Once again she’s decked out in her “I like to pretend I work out” wear, probably on her way to her third-year psych class, oblivious to the fact that she’s potentially ruining lives. Whatever. Not my monkey. Not my circus.

When she sees me, she starts jabbing the button, but I manage to slide a hand in to prevent the doors from closing. “Thanks for holding the elevator for me.”

“You’re so welcome.” She shoots me a patronizing smile and moves into the corner as the doors slide closed again.

And then I’m trapped inside the small steel box with a thousand reflections of her. Now that I have a chance to actually look at her up close and she’s not the train wreck she was the first time I saw her, I can admit that she’s pretty. Fine, she’s more than pretty, actually. I’d go as far as to say she’s gorgeous, and she smells good, which is aggravating because of who she seems to be and where she’s staying.

I’ve yet to see Captain Bowman here, but maybe he stops in at odd hours, or they meet up elsewhere. I have no idea why I care, other than I hate him and his lax morals. Also, she woke me up from a dead sleep the night she arrived. I take sleep very seriously.

“All dressed up for class?” If he’s screwing a college chick on the side, I might feel a little bad for her, because it means she’s probably getting played.

She sneers, and her eyes rake over me viciously, like knives slicing skin. “Look at you in actual clothes.”

The way the tips of her ears turn pink along with her cheeks tells me that I’m making her uncomfortable.

I lean against the railing and stare at her profile. I’m being a dick. Obviously on purpose. She doesn’t touch her hair or adjust her outfit, which is commendable considering how intently I’m looking at her. Her jaw clenches and her nostrils flare. I’m about to get a reaction in three, two, one . . .

Her head snaps in my direction, eyes vibrant with ire. “What in the actual fuck? How the hell do you manage to attract women with your horrible personality? I really don’t get it. Unless they’re all brain-dead idiots and they duct-tape your mouth shut while they’re riding you.” She tilts her head, as if considering that, and nods once. “That has to be it. I can see how that might be doable.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” And did she just fantasize about riding me with my mouth duct-taped shut? Why is that hot?

“What am I talking about?” Her eyebrows shoot up. They’re very light brown, almost blonde. She motions to me and then to the elevator. “The constant rotation of women in and out of your apartment. It’s like a damn brothel.”

I scoff. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

She makes a face that resembles confusion before she plasters on a fake, condescending smile. “I’ve seen the same woman go into your apartment two Wednesdays in a row, not to mention at least four other women. I hope you’re smart enough to wrap it up.”

It sounds like I need to have a chat with my brother about his ultraprolific love life. My brother’s tactics for getting women into bed with him aren’t exactly aboveboard, but he’s also my best friend, so I let him get away with a lot of shit.

I don’t particularly care if he sleeps with a different woman every day of the week; I just don’t want to find them hanging out in my kitchen the morning after, wearing one of his T-shirts, bugging me for an autograph, and making other, less-than-appropriate requests. It’s happened plenty of times.

Also, I run hot all the time, so my preference is to wear as little clothing as possible when I’m in the comfort of my own home. If he has some random over, I have to put things on, like shorts and T-shirts, which I don’t love.

I suck in a deep breath, inhaling her sweet smell. It’s making me hungry for cake, or a muffin. Or sex. Fuck. It’s been a really long time since I’ve been inside a woman, and it irritates the shit out of me that I find her appealing. “Look at you, Little Miss Nosy. Why the hell are you so interested in the recreational activities that go on inside my apartment?”

The tips of her ears turn from pink to red, and this time she splutters her response. “I’m not interested in who or whatever you’re doing. I happened to be coming home when your friend was doing the walk of shame on Wednesday. Two weeks in a row. Does she know you’re a womanizing asshole?”

I mirror her condescending smile with one of my own. “Wednesday is the day my cleaning lady comes by, but it’s nice to know you’re keeping such a close eye on me.” Before she can sputter out another response, the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

Little Miss Nosy bolts, speedwalking across the foyer and out the front door. I exhale a quick breath, make a surreptitious adjustment in my pants, and exit the elevator. I take a right toward the parking garage, unsure if I feel better or worse after that exchange, considering the way my body reacts to her proximity.

My already-questionable mood takes a fast dip south once I get to the arena. I’m almost suited up in my gear when my phone rings from somewhere under my discarded clothes. I intend to ignore it or send it to voice mail, but it’s my brother.

When I left home, I assumed he was still asleep. He doesn’t keep regular hours, even though out of the two of us, he’s the one who should have a structured routine. He’s in college part time and works part time. I don’t often know when or if he’s actually home.