Six

AMAZINGLY, OVER THE next four days, the ubiquitous F. Dixon actually allowed Victoria to get some sleep.

How gracious of him.

Oh, sure, there were minor annoyances. Like his nighttime routine. From the low din of television she could hear through her bedroom wall, he liked to watch the news at night, followed by sports. At least, she assumed these were sporting events he was watching, judging from the shouts of Yes! and Aw, come ON! and What the hell was that? that permeated her wall while she tried to read a book in bed.

Either that, or F. Dixon had a strangely critical way of dirty talking.

The sounds coming from his bedroom weren’t overly loud, and they always ended by eleven thirty P.M., when she went to sleep. And, yes, she knew that neighbor noise was simply part of condo living. Still, reading in bed was her way of relaxing at the end of a busy day, often the only peaceful thirty minutes she ever got. So, rightfully or wrongfully, this nighttime routine between her and F. Dixon just . . . irked her.

Normally, there’d be an easy solution: she could buy a white-noise machine. But that was out of the question after the break-in at her townhome. She felt safer in her new place, but nevertheless, she didn’t want to do anything that would impair her ability to hear strange sounds at night.

So for now, she supposed she would have to grin and bear it.

Or at least, frown, mutter sarcastically under her breath, and bear it.

On the upside, she was now clocking in a luscious seven hours of sleep per night, and holy crap did it ever feel good. She felt more energized, more like herself than she had in over a month. So much so, in fact, that she’d begun to wonder whether she needed to continue her therapy sessions with Dr. Metzel. True, she still wasn’t riding the subway or attending her exercise class, but in the grand scheme of things, weren’t these minor inconveniences? Mankind had, after all, invented taxis for a reason. And, really, who needed to exercise indoors when one lived in a city where the weather was nice . . . at least twenty days out of every year?

Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, girlfriend.

Great. Suddenly her subconscious was a psychotherapist, too. And kind of a little sassy.

Victoria mulled over these thoughts while walking back to the office after court Friday morning. From the looks of things in the lobby, someone in her building was hosting a workshop or some kind of conference, because there were nearly thirty people milling around the elevator bank wearing nametags. Not thinking much about it, when the elevator arrived and one of the men in the group gestured politely in her direction—After you—she stepped into the elevator and moved to the back.

And then about fifteen people crammed in after her.

When the doors closed, and the elevator began to rise, she began to feel uncomfortable with all the people pressed against her. Maybe she was imagining it, but the air in the elevator suddenly felt stuffy and warm. She was essentially trapped—a realization that made her heart beat faster.

Just stay calm, she told herself. This sudden onset of anxiety was all in her head. She knew that.

Or was it?

After all, she’d blacked out just a month ago in circumstances a lot like this. What if that happened again? What if she felt light-headed and needed to get off the elevator and nobody moved out of her way and everyone stared as she . . .

She took a deep breath and exhaled. As people chatted around her, she stared up at the floor indicator, counting down the seconds until she was free. Her mouth was dry, she felt hot and flushed, and her heart was pounding, but she could do this, she was going to make it—thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two—

The doors sprang open at the thirty-third floor.

“Coming out!” she said, a tad too vehemently. To cover, she smiled as she slid past the other passengers—Nothing to see here—trying to appear normal and casual as she hurried out.

Then she stood in front of the glass doors marked Victoria Slade & Associates, and exhaled as the elevator doors slid closed behind her.

“Hey, you.”

She jumped at the sound of the voice, and saw Will waiting for an elevator heading down. “Hi.” Her voice sounded unnaturally bright.

Will cocked his head. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Sure.” She realized she was sweating a little under her suit jacket. Lovely. “I, uh . . . was in a rush walking back from court. I have that conference call at eleven, right? Didn’t want to miss it.”

“The call is at eleven thirty.”

Dammit. For once, couldn’t the man not be so organized and on top of her schedule?

“Right. Eleven thirty,” she said. “Well. Guess I didn’t need to rush, after all, heh, heh.”

The chuckle was probably overkill.

Luckily, Will’s elevator arrived, so with a casual wave she headed through the glass doors, nodded hello at the receptionist, and strode down the hallway to her corner office. She smiled as she passed by her associates’ offices, deliberately exuding confidence—yes, I am still your fearless leader; no, I did not just freak out trying to ride a stupid elevator—and then she shut the door when she got to her office and sank down into her desk chair.

After that experience, it looked like she’d be spending tomorrow afternoon with the good doctor, after all.

*   *   *

KNOCK, KNOCK.

The noise, coming from the front door, immediately woke Victoria. She sat up in bed and quickly got her bearings. According to the clock, it was nearly one A.M. Who the heck was knocking at her door?

When she couldn’t come up with an answer, her heart began to beat faster.

Dangerous intruders don’t knock, she reassured herself. Unless . . . what if this was some kind of trick to see if she was home, and maybe if she didn’t answer the door, whoever was outside would break in to steal stuff?

Another knock.

Victoria hopped out of bed, scooped her phone off the nightstand, and shoved it into the pocket of her pajama pants. Then she grabbed the baseball bat she kept underneath her bed and carried it with two hands into the living room, feeling a rush of both fear and adrenaline. The hell with this. This was her place and she was sick of weird stuff happening at night and she was not going to end up trapped and helpless in a goddamn closet this time.

