Ford considered this for a moment. “So, from the female perspective, basically anything I could’ve done last night to get myself out of an awkward situation would’ve resulted in me being either a bonehead or an asshole.”

She smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Now you’re catching on.”

“You know, Parker, these male-female heart-to-hearts of ours are just so helpful.”

She laughed. “Somebody has to keep you in your place. You’re too charming for your own good.”

She ruffled his hair, and a comfortable silence fell between them as they leaned against the brick wall, sipped their beers, and looked out at the view of the Chicago skyline.

Then she looked sideways at him. “About all these home improvement projects of yours . . . how long are we going to pretend this isn’t some male angsty excuse for you to bang on things and work out your grief and frustration?”

“Probably when I’m done remodeling the kitchen.”

She half-smiled at the joke, but then the look in her eyes turned serious. “I’m here anytime you want to talk. I love you, you know.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. “I know.” When he and Brooke were kids and his dad was in one of his foul moods, he used to hang out at her house whenever he’d needed a break. During those times, he hadn’t said much about the situation with his dad—talking about feelings was hardly his forte—and he didn’t say anything further right then, either.

After a few moments she broke the silence in typical Brooke fashion. “So, about this sex problem you’re having . . .”

Seriously.

“There is no sex problem,” he growled, fully aware that she was teasing him in order to lighten the mood. But still. “Just the wrong girl at the wrong time.” He cocked his head, suddenly remembering something. “But you should’ve seen this brunette in red heels that was also at the bar last night. She was . . . something.” He grinned. “With a girl like that, there would never be a wrong time.”

“Aw, it’s cute, seeing you with your smitten, I-just-saw-the-most-beautiful-girl-across-a-crowded-bar glow,” Brooke said.

He brushed off her teasing. “I don’t do smitten.” That kind of vulnerability and willingness to put himself out there to be rejected by someone . . . well, that was something he’d never been able to do. Never had any desire to do. Instead, he kept things light and casual in his relationships, never getting too close to anyone, always just having fun.

And his entire adult life, he hadn’t seen anything that had made him want to handle things any differently.

* * *

VICTORIA FLIPPED THROUGH her mail as she rode up the elevator to the fourth floor. Seeing how her plans for an afternoon siesta had been interrupted by the ubiquitous Mr. F. Dixon and his saw and drill, she’d gone out for a walk in her new neighborhood. She had a quiet evening planned—assuming a certain someone didn’t have any more drywall to tear down or raucous penis-pop parties planned—and figured she’d order pizza and veg out on the couch with a movie.

Once inside her loft, she tossed out the junk mail and set the rest on her kitchen counter. She’d just pulled out her phone to look up Piece Brewery and Pizzeria, a restaurant she’d discovered during her walk that seemed promising, when she heard a man’s voice out on her balcony.

She froze at the sound, her heart pounding, until she saw through the sliding glass doors that her balcony was clear.

Right. The man’s voice wasn’t coming from her balcony, but the one next door.

She exhaled—holy crap, that had freaked her out—and then realized something. If the man’s voice was coming from the balcony next door . . .

It had to be F. Dixon.

Between her run-in with the woman who’d left his place this morning with a satisfied smile, and the way he kept intruding into her space in the less than forty-eight hours she’d lived in the building, she was a little curious to get a look at the guy.

Okay, maybe a lot curious.

She tiptoed to the sliding doors of her balcony—before realizing that was a touch overdramatic since he couldn’t hear her, anyway—and peered through the glass.

Not seeing anything at first, she had to readjust her position to get a better angle. Then she spotted him on the balcony next to hers: a tall man wearing a baseball cap. He leaned against the ledge with his back to her, and even when he angled to the side he had the baseball cap pulled down too low for her to see much of his face.

But what she could see was that he wasn’t alone.

A woman with long, blond hair stood side by side with him on the balcony. She held a bottled beer in her hand, and looked at F. Dixon with a serious expression. From their body language, there was no mistaking the fact that the two of them were close.

Victoria couldn’t help but wonder if the blonde had any clue about the brunette who’d just spent the night at his place.

“I love you, you know,” the blonde said to him.

Victoria would take that as a no.

She couldn’t make out his response, but, really, it didn’t matter. After eight years of being a divorce lawyer, she knew his type—men who wanted to have their cake and eat it, too, when it came to women. They led women on, they lied, they cheated, and in the end, people got hurt.

Sometimes really hurt.

Are you still there, Victoria? Help is coming, I promise.

Shoving the memory aside, she tried not to gag as F. Dixon put his arm around the blonde’s shoulders and pulled her in close. Aw, wasn’t he so sweet and affectionate? Why, he looked so caring, one would never guess that just last night, he’d had another woman in his bed.

The jerk.

Thinking that she’d seen enough of her neighbor for one day, she stepped away from the sliding glass doors and headed back into her kitchen to order that pizza.

Six

AMAZINGLY, OVER THE next four days, the ubiquitous F. Dixon actually allowed Victoria to get some sleep.

How gracious of him.

Oh, sure, there were minor annoyances. Like his nighttime routine. From the low din of television she could hear through her bedroom wall, he liked to watch the news at night, followed by sports. At least, she assumed these were sporting events he was watching, judging from the shouts of Yes! and Aw, come ON! and What the hell was that? that permeated her wall while she tried to read a book in bed.