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Jenna
She didn’t care that he was sexy as hell. She still wanted to kill him.
The pulsing music from her neighbor’s house was almost enough to knock the pictures off the walls. It thumped and thudded, a deep drum beat that might have actually been catchy if she hadn’t been in the mood to punch someone.
She reached up to bang on the wall that they shared. One of the pictures fell behind the couch and she grumbled. Then she heard muffled laughter from next door and grumbled even more.
Cruise Thompson. That’s what the name on his mail said. It always got put in her slot on accident and she was endlessly trying to shove it through the small slit in the side to get it into his. So she didn’t have to bring it to his door.
Cruise. What kind of name was that anyway? He sounded like a pompous ass who owned a golf cart and took his college-aged mistresses out sailing on his yacht while his salt-and-pepper hair waved in the breeze.
Except he wasn’t old. Or the type that looked like he owned a golf cart. In fact, he looked her age. And the music he listened to definitely wasn’t the kind you’d hear on a yacht.
The music subsided and she sighed in relief. Good. Now she could get some work done. She’d just gotten the job at Whitman Designs last week. It was shitty pay, but right now she didn’t care. She needed the experience and Whitman was a big deal. They did web design for several major companies and this was the way to get her name out there. To get some credentials under her belt.
If she paid her dues now, then one day she could have her own company or work freelance. She’d be her own boss with her own clients.
Sure it was Friday and sure she probably should have been out partying with friends or something, but she’d gone through that phase in life. Now, she was a professional.
She opened her laptop and pulled up the project she was working on, then looked longingly at the kitchen.
Professionals still drank, right?
She wandered to the kitchen, went for the fridge, then grinned. Professionals didn’t drink beer, they drank cocktails. Or wine.
Pulling a bottle down from the holder on the wall, she nodded to herself. Red wine. Now, she was a professional.
Two glasses later, she still felt like a professional, though she’d gotten very little work done.
And about the time an idea struck, the music started up again. So loud this time her wall shook. It throbbed and hummed until she was ready to pull out her hair.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
But two drinks more courageous than she was before, she set her computer aside. And instead of banging on the wall, she downed the rest of her wine, and opened her door.
She’d tried being nice. She’d tried ignoring the endless loud music and parties and girls. Well, two girls really but still—Cruise Thompson was clearly a player. A player who didn’t care about anyone but himself.
Before she could bang on Cruise’s door, it swung open. The same redhead Jenna had been seeing the last few weeks appeared. She lifted her eyebrows at Jenna, her lips curved, and then she said, “Hey.” She called behind her, “See ya tonight, Cruise!”
Jenna didn’t have time to say anything before the redhead eased around her and walked down the hall, hips swaying, hair blowing like she was in the middle of a shampoo commercial.
When she turned back, ready to rap her fist against the door and demand Cruise turn down his music, he appeared in the doorway.
Already off her game from the modelesque woman who’d just brushed past her, her mouth dropped open.
Cruise leaned his long frame against the door, all six feet of him standing there like some rock star god. No, this man wasn’t made for yachts and mistresses. He was made for hot nights and secrets between the sheets. He was made for sultry kisses and flesh-burning sex.
Without his shirt on, she had full view of his hard pecks. He was lean but muscular, forearms glistening with a slight sheen of sweat and veins pulsing in time to the music.
When his eyes did a sweep of her body, she swore every inch of her was seared with his gaze. She felt it right in her center, enough to make her pulse skip a beat and yearning throb inside.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
She could barely hear his voice above the music, but what she heard was smooth and low. Almost a growl.
Lifting her chin and folding her arms, she said, “You can turn down the damn music. Some of us have to work.”
Amusement lit up his eyes. After a moment, he shrugged. “All you had to do was ask.”
Then he slammed the door in her face.