Page 4 of Faking Romance

“Hi,” she says meekly, looking up from beneath dark lashes. She might be gorgeous, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

“Hello. I’m Grayson Porter,” I state as I stretch out my hand deciding to try to be civil first. “I live upstairs, right above your shop.”

“Oh, right.” She wipes her hand on her pants and shakes mine. Her skin is warm and smooth and a zing of static passes between us. She retracts her hand, clearly feeling it too. “I’m Roxy Benedict. I just moved in. It’s nice to meet you.”

The other woman begins hammering what looks like a bookcase.

“Isla, can you stop for like two seconds?” Roxy asks before looking back at me. “Sorry, that’s my sister Isla. She’s helping me get the shop sorted.”

“Well, about that. I’m trying to finish writing a piece…” I trail off taking a deep breath. “I’m a composer and a musician and I sort of need it to be quiet.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. I swear the hammering is almost done. Maybe we can take a break for a few hours,” she offers.

I nod. “Thank you. If you could, that would be very helpful.” I look around. “What exactly is your store going to be?

She smiles proudly and holds up her arms. “A romance bookstore.”

I frown as I try to comprehend the meaning. “I’m sorry…a what?”

“A bookstore for romance readers,” she reiterates as one eyebrow shoots up as if she’s assessing my reaction to this information.

“Right…” I say slowly with a small shake of my head. “Do people actually buy that many of those books to make that a profitable store?”

She sighs. “Yes. Yes, they do.”

“Right. Anyhow, I need total silence for at least two more hours,” I state as I look over her head at the store, still unsure how anyone could make a living off romance books.

“Sure. We can finish the painting instead,” she offers.

Fuck. Painting might be worse than the noise.

“Could you maybe do something else? And paint tomorrow?” I ask.

Now she’s the one frowning. “Why?”

“Paint fumes give me migraines,” I state, with a sigh of exhaustion. Actually, I feel one coming on right now.

“Fine, we’ll set up furniture,” she grumbles like a petulant child.

“Will there be hammering involved with that?” I ask from behind gritted teeth because the fact that I have to ask her to be neighborly is putting me in a mood.

“No,” she growls and pauses as she opens the door to walk back inside. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Porter.” But the way she says it tells me she thinks it was anything but nice, and honestly, I feel the same. I don’t want to look for another apartment. I was here first.

And with that she closes it, leaving me on the other side, inhaling her perfume that slowly dissipates after a few seconds. I run a hand through my hair as I turn and press the key code to get back into the building.

Trudging up to my apartment, I pass Carly on the steps.

“Hey,” I mutter.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, pausing mid-step and looking down at me from the landing on the second floor.

I walk up to her and lean on the wall. “That new woman downstairs is making a shit ton of noise.”

“When do you have to get your composition to the producer?” she asks. The entire building is aware that I’m in the running to compose music for a film. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for over a year, and after networking way more than I ever wanted to, it was my family name that got me a meeting with a well-known Hollywood producer. He agreed to listen to a sample I’m making based on a film concept he shared. The film is just about to wrap up in the coming weeks. This could be my big break. I walked away from my family and their fortune to pursue this dream and being so close to getting what I want has me laser-focused. I’m so close to making my dream come true, I can practically taste it.

“Tomorrow,” I answer.

Carly hugs me and I hug her back.

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