Page 6 of Boyfriend From Hell

“Happy bday D”

My heart sank to my numb feet when I saw Felix’s face in a small circle beside his name.

I snorted, leaned forward, and rested an elbow on my knee, ready to rapid-fire a slew of bitchy texts.

But you know what? He didn’t even deserve that.

He had all day to reach out, and he just now bothered to spare me two-seconds for that piss-poor text?

It’s not like he couldn’t see all of my missed calls!

What an unbelievable asshole!

I slammed my phone face down on the coffee table and snatched up the remote, taking my anger out on the small red button protruding from the top, cutting the actors on the screen off mid-sentence.

Fucking asshole. I don’t know what I expected, though.

Maybe a ‘happy birthday Deer, I’m so sorry for everything, let’s get back together! ’ would have been nice.

“Insufferable asshat.” I murmured, grabbing the wine bottle and cradling it in my arm.

Just as I was about to start my trek to my bed, a knock sounded at the front door and stopped me in my tracks.

Another knock sounded, this time louder.

My annoyance was already a full-on raging fire, I was half tempted to ignore whoever was out there.

My mind stuck on Felix’s text—suddenly wishing I had bitched him out, but that meant I would have to actually talk to him and honestly, I know myself well enough to know I would just crumble and pour my pitiful heart out to him (to likely not even get a reply back).

Yet another knock sounded from the door. Somebody better be fucking dying. I lunged for the door, smacked the latch to the left and swung it open.

“What!” I yelled—unintentionally, but not really.

A black-haired man with weird, red eyes jumped back.

“I—uh, is this a bad time?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.

“Yes. Yes, it is a bad fucking time. It’s actually the worst time imaginable.” I glared. “What do you want?”

He gave a sheepish grin and looked at his feet. “I locked myself out.”

“And?” I barked a laugh. “What do you want me to do about it? Call the landlord.” I moved to close the door on the man’s face just as he reached a hand out, stopping it.

I stared at his smooth fingers curling around the edge of my door and glared even harder. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

“And, I’m your neighbor in 205—”

“Okay?” I prompted. I was in no mood for any man and I hoped that was painted across my whole face.

His eyes met mine and pink stained his cheeks as he shrugged, shaking his head.

“And,” he said sarcastically, clearly mocking me. “Can I use your phone to call a locksmith or the landlord—or something? My phone is in there.” He jutted his thumb behind him toward his apartment door.

His eyes raked over my face, sweat gleamed off his forehead as if he was either nervous or overheating. It was far from hot in the hallway—was he nervous to talk to me? His eyes were so bizarre, who has red eyes?

Unfortunately, Gracie was right. He was tall, dark, and handsome.

To my greatest displeasure, he was the hottest man I’d ever seen.

I had purposely paid him no mind when I first saw him in the hallway after moving in, but now, with him just a few feet away, it seemed impossible that I’d managed such a feat.

He blinked silently at me, tossing a dark, wavy lock from his eyes.

Then, he let go of his grip on my door and stuffed his hands—hands that looked perfect for a hundred things—deep into the front pockets of his jeans.

“What’s up with your eyes?” I snapped out, before I could reel myself in.

I squeezed my eyes shut in a long blink and opened them just as his head jerked back at my word vomit, as if he were trying to dodge it.

Smooth one. Mental face palm.

“What?” A flash of a smile seemed to skirt through his features for a moment before disappearing.

“What?” I parroted, hoping—I don’t know what I was hoping for exactly. I don’t know why I even said that, plus he obviously heard me and now I was the one being the weirdo.

“They’re contacts?” he said, his tone rhetorical.

“So, can I use your phone for a sec, or should I try a different, more... uh, non-confrontational neighbor who won’t question me about the way I look?

” He regarded me with an expression that said nothing other than ‘WTF is wrong with this woman?’ and dropped his eyes to the bottle of wine I was holding like an infant.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, as he continued eying the half-drunk bottle of wine, which I was still cradling like a newborn.

His perfectly arched eyebrow raised in wait for my reply.

I was being an outright bitch, and I knew it, just taking out my unresolved post-breakup anger on the first man that breathed near me.

He clearly just needed a bit of help, and there was no reason for me to not help.

I hung my head in solemn embarrassment and self-loathing shame.

“Yeah, yes. I’m sorry, it’s been a shit day. Wait here a sec.” I grumbled, not able to meet his eyes.

Frantically, I scrambled away and set my precious wine bottle down haphazardly on the tiny entry table. By the time I stepped away toward my phone I heard the heart-breaking sound of my one saving grace shattering against the floor.

Perfect.

I turned to jog back to my neighbor and found him kneeling down picking up the glass shards. He froze as he noticed he had—albeit in a kind gesture sort of way—invited himself inside.

“Sorry,” he started. “It felt weird to just stand there and stare at the broken glass. And by the sound of it, you already have enough going on, so—”

“No, no—thanks. You don’t have to help. This is kind of you, but seriously…” I held out my phone. “Here.”

He glanced at the device, then down at his hands full of glass. “Right! God, I’m so sorry for being such a shit show. This is embarrassing, let me grab a bag.” Once again, I frantically scrambled away toward the kitchen and snagged the first bag I saw.

When I returned there was a pile of glass on the entryway table along with the half-broken bottle.

I handed him the phone as he gingerly brushed his wine-stained hands against his jeans.

Guilt struck me and I cringed. To be fair, it seemed like this guy was having a decidedly worse day than me.

Got locked out of his apartment, asked a neighbor for help (who just so happened to be nothing short of a whole ass bitch in return), then picked glass off the floor in attempt to be nice, just to get wine-stained fingers and jeans—and more than likely a few glass shards lodged in his skin.

He gave me a small nod and a pleasant smile that seemed far too kind, given the situation, and held up a finger to me, signaling he’d be a minute and walked out my door.

Get it together, Deer! I rolled my eyes at myself and began sliding the glass into the bag.