She agreed—a little too easily—and we moved back inside and went to sit on the balcony.

“What’s that you have?” I asked later, noticing a brown book she kept pressed against her side.

She glanced down with a feigned look of surprise. “Oh this old thing? I got so wrapped up in your new place, I must have forgotten to put it back in the box.”

Right. I narrowed my eyes. “Really?”

She got a giddy expression on her face, ignoring my sarcasm. “Okay, you got me. It’s Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I snitched it from your neighbor. I mean, it’s your favorite book because your name is in it.” She let out a dramatic sigh and pressed the book to her heart. “Don’t you see? It’s fate. You and the boring neighbor dude are meant to be.”

I shook my head. Sometimes she was too much. “That’s it. No more silly romantic movies for you. I don’t even know why we’re friends. I’m revoking our friendship as of now.” I snatched the book out of her hands. An old hardback with gold lettering, it was an older printing, perhaps even valuable.

What kind of guy hangs on to a book like this?

The kind that believes in love , my heart whispered.

I cracked the book open and turned the pages until I found the chapter where Mr. Darcy describes how he fell in love with Elizabeth Bennet: I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

Sappy drivel. I snapped it shut. “I love lots of books. It’s called reading, you know. You should try it.”

“No need. I have my looks.” She preened and flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Where are you going?” she called as I marched through the living room and toward the front door.

I held the book up in my hands. “Hello! To return what you stole.”

She threw her arms up. “It accidentally got stuck to my hand, I swear! There’s a difference!”

“Uh-huh.” I walked over to the neighbor’s, but the door was shut, and the boxes were gone. I put my ear to the door, but all was silent.

The sudden blast of music from a car in the parking lot made me jump.

I leaned over the breezeway railing that overlooked the parking lot and searched below until I found a rugged-looking black Jeep with the top off. The Beastie Boys song “Fight for Your Right” reached my ears. I blinked. Damn, it was loud.

The driver was a bulky guy with a black Union Jack hat pulled low over his brow, blocking his face from me, leaving only the ends of his brown hair showing as it curled around the sides. A pair of aviators rested on his nose. Even from here, I saw broad shoulders and taut, muscular forearms as he shifted gears on the manual transmission. I even caught the flash of tattoos on his arms but couldn’t make them out.

Mystery neighbor? It was the same hat from the box.

I found myself leaning over further, arching my neck to see more of him.

Something about a big dude that read Pride and Prejudice made me breathless.

In my head earlier, as we’d gone through the boxes, I’d pictured my neighbor as more the Harry Potter type, a geek with black-rimmed glasses and a shy smile. Wrong, wrong, wrong .

Before he pulled out into the traffic, he turned and glanced back at the apartment building, his shielded eyes seeming to zero in on me. His car idled as he looked at me, and even though there were quite a few yards between us, I felt the physical weight of his stare.

I inhaled sharply, goosebumps making the hair on my arms rise up.

Had he seen Shelley going through his things? Shit.

The book! I looked down to see it was still clutched it in my other hand.

Dammit.

Feeling ridiculous, I tore my eyes off him and backed up slowly until he was out of my vision. I propped the book up against his door and bolted for my apartment.

“Who was that?” Shelley asked as I flew in the door.

I shook my head. “It wasn’t Harry Potter, that’s for sure.”

NOTE TO SELF: arriving at the first frat party of the year at the Tau house with a black eye and without your usual girlfriend—now ex—raises a lot of questions and a shit-ton of stares.

The black eye was from a fight the night before. Right when it had looked like I was toast, I’d got in a heavy hook straight to the guy’s jaw and a high kick to the gut. He’d gone down like a sack of bricks. It was my third win since uni had ended in May.

I rubbed my sore fists against my jeans.

The pain was worth every cent I’d taken home.

“Where’s Nadia?” one of the honorary frat little sisters asked with a big smile when I came in the door.

I grunted. “Not with me. I’d check with the men’s tennis team.”

Her eyebrows went up as I marched on by. She obviously hadn’t heard that Whitman’s It couple had broken up over the summer. I’d ended it when I’d walk in on Nadia bouncing on top of some other guy’s cock. I clenched my fists, remembering her deception. She’d known exactly when I’d be walking through that door, and she’d timed it perfectly, all part of her plan to force me to freak out and do what she wanted. Buy her a ring, go to law school, be like my wanker father. Never going to happen.

Her manipulations had failed, and I’d dumped her.

To borrow a saying from my dead mum, she was all fur coat and no knickers.

Most days I felt like my heart had recovered, but my faith in women was shit.

As far as I knew, Nadia was still with her new guy, some fancy tennis player from Brazil. Donatello or Michelangelo or something. Ninja Turtle? Yeah.