Page 3 of Puck Prince

She swipes at me again, and I throw myself back into the door, causing it to slam shut behind me.

“Goddammit!” I examine my bleeding hand. “You know what? You want to stay out here? Fine. Stay. But I’m going back in.”

I lift my bare ass off the balcony, twist towards the door, and turn the handle.

Locked.

“Shit.”

My stomach damn near falls out of my ass as the full truth of the situation hits me like Ophelia cranked up to eleven out of ten.

I am trapped… outside… on a balcony… in the middle of the night… with no pants on.

In a burst of what can only be righteous rage, I kick the door. “You have to be kidding me!”

Of course, that hurts more than the cat scratch, and I scream again.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” The other door rips open. “I thought when I first moved in that you were going to be a chill neighbor, but I guess I was wrong, Kenn?—”

He stops talking.

I stop screaming and flailing.

Both of us stop pretty much everything.

All I can do is stare at the ridiculously tall, messy-haired figure in front of me. His eyes are the color of the ocean in Hawaii, framed with the darkest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. A man could get away with anything with eyes like that. Murder, even. Fittingly, his jawline is sharp enough to cut a noose.

His lips tip in the hint of smirk as those devilish eyes rake over me. “You’re not Kennedy.”

“No, I’m not,” I agree. “I’m Callie, her cousin. And you are?”

“Enjoying the show.” The man leans against the door frame, his eyes lazily making their way up my body and back to my face. “By the sound of it, I was expecting a crime scene.”

I hold up my bleeding hand. “I was assaulted by a cat.”

“Did the cat steal your pants, too?”

“Wha—” I look down because somehow, I forgot that I’m still full Donald Duck-in it. “Oh my God!” I whip around and try yanking on the door that has not magically unlocked itself at anypoint during the last few mortifying seconds. Unsurprisingly, it does not yield. Meanwhile, the man with the dangerous eyes is still smirking while Delilah does figure eights around his ankles. That horny bitch.

“You need help?” he asks, biting back a laugh and crossing his impossibly muscular arms. I can see the tone even through the hockey jersey he has on. He is also wearing fitted gray sweats, and, well… enough said there.

“Why? You happen to have a key?” I turn back to cross my arms and hold my sassy stance. I’ve given up on trying to hide my wardrobe malfunction. At this point, it is what it is.

“No. But I happen to have another door.” He holds his hand out, gesturing towards his apartment.

I’d rather die. I’d rather shimmy down the fire escape. Hell, I’d rather just jump at this point and pray that Jesus catches me before the asphalt does.

“I’m not a serial killer, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Sounds suspiciously like something a serial killer would say.”

He arches a brow and shrugs simultaneously, which has no right to be even half as cute as it is. “I’m just a guy with a big couch, sweatpants you can borrow, and an open case of beer. Do with that what you will.”

I’m prepared to refuse it outright and die a stubborn, noble death on this balcony.

But, over his shoulder, the light is warm and the couch looks plush. Meanwhile, out here, the night air is delivering an extremely unpleasant chill to my lady bits.

It’s either stay out here and freeze, or take my chances with the gorgeous neighbor.

---