a hole into his side of the wall.

Of course he had.

Things went silent for a few moments, and then Victoria heard the whirring of an electric drill and someone whistling. She sighed and muttered a few curse words—not that he could hear her, again, over all the noise.

So far, F. Dixon was turning out to be a real pain in the ass.