Page 2 of Up All Night

“Sorry that some of us like to get a good night’s sleep before they go to work and put in long hours.”

He lifts one eyebrow at me. “We work at the same place. And have the same job.”

It was true. We both worked for my dad at Vanderhall Capital, a venture capitalist firm. Cannon worked hard, but I always felt the need to work harder, to be the first one there and the last one to leave, trying to prove to everyone I had worked as hard as anybody else to get this position and that it didn’t have anything to do with being my father’s son. The job hadn’t been handed to me, that’s for sure. But some people thought it had been. I felt the pressure to prove I’d be in the same position even if my last name wasn’t Vanderhall.

“Regardless, I like to be at the top of my game, and a good night’s sleep is essential.”

He shook his head, turning back to his game, smiling at what he liked to claim as my rigid lifestyle.

Cannon’s given me a lot of flack over the years about liking to stick to a schedule. We met freshman year of college at Stanford, when we were assigned to the same dorm. He was the fun, spontaneous guy, and I was the studious, responsible guy. Despite our differences we found that our two personalities went well together. I helped him focus, and he helped me enjoy my college years. We’ve been best friends ever since. Majoring in the same degree helped, as well as him winning over both of my parents with his charm. My dad had insisted that Cannon come to work for him as well.

A loud bang sounded above my head, my body jerking in surprise.

What was going on up there?

With Cannon clearly done talking to me about our menace of a neighbor, I returned to my task at hand. I yanked open our front door, slamming it behind me, hoping the sound could be heard upstairs.

Marching up the stairs, the music got louder. I couldn’t be the only one who was annoyed about the volume at which she played her music.

I stood in front of the door to her apartment, noting the shiny gold numbers reading 404. Lifting my hand, I banged my fist against the door. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot against the floor and waited for her to answer. The music continued to blast out for a solid twenty seconds. I know because I counted, made it all the way to twenty-Mississippi, and still the door had not opened. She probably couldn’t hear my knocking over her ridiculously loud music.

I growled, my annoyance building to such a level that I guess I was now acting like a caveman. I banged my fist again on her door, but harder this time. I continued to knock, not planning to stop until she finally heard me and opened the door.

Finally the music stopped, but I kept banging my fist against her door. When the door swung open, I let my hand fall down to my side. We were both breathing heavy, me from my incessant knocking, and her from what I assumed was dancing.

Despite my anger and my dislike for her, I couldn’t stop myself from taking her in from head to toe. Her brown hair was put up in a messy bun on top of her head, wisps of hair falling around her neck and face. She wore a matching sports bra and shorts outfit, showcasing her athletic body. I tried to not let my eyes linger on the lines and soft contours of her body, but with so much of her tanned skin showing it was a difficult feat.

She was unbelievably beautiful.

Too bad it only went skin deep, I reminded myself.

Upon seeing me, her blue eyes narrowed. “What areyoudoing here?”

“It’s not like I want to be here,” I said, matching her clipped tone. “I’m positive I’m not the only one who is wishing you’d stop torturing us with your obscenely loud music. Someone had to be the one to tell you that your music needs to be turned down, if not turned off altogether.”

“Or what? You’ll report me to Ron again?” she challenged.

She was on a first name basis with our superintendent?You had to be kidding me. He was a gruff old man who had a permanent scowl on his face, and I’d never heard anyone call him anything else but Mr. Farnsworth.

“I would if it would do anything.” I couldn’t keep the annoyance out of my voice.

She placed a hand on her hip. “What is your problem?”

“What ismyproblem?” I asked, flabbergasted. How could she not see that she was the problem here? “You’re the one who has music blaring out like we’re at some kind of concert.”

She rolled her eyes at my statement, then crossed her arms. “Well, some of us don’t have a cush nine to five job.”

“Cush?” I exclaimed.

Before I could say more, she cut in. “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

I pushed my hand through my hair. She literally made me want to pull my hair out. “I’ll have you know that not only do I work longer than nine to five, my job can be grueling and exhausting.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure,” she said, giving me a look like she either didn’t believe me or didn’t care—probably both. “Are we done here?”

“Are you going to stop playing loud music so late at night?”

She laughed, and not a small chuckle. She full on laughed, like I was a comedian.

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