Chapter 2

Chapter 2: My Worst Neighbor

*Sloane*

There wasn't one big reason why Rhys Calloway and I hated each other. There were dozens of little ones, stacked up like unpaid bills.

It all started the very first week he moved in.

I was in the hallway, dragging my trash bag to the chute, half-asleep and not caring how I looked. He walked out of his apartment in a suit that probably cost more than my rent, looked at me like I was something that had wandered in off the street, and said, "You're not supposed to carry that through the front hallway. There's a service elevator."

No "hello." No "good morning." Just an order, like I worked for him.

"Thanks for the tip," I said, and kept walking the exact same way I had been walking. "I'll file it under things I didn't ask you."

He didn't like that. I could tell. Most people who live in that building are used to being agreed with. I've never been very good at agreeing with people just because they're rich and tall and used to it.

That was the start of it. From that day on, we couldn't be in the same hallway for more than thirty seconds without one of us saying something the other didn't like.

He complained that I play music too loud when I'm cleaning on Sunday mornings. I told him his hockey bag smells like a locker room filed a complaint, and I have to walk past it every single day. He said I take too long getting into the elevator. I said maybe if he wasn't standing in the doorway like he was guarding a vault, I could actually get in. We've had actual arguments over parking spots neither of us owns, because visitor parking is first-come, first-served, and apparently his pride doesn't understand that concept.

He's sarcastic in that clipped, bored way, like every conversation with me is a mild inconvenience he's tolerating. I give it right back, just louder and with better timing. He seems to think that should surprise me. It doesn't. I grew up sharing one bathroom with a brother who used up all the hot water on purpose. A grumpy millionaire with a superiority complex is not the scariest thing I've dealt with before nine a.m.

Here's the strange part, though. Rhys doesn't act with me the way he acts with everyone else. I've seen him smile at fans on the street like it costs him nothing. I've seen him joke around with the doorman, actually laugh, the real kind. He's charming, when he wants to be.

He never wants to be with me.

With me, it's like my whole existence is a scheduling conflict he didn't agree to. Like I walked into his life uninvited and now he's stuck dealing with me every single day, and he resents every second of it. I find that unbelievably annoying, mostly because I haven't done a single thing to that man except to exist in the apartment across the hall and refuse to be impressed by him.

But nothing prepared me for the rainy Tuesday that made everything so much worse.

It had been one of those days. My editor pushed back a story I'd worked on for two weeks. My phone buzzed with a message from Mom, trying to sound fine and failing. It rained the entire walk from the subway, the kind of rain that gets in your shoes and stays there. By the time I turned onto my street, I just wanted to get inside, peel off my wet clothes, and lie face-down on my bed for the rest of the year.

That's when I heard the car.

I looked up just in time to see Rhys's black car speeding down the street, straight toward a giant puddle that had formed by the curb.

I didn't even have time to move.

The wave of muddy water hit me from my knees to my chest. My bag. My coat. My shoes, which I actually liked. All of it, soaked in dirty street water in about two seconds flat.

I stood there, dripping, blinking water out of my eyes, too shocked to even be angry yet.

Then I saw him.

Through the windshield, just for a second, our eyes met. He saw exactly what he'd done. I know he did, because his car slowed down, just slightly, like he was deciding something.

Then he sped right back up and kept going.

He didn't stop. He didn't roll down the window. He didn't even mouth "sorry." He just left me standing there like a drowned rat on my own street, while he drove off to go do whatever rich hockey players do on rainy Tuesdays.

That was the moment the annoyance turned into something else. Something angrier.

I went upstairs, changed into dry clothes, and told myself to let it go. I really did try.

I lasted about ten minutes inside.

Then I marched across the hallway and knocked on his door hard enough to hurt my knuckles.

He opened it a minute later, still in the same suit, not a single drop of water on him, looking completely unbothered, like nothing at all had happened. Like I was interrupting something important, and the something important was standing there doing nothing.

"Can I help you?" he said.

"You splashed me. On purpose."

"It was raining. Puddles happen."

"You saw me. You slowed down, looked right at me, and then sped up. That's not a puddle happening. That's a choice."

He crossed his arms. "I had somewhere to be."

"So did I. Somewhere dry, apparently, until you decided otherwise."

"It's water. It dries."

"So does spit, but I still wouldn't be thrilled if you did that to me either."

That got a flicker of something out of him, not quite a smile, more like his face forgot to stay arrogant for half a second. He caught himself fast. "Dramatic."

"Observant," I corrected. "There's a difference. The point is you saw exactly what you did to me, and you didn't care enough to even slow down and say sorry."

"Maybe I don't think it's a big deal."

"Of course you don't. Nothing's a big deal to you, is it? You've got money, you've got people cheering your name on the street, so why would you ever have to apologize to anyone."

"Careful," he said, his voice dropping flat and cold. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you drive like you own the street and act like an apology would physically cost you something. Money doesn't buy manners, Rhys. Somebody should've mentioned that before you signed your first contract."

Something flashed behind his eyes, quick and sharp, like I'd hit closer than I meant to. "And you think being a journalist gives you the right to say whatever you want about people you don't actually know."

The way he said *journalist* like it was something dirty, something he wanted to spit out of his mouth, caught me off guard. It wasn't just irritation. It was something deeper. Something that sounded a lot like hate.

I didn't understand it. Not yet. But I filed it away anyway, the same way I file away every strange detail that doesn't quite add up.

"Forget it," I said. "I don't know why I even bothered."

"Neither do I," he said. "You'd think I'd learn."

"You'd think. And yet here we are."

"You're impossible."

"You're exhausting."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He shut the door.

Not slammed. Just shut, quiet and final, like I wasn't even worth the extra energy of a slam. Like arguing with me was a chore he'd already checked off his list.

I stood there in the hallway, still a little damp, absolutely fuming, staring at his stupid perfect door.

"I hate that man," I muttered, to nobody, to the empty hallway, to the universe that decided to put his apartment right across from mine.

Then I went back inside, locked my door, and tried very hard not to think about the look on his face when I said the word *journalist*.

But I failed. I thought about it the whole night.