He hesitates, which doesn’t surprise me. What I hadn’t expected was for him to say, “Sure, I could do yoga. When’s good for you?”

Say what now? It doesn’t sound like he enjoys yoga, or even that he’s ever done it before. But hey, that’s no skin off my nose. If he wants to try it on for size, I could always use a workout buddy.

“I’m going to be busy unpacking all day tomorrow, so how about the day after? Meet me outside my unit at, say, six?”

“Six in the morning?” He says morning in the same tone that I might say, “Is that blood?”

I look over and bite back a smile, feeling evil again at the faint look of horror on Hayden’s face. “Of course,” I chirp as brightly as possible. “Yoga works best when you do it before breakfast. Gives you energy for the whole day.” Unless you’re not up for it? I add inside my head.

But smooth as silk, he replies, “Sounds great.” He steps ahead and opens the door to the fourth-floor hallway for me, playing the gentleman. “I have to get back to my office now, but I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Stunned, I step inside, almost sighing aloud at the frigid wash of air-conditioning. Without thinking, I say, “Looking forward to it,” then realize that I actually mean it.

Hayden waves good-bye and trots back downstairs. I follow the hall to unit 4B, thank the last few movers on their way out, and lock up behind them. Then I turn and lean against my front door, savoring the quiet. I’m finally alone in my luxury condo. My new home—hopefully for years to come, if I pass my bar exam and play my cards right at Walker, Price, and Pratt.

Even cluttered with dusty boxes, this place is gorgeous. The furniture is sleek and stylish, but comfortable. All the countertops are granite; all the tables are glass-topped. Although there are only two real rooms, they both feel huge compared to the apartment I shared with three roommates in law school. The kitchen is fully loaded and offers enough room for a dining area. The other half of the unit has a queen-sized bed, a walk-in closet with mirrored sliding doors, and a fifty-inch flat-screen smart TV mounted on the wall above the foot of the bed. Best of all, the porcelain bathtub is long enough to lie down in without concussing myself on the toilet.

I kick off my tennis shoes, feeling the cool hardwood floor on my hot, tired feet, and stow them in the entry closet. On the other side of the front door is a tiny table, just large enough for a glass key dish and a china vase holding three purple tulips. I gently stroke their velvety petals to confirm that the flowers are indeed real. Then I weave through the stacks of cardboard and slide open the door to my biggest indulgence: the small balcony.

Even when splurging, my guilty conscience has its limits. I chose a studio model rather than a one-bedroom, and I only ponied up for a furnished unit because it was cheaper than shipping my own furniture over two thousand miles. But the prospect of a balcony—of basking in the sun while I read, sipping wine on breezy evenings, enjoying what feels to me like year-round summer—had been just too tempting. I go outside and drink in the view of swaying palm trees, mansions with blue-green lawns, and Lake Hollywood sparkling in the distance. If I squint, I can even glimpse the blocky white letters of the Hollywood sign.

I spend almost half an hour just strolling around and inspecting the entire unit. Of course, I knew exactly what it looked like before mailing in my signed contract and down payment. I pored over the property management website, admiring the photo gallery, the floor plans, and the long list of amenities. But now is the first time I’m seeing it in person. All elegant and cozy. All mine.

Once again, the difference between anticipation and reality hits me—and not just with the condo itself. My landlord isn’t quite what I imagined based on Roxy’s description. But he hasn’t disproved any of that scathing story, either. It’ll take a lot to make me relax my guard with him.

Still . . . if Hayden actually shows up on Sunday, I think I just found a new yoga partner in my building’s man-whore owner.

This should be interesting.

Chapter Five

Hayden

Why in the fuck did I agree to this?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, cursing at myself for this brilliant fucking plan I hatched with Emery—the girl in 4B—who I’m most decidedly not banging. That’s bullshit right there. I should be waking up with my cock in her mouth, not because I told her we’d do yoga this morning.

Yoga, for fuck’s sake.

It’s not the best plan I’ve ever had, especially after the amount of Jack I downed last night. My head is spinning like a top as I grab my phone and dial Beth’s number. I know she’ll be up at this ungodly hour.

“Beth. Help me?” I croak once she answers.

“What did you do now, you fuckwad?”

“Jeez. Is that any way to talk to your favorite brother?” I cradle my phone between my shoulder and chin and head into the kitchen to fire up my espresso machine. Make it a double. Why in the fuck had I thought it was a good idea to drink so much last night? Oh yeah, because Hudson laid out all my demons, examining each one in the harsh light.

“You’re my only brother. Now get on with it. I have yogurt smeared into my couch, and I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

I should ask why her kids are allowed to bring yogurt into the living room, but I know from past experience that she lets those rug rats get away with anything, so long as they bat their little eyelashes at her. My niece and nephew are three and four years old. To say they’re a handful would be a huge underestimation of their abilities.