chapter three.

TATE.

Normally, if I were to wake up, open my eyes, and see an angry man staring me down from a bedroom doorway, I might scream. I might throw things. I might run to the bathroom and lock myself inside.

I don't do any of these things, though.

I stare back, because I'm confused about how this is the same guy who was pa.s.sed out drunk in the hallway. How is this the same guy who cried himself to sleep last night?

This guy is intimidating. This guy is angry. This guy is watching me like I should be giving him an apology or explaining myself.

It is the same guy, though, because he's wearing the same pair of jeans and the same black T-shirt he fell asleep in last night. The only difference in his appearance between last night and this morning is that he's now able to stand up without a.s.sistance.

"What happened to my hand, Tate?"

He knows my name. Does he know it because Corbin told him I was moving in or because he actually remembers my telling him last night? I'm hoping Corbin told him, because I don't really want him to remember last night. I suddenly feel embarra.s.sed that he might recall my consoling him while he cried himself to sleep.

He apparently doesn't have a clue what happened to his hand, though, so I hope that means he has no recollection of anything beyond that.

He's leaning against my bedroom door with his arms folded across his chest. He looks defensive, like I'm the one responsible for his bad night. I roll over, still not quite finished with sleeping, even though he thinks I owe him some sort of explanation. I pull the covers over my head.

"Lock the front door on your way out," I say, hoping he'll take the hint that he is more than welcome to go back to his place now.

"Where's my phone?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to drown out the smooth sound of his voice as it slides into my ears and makes its way through every nerve in my body, warming me in places this flimsy blanket failed to do all night.

I remind myself that the person that sultry voice belongs to is now standing in the doorway, rudely demanding things without even acknowledging the fact that I helped him last night. I'd like to know where my Thank you is. Or my Hey, I'm Miles. Nice to meet you.

I get none of that from this guy. He's too worried about his hand. And his phone, apparently. Too worried about himself to be concerned about how many people his carelessness might have inconvenienced last night. If this guy and his att.i.tude are going to be my neighbors for the next few months, I'd better set him straight now.

I toss the covers off and stand up, then walk to the door and meet his gaze. "Do me a favor and take a step back."

Surprisingly, he does. I keep my eyes locked with his until the bedroom door slams in his face and I'm looking at the back of the door. I smile and walk back to my bed. I lie down and pull the covers over my head.

I win.

Have I mentioned I'm not much of a morning person?

The door opens again.

Fliesopen.

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?" he yells.

I groan, then sit up on the bed and look at him. He's standing in the doorway once again, still looking at me like I owe him something.

"You!"I yell back.

He looks genuinely shocked at my harsh response, which kind of makes me feel bad. But he'sthe one being the jerk!

I think.

He started it.

I think.

He eyes me hard for a few seconds, then tilts his head slightly forward and arches an eyebrow.

"Did we . . ." He motions his finger back and forth between us. "Did we hook up last night? Is that why you're p.i.s.sed?"

I laugh when my initial thoughts are confirmed.

He'sbeing the jerk.

And this is great. I'm neighbors with a guy who gets s.h.i.tfaced on weeknights and obviously brings home so many girls in the process that he can't even remember which ones he messed around with.

I open my mouth to respond but am cut off by the sound of the apartment door closing and Corbin's voice yelling out.

"Tate?"

I immediately jump up and rush to the door, but Miles is still blocking the doorway, glaring at me, expecting a response to his question. I look him straight in the eyes to give him an answer, but his eyes catch me off guard for a short moment.

They are the clearest blue eyes I've ever seen. Not at all the heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes from last night. His eyes are so light blue they're almost colorless. I continue to stare at them, half expecting to see waves if I look closely enough. I'd say they were as clear blue as the waters of the Caribbean, but I've never actually been to the Caribbean, so I wouldn't know.

He blinks, and it immediately pulls me away from the Caribbean and back to San Francisco. Back to this bedroom. Back to the last question he asked before Corbin walked through the front door.

"Not sure if you can call what we did hooking up," I whisper.

I stare at him, waiting for him to move out of my way.

He stands taller, putting up an invisible wall of armor with his posture and his rigid body language.

Apparently, he doesn't like to envision the two of us making out, based on the unyielding look he's giving me. It almost seems like he's looking at me in disgust, which makes me dislike him that much more.

I don't back down, and neither of us breaks eye contact when he steps out of my way and allows me to pa.s.s him. Corbin is rounding the hallway when I exit my room. He glances back and forth between me and Miles, so I quickly shoot him a look to let him know that's not even remotely a possibility.

"Hey, Sis," he says, pulling me in for a hug.

I haven't seen him in almost six months. Sometimes it's easy to forget how much you miss people until you see them again. That's not the case with Corbin. I always miss him. As much as his protectiveness can get old at times, it's also a testament to how close we are.

Corbin releases me and pulls at a lock of my hair. "It's longer," he says. "I like it."

This may be the longest we've gone without seeing each other. I reach up and flick the hair hanging across his forehead. "So is yours," I say. "And I don'tlike it."

I smile to let him know I'm kidding. I actually like the s.h.a.ggier look on him. People have always said we look a lot alike, but I don't see it. His skin is a lot darker than mine, which I've always envied. Our hair is the same rich hue of brown, but our facial features are nothing alike, specifically our eyes. Mom used to tell us that if we put our eyes together, they would look just like a tree. His were as green as the leaves, and mine were as brown as the trunk.

I always envied that he got to be the leaves of the tree, because green was my favorite color growing up.

Corbin acknowledges Miles with a nod of his head. "Hey, man. Rough night?" He asks the question with a laugh, as he knows exactly what kind of night Miles had last night.

Miles walks past both of us. "I don't know," he says in response. "I don't remember it." He walks into the kitchen and opens a cabinet, retrieving a cup like he's comfortable enough here to do so.