The hallway outside was lit, and she saw a shadow move in the light filtering in underneath her front door. On second thought . . . She pulled the cell phone out of her pocket, keyed in 9-1-1, and positioned her thumb to hit send. With the bat still in her right hand, she crept carefully to the front door and peeked through the peephole.

A woman stood outside.

Victoria exhaled in relief. Upon closer examination, she realized it was the brunette she’d seen coming out of F. Dixon’s apartment last Saturday morning. The woman raised her hand, as if to knock on the door again, then paused and bit her lip.

Instinct took over. Thinking perhaps the woman needed some kind of help, Victoria deactivated her security alarm. She set the baseball bat against the wall, and opened her door.

The other woman was dressed for a night out in a black top, skirt, and heels. She teetered slightly and blinked when she saw Victoria. “Wait, I know you. You’re his neighbor. Are you two hooking up already?” She paused, and her eyes widened in realization. “Oh my God, you’re the neighbor. I knocked on the wrong door, didn’t I? Crap, I’m so sorry. I was looking for Ford.”

Ford.

The mysterious F. Dixon finally had a first name.

The brunette continued to apologize and explain, her words slightly slurred. “I thought I would surprise him . . . Last week we talked about getting together again, so I was out with my friends and thought, ‘What the hell?’” She paused, and then gave Victoria an embarrassed smile. “You know, I was a lot better at this kind of thing in my twenties.” She got a little teary-eyed, and cleared her throat. “Well. I should let you get back to sleep. Sorry again.” She looked unsure which direction to head in as she turned first left, then right.

Victoria pointed. “He’s that way,” she said, not unkindly. Yes, it was one o’clock in the morning and this woman had woken her up and scared the hell out of her, but still. She looked a bit . . . lost.

“Thanks.” The other woman smiled appreciatively, and then headed down the hallway in the direction of unit 4F.

Victoria closed her door, but not all the way. Because, naturally, she planned to eavesdrop.

She heard a knock, and after a few moments of silence, there was the sound of a door opening.

A deep voice, gravelly with sleep. “Charlotte . . . wow, hey. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Victoria wondered if he had the blonde cozily stashed in his place at this very moment, or perhaps yet another, heretofore unseen woman—since he seemed to have them coming out of the woodwork.

If so, somebody was going to have some ’splaining to do.

She tilted her ear toward the crack she’d left open in her doorway, trying to hear whatever the brunette was saying.

No dice.

Enunciate, people—if you’re going to wake me up in the middle of the night, at least make sure I can hear the darn show.

“It’s okay. Come on in,” Ford said.

A few seconds later, Victoria heard the click of a lock. The hallway now silent, she closed her own door and reactivated the alarm. She went back into her room and glanced at the wall she shared with Ford Dixon as she climbed into bed.

Seriously, the man should just get a revolving front door and spare everyone a lot of trouble.

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING, Victoria dragged herself into the shower and yawned underneath the spray. After last night’s unexpected visitor, it had taken her a long time to fall back asleep. She’d gotten out of bed twice, the first time because she couldn’t remember if she’d armed the alarm, and then twenty minutes later, when she’d realized she’d left the baseball bat by the front door.

Coffee was definitely in order.

She had a few hours to kill before the dreaded appointment with Dr. Metzel, so she decided to catch up on some work at The Wormhole coffee shop. She grabbed her laptop and stuffed it into the tote bag she used on weekends, then grabbed her keys.

She opened her front door and nearly barreled right into a man’s broad chest.

“Oh!” Startled, she looked up and found herself staring into a pair of piercing light blue eyes. Eyes that belonged to a man who had his hand raised, as if about to knock on her door.

Victoria blinked.

It was him.

The hot guy from the bar last Friday, the one Rachel had made up the backstory about, the one with whom Victoria had been exchanging looks until the blond woman with short hair sat down next to him.

He was here. On her doorstep.

“It’s you,” he said, breaking into a smile.

And when he smiled like that, the strangest thing happened to Victoria. Even though she was cynical and jaded, even though she didn’t believe in “the one” or soul mates or any of that kind of crap, for a split second her heart did this little skipping thing when she thought—oh my gosh—he had felt something that night in the bar and he’d tracked her down so they could meet, like something out of a romantic comedy movie.

“And it’s you.” Impossibly, the guy was even more attractive in the daytime. Those eyes. She cocked her head. “What are you doing here?”

He chuckled, a warm, rich sound. “This is the craziest thing. I’m Ford.” When she blinked, not getting it at first—Ford, Ford, why did that seem like a name she was supposed to know?—he pointed in the direction of unit 4F. “Your next-door neighbor.”

Oh . . . right.

Ford.

The ubiquitous, womanizing, saw-wielding, TV-yelling Mr. F. Dixon.

Ah, yes. Fate, that sneaky little trickster, was undoubtedly giggling proudly over this one.

Victoria peered across her doorstep at the man who, in the span of eight days, had given her sexy looks at the bar while talking to another woman, spent the night with Charlotte the Brunette just hours later—and possibly last night, too—and had a fourth woman, the blonde on his balcony, tell him that she loved him. All while merrily sawing through his drywall during her nap and throwing late-night soirees with penis pops.

She rested her hand on the doorjamb. “Seems like you’ve had a busy week, Mr. Dixon.”