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CHAPTER ONE

Brie

IOWNWAYtoo much shit.

I’m pretty sure my driver wanted to kill me when he saw how many bags I had. If I hadn’t threatened him with a one-star review—and promised him a hefty tip that I can’t really afford—I’m betting he would have left me at the curb.

Now the trunk of his Honda Civic is full, and I’m crammed in one corner of the back seat, hugging my knees to my chest, surrounded by suitcases. I thought about sitting in the front for a hot second, but then I saw the discarded fast food wrappers, cigarettes, and empty Red Bull cans. It may be less comfortable back here, but it’s a hell of a lot cleaner.

I knew I should have ordered a bigger, better car service, but, sadly, money is an object, at least until I get my first check for the Netflix series. Fortunately, I won’t have to stay curled up like a pretzel for long. Connor’s apartment is only a few blocks away.

My gut twists when I think about where I’m going and what I’m about to do. I’ve known my brother’s best friend practically my whole life, but showing up on his doorstep, unannounced and uninvited, and asking if I can move in with him, is gutsy, even for me. Maybe that’s why I brought along all my worldly possessions instead of going back for them later. It’ll be a lot harder for him to toss me out on the street with all this crap in tow.

I hope.

The fact that I’m willing to pull this stunt shows just how desperate I am. But losing out on yet another apartment—my fourth in as many weeks, the New York City real estate market is brutal and my credit history isn’t exactly the best—was the last straw. I can’t keep squatting at Jake and Ainsley’s. Especially now that I’m going to be staying in the city for the foreseeable future. Or at least until the series gets cancelled.

Don’t get me wrong. My brother and his fiancée have been more than hospitable. But being a third wheel to their storybook romance is uncomfortable as hell. The lovey-dovey looks. The constant smooching. The wall-banging sex.

And that’s not a euphemism. I can literally hear the headboard of their California king slamming against the drywall. Every. Freaking. Night. And it’s not like my room is next to theirs. I’m down the damn hall.

Their late-night gymnastics have been totally messing with my sleep schedule. When the first A.D—that’s assistant director for those not familiar with TV production lingo—made a half-serious, half-snide remark to the makeup artist about needing to cover the dark circles under my eyes, I knew it was time to find new digs. I worked my ass off for this gig. Beat out hundreds of other girls. I’m not blowing it because my brother and his blushing almost-bride can’t keep their hands—and other body parts I don’t even want to think about because ew, my brother—off each other.

Hence my somewhat—okay, totally—impulsive decision to spring myself on Connor. He’s the only other person I know in this city, other than my brother, of course, who has an apartment big enough to house a freaking marching band. With any luck, he won’t even know I’m there. Once he says yes to me crashing with him, that is.

Plus, Jake let it slip the other night that Connor broke up with his live-in girlfriend a few weeks ago. Hopefully he’ll appreciate an extra hand around the house. I’m good at vacuuming. I actually like folding laundry. And I make a mean vegan coconut chickpea curry.

My car pulls to the curb in front of Connor’s luxury high-rise, and the driver picks up his phone and swipes right to end the ride.

“Nice building.” He turns around and surveys the piles of bags and boxes taking up most of the back seat. “I suppose you want me to help you bring all this crap inside.”

“Only as far as the lobby. I can handle it from there.” Fingers crossed. My plan is to get the doorman to take pity on me and watch my stuff as I bring it up to Connor’s penthouse apartment in stages. Then, when it’s all stacked up strategically outside his door for maximum you-can’t-turn-me-and-literally-everything-I-own-away effect, I’ll ring the bell and pray. “There’s a tip in it for you, remember? And a five-star rating.”

“Forty bucks.” He holds out his hand, palm up. “Paid in advance.”

That’s about twice what I want to shell out. But he’s got me over a barrel. There’s no way I can get everything inside in one trip, and I’m sure as hell not leaving anything out on the sidewalk for any Tom, Dick, or Harriet to walk off with. So I pull out my wallet, fish out two twenties, and fork them over. “Here.”

It takes a good ten minutes, but we finally get everything out of the cab and into the lobby. I thank the driver, promising again to leave him a glowing review. Then I work my magic on the doorman—he’s prickly at first but he changes his tune when I show him my driver’s license and he realizes I’m “Mr. Lawson’s” sister—and he agrees to keep an eye on my things while I bring the first batch of stuff up to “Mr. Dow’s” apartment on the seventh floor.

The “Mr.” thing cracks me up. I mean, intellectually I know Connor and my brother are big-shots. Top Shelf—the club they own—is one of the hottest night spots in the city. They’ve been on Forbes 30 under 30 and countless lists of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors. But to me, they’re still my annoying big brother and his constant, geeky sidekick who liked to play Tomb Raider and Magic: The Gathering and—even worse—wouldn’t let me, five years their junior, join in on the fun.

Five trips later, and it’s go time. All my crap is piled in the narrow hallway between the elevator and Connor’s door. The only thing left for me to do is ring the damn bell.

It takes a few minutes and more than a couple of rings before the door swings open and—gah. Connor’s so—naked.

Okay, so he’s not exactly naked. But he might as well be for how little those tiny gym shorts are covering. What is this, the seventies?

Not that I’m exactly complaining. What’s not covered looks damn good. Why have I never noticed how yummy he is before? He’s gone from geek to Greek god. The slight sheen of sweat makes his muscular arms and torso glisten like an Olympian in ancient times, all oiled up for competition. And when did he get a tattoo on his ribcage? It makes his six pack look even sexier. If that’s possible.

“Brie.” He runs a hand through his dark, damp hair, messier than usual. “What are you doing here?”

Crap. He sounds pissed. What if I’ve come at a bad time? What if he was sleeping? Or even worse, still in bed but, um, otherwise occupied? I know he just broke up with his girlfriend, but maybe he’s got some rebound chick in there. That would explain the mussed hair, the sweat, the almost total lack of clothing.

I swallow hard and force a smile. “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

He reaches one hand up to grab the door frame, making all those glorious, shiny muscles ripple. My mouth goes dry and I wipe my clammy palms on my jeans. I’m going to have to figure out how to keep my stupid hormones in check if we’re going to be sharing space. Even if that space is the size of a ski lodge.

“I was in the middle of a workout,” he says, shifting his weight and drawing my attention to his cross trainers.