I don't like that.

I don't like comfortable Miles.

Comfortable Miles opens another cabinet and takes out a bottle of aspirin, fills his cup with water, and pops two of the aspirin into his mouth.

"Did you get all your stuff brought up?" Corbin asks me.

"Nope," I say, glancing at Miles when I respond. "I was kind of preoccupied with your neighbor most of the night."

Miles nervously clears his throat as he washes the gla.s.s and places it back in the cabinet. His discomfort with his lapse in memory makes me laugh. I like that he has no idea what happened last night. I even kind of like that the thought of being with me seems to unnerve him. I might keep this facade going for a while for my own sick enjoyment.

Corbin looks at me as if he knows what I'm trying to pull. Miles steps out of the kitchen and glances my way, then looks back to Corbin.

"I would have gone back to my place by now, but I can't find my keys. You have my spare set?"

Corbin nods and walks to a drawer in the kitchen. He opens it, grabs a key, and tosses it to Miles, who catches it in midair. "Can you come back in an hour and help me unload Tate's car? I want to shower first."

Miles nods, but his eyes cut briefly to mine as Corbin starts walking to his bedroom.

"We'll catch up when it's not too morning," Corbin tells me.

It may have been seven years since we've lived together, but he apparently remembers I'm not much of a talker in the morning. Too bad Miles doesn't know this about me.

After Corbin disappears into his bedroom, I turn and face Miles again. He's already looking at me expectantly, like he's still waiting for me to answer whatever questions he asked me earlier. I just want him to leave, so I answer them all at once.

"You were pa.s.sed out in the hallway last night when I got here. I didn't know who you were, so when you tried to get inside the apartment, I might have slammed the door on your hand. It's not broken. I checked it out, and it's bruised at best. Just put some ice on it and wrap it for a few hours. And no, we didn't hook up. I helped you into the apartment, and then I went to bed. Your phone is on the floor by the front door where you dropped it last night because you were too s.h.i.t-faced to walk."

I turn to head to my room, just wanting to get away from the intensity in his eyes.

I spin around when I reach my bedroom door. "When you come back in an hour and I've had a chance to wake up, we can try this again."

His jaw is firm. "Try whatagain?" he asks.

"Getting off on the right foot."

I close my bedroom door, putting up a barrier between me and that voice.

That stare.

"How many boxes do you have?" Corbin asks. He's slipping on his shoes by the door. I grab my keys off the bar.

"Six, plus three suitcases and all my clothes on hangers."

Corbin walks to the door directly across the hall and bangs on it, then turns and heads toward the elevators. He pushes the down b.u.t.ton. "Did you tell Mom you made it?"

"Yeah, I texted her last night."

I hear his apartment door open just as the elevator arrives, but I don't turn to watch him walk out of it. I step in, and Corbin holds the elevator for Miles.

As soon as he comes into view, I lose the war. The war I didn't even know I was fighting. It doesn't happen often, but when I do find a guy attractive, it's better when it happens with a person I want it to happen with.

Miles is not the person I want to be feeling this for. I don't want to be attracted to a guy who drinks himself into oblivion, cries over other girls, and can't even remember if he screwed you the night before. But it's hard not to notice his presence when his presence becomes everything.

"Should just be two trips," Corbin says to Miles as he presses the b.u.t.ton for the ground floor.

Miles is staring at me, and I can't quite judge his demeanor, because he still looks p.i.s.sed. I stare back, because no matter how good-looking he may be with that att.i.tude, I'm still waiting for the thank you I never got.

"Hi," Miles finally says. He steps forward and completely ignores unspoken elevator etiquette by stepping too close and holding out his hand. "Miles Archer. I live across the hall from you."

And I'm confused.

"I think we've established that," I say, looking down at his outstretched hand.

"Starting over," he says, arching a brow. "On the right foot?"

Ah. Yes. I did tell him that.

I take his hand and shake it. "Tate Collins. I'm Corbin's sister."

The way he steps back and keeps his eyes locked with mine makes me a little uncomfortable, since Corbin is standing only a foot away. Corbin doesn't seem to care, though. He's ignoring both of us, preoccupied with his phone.

Miles finally breaks his stare and pulls his phone out of his pocket. I take the opportunity to study him while his attention is off of me.

I come to the conclusion that his appearance is completely contradictory. It's as if two different creators were at war when he was envisioned. The strength in his bone structure contrasts with the soft, inviting appeal of his lips. They seem harmless and welcoming compared with the harshness in his features and the jagged scar that runs the length of the right side of his jaw.

His hair can't decide if it wants to be brown or blond or wavy or straight. His personality flips between inviting and callously indifferent, muddling my ability to discern hot from cold. His casual posture is at war with the fierceness I've seen in his eyes. His composure this morning contradicts his inebriated state from last night. His eyes can't decide if they want to look at his phone or at me, because they waver back and forth several times before the elevator doors open.

I stop staring and step off the elevator first. Cap is seated in his chair, ever so vigilant. He glances at the three of us exiting the elevator and pushes up on the arms of his chair, coming to a slow, shaky stand. Corbin and Miles both nod at him and continue walking.

"How was your first night, Tate?" he asks with a smile, stopping me midstride. The fact that he already knows my name doesn't surprise me, since he knew what floor I was going to last night.

I look at the back of Miles's head as they continue without me. "Kind of eventful, actually. I think my brother might have made a poor choice in the company he keeps."

I look at Cap, and he's staring at Miles now, too. His wrinkle-lined lips purse into a thin line, and he gives a slight shake of his head. "Ah, that boy probably can't help it none," he says, dismissing my comment.

I'm not sure if he's referring to Corbin or Miles when he says "that boy," but I don't ask.