Page 20 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“We’re neighbors,” he says, as if that’s good news.

“So it seems,” I say.

I shift so I’m stretching my other quad, and Logan mirrors my stance, pulling his leg up behind him.

“I knew someone had moved in,” he admits. “I heard the guys wrestling with the bed in the stairwell.”

I regret my next words before they’ve even fully exited my mouth. “My gran lived in 2B. I visited her here every Sunday. I applied for that apartment. 2B.”

“She did? You did?” He switches legs.

I tip upside down, touching my toes. I can only look at Logan so long. The incongruity between his handsome face and his callous heart might do me in.

“She did. And … I did,” I answer him from my inverted position.

“But … I got to it first,” he acknowledges.

“As always,” I mutter in a near whisper to myself. Then I straighten and look Logan in the eyes one last time. “Well … see you around.”

I have to get out of here. Literal tears are pressing at the backs of my eyes. A flood of memories rushes at me—all the times I nearly got an award, or a position, or that apartment. Each time, Logan was there to snatch the prize away from me without any recourse on my part or remorse on his.

I jog up the steps and take the elevator instead of the spiral staircase. I need to put some distance between me and Logan Alexander. Ha! What a joke. We work for the same marketing firm, and now we’re only separated by a few thin walls the remaining hours of the week.

When I reach my apartment, I stick the key in the lock and turn it. The door doesn’t open. I jiggle the key, twist the knob, and feel it stick. One more jiggle and the door pops open with a long squeak from the hinges. Of course 2O has low water pressure, handles that pop off the cupboards, and a funky front door. 2B probably has none of these issues. I mean, I have no idea what Logan’s shower is like … and now I’m picturing Logan and showers—okay, no.

I don’t know what the water pressure in Logan’s apartment is like in the bathroom. I never showered there when Gran was the rightful tenant. She never mentioned anything being amiss. And, because of how things always shake out where Logan Alexander is involved, I’m sure he probably has two rain showerheads. No. Probably four, with water massage options and a bench seat, and a jacuzzi jet tub … while I have a barely warm trickle.

“Lucky! Lady Luck!” the parrot next door squawks.

“Ha!” I say to no one.

“Ha!” the parrot squawks. “Ha. Ha. Ha!”

I grab my phone to text Megan. But then I change my mind and press dial. Some news is too monumental to share in a text message.

“Hey, what’s up?” Megan answers.

“Well, you know 2B? The apartment?”

“Of course. Gran’s place.”

“Yep. Well, you told me to tell you when I find out who’s living there.”

“Did you meet your new neighbor? Oooh, do tell. What are they like? Is it a man or a woman? A family? Do you like them?”

“No.”

“No, it’s not a man or woman or family? Or no you don’t like them?”

“Both. It’s an ogre. And I do not like him.”

“You do realize you’re not making sense, right?”

I sigh. “It’s Logan, Megan. Logan freaking Alexander is my new neighbor.”

Instead of commiserating or offering comfort, Megan laughs. And laughs.

I stand in my living room, still wearing the outfit I’d been wearing when that menace started chasing me through town on my morning run, changing his pace every minute or so as if it would throw me off, and then going full steam to prove he could outrun me, and finally crashing into those doodles so we literally ended up in a dog pile right in the middle of the park.

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