Page 16 of My CEO Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #5)

M onica

Monica's alarm went off at the usual time, but instead of her body's natural rhythm waking her gently, she jolted awake from dreams filled with emergency lighting and the taste of Ted’s mouth on hers.

Her sheets were twisted around her legs like she'd been fighting in her sleep, and her skin felt hypersensitive.

Monica sat up and immediately regretted the movement. Every muscle in her body ached in places that confirmed exactly how thoroughly Ted had taken her, the way he'd gripped her thighs, the sound he'd made when he buried himself inside her, the possessive edge in his voice when he came.

Stop. Monica forced herself out of bed and into her morning routine, desperate to reclaim some sense of normalcy. Green tea with honey, exactly the way she'd been making it for years. Watering her fire escape herbs, whispering good morning to each plant like they were old friends.

But even the familiar ritual felt wrong. Every time she reached for the basil, she remembered telling Ted about her plants. Every sip of tea tasted like the confession she'd made about brewing extra, hoping he'd knock on her door.

What had she been thinking?

Monica unrolled her yoga mat with more force than necessary, trying to channel her frustration into productivity. Mountain pose.

Breathe into intention. Exhale the chaos of yesterday.

Except breathing reminded her of Ted's panic attack, the way his chest had seized with anxiety until she'd guided him through it. The way he'd looked at her afterward, like she'd performed some kind of miracle instead of basic human kindness.

Forward fold. Surrender what doesn't serve.

But what if what didn't serve her was also the most incredible sexual experience of her life? What if surrendering meant letting go of the way Ted had kissed her?

Monica's practice lasted fifteen minutes instead of her usual thirty before she gave up. Her mind was too chaotic, her body too aware of its own responses. Every stretch reminded her of different kinds of flexibility. Every breath carried the feel of his body against hers.

She showered rubbing at skin that still felt marked by Ted's hands. But the soap couldn't wash away the memory of his fingers tracing her spine, or the way he'd whispered her name against her throat.

By the time Monica left for her beach class, she was running ten minutes behind schedule and feeling more rattled than she had since her corporate panic attack days.

The drive to Golden Gardens should have been meditative, but instead Monica found herself checking her rearview mirror obsessively, half-expecting to see Ted's Porsche behind her.

Which was ridiculous, because Ted would be preparing for his rescheduled investor meeting, the one that was apparently more important than acknowledging what had happened between them.

Ted had looked at his phone and immediately shifted into corporate mode, his voice going professional and distant. He'd made it clear that their elevator encounter was an inconvenient detour from his real priorities.

Monica had simply saved them both the embarrassment of pretending otherwise.

Six students showed up for sunrise yoga, her usual regulars plus Margaret, who always booked private sessions for her anxiety. Monica set up the mats in their familiar semicircle and tried to channel the calm authority her students expected.

"Good morning," Monica said, testing her voice. It sounded normal enough. "Let's begin in mountain pose, finding our center."

But Monica's center felt like it had been relocated somewhere in the vicinity of Ted's apartment.

As she guided the class through their opening sequence, part of her attention was split between her students and wondering what Ted was doing right now.

Was he reviewing his presentation? Practicing his pitch in the mirror?

Had he already forgotten about yesterday, filed it away as a momentary lapse in judgment?

"Breathe into your heart center," Monica instructed, but the words felt hollow. Her own heart center felt cracked open, raw and exposed in a way that made focusing impossible.

"Monica?" Margaret's voice cut through her distraction. "Are you feeling all right? You seem scattered."

Scattered. Monica prided herself on being centered, grounded, the kind of teacher who could hold space for others because she'd found peace within herself. She forced a smile. "Just tired. Long day yesterday."

Long day. As if six hours trapped in an elevator with Ted could be summarized so casually.

The class continued, but Monica could feel her students' uncertainty.

Her usual rhythm was off, her voice lacking the warm authority they'd come to expect.

During warrior poses, she forgot to offer modifications.

In final relaxation, she rang her singing bowl too early, cutting short the meditation.

"Thank you," Monica said as students rolled up their mats, but even the gratitude felt forced.

Margaret lingered after the others left, her expression concerned. "Are you sure you're okay?”

"I'm fine," Monica said, but the lie felt thin. "Just processing some changes."

"Good changes or bad changes?"

Monica considered this. Was falling for your emotionally unavailable neighbor good or bad? Was discovering that the man you'd written off as soulless actually had more depth than you'd imagined good or bad? Was having mind-blowing sex with someone who immediately regretted it good or bad?

"Complicated changes," Monica said finally.

Margaret nodded like this made perfect sense. "Those are the hardest kind. Take care of yourself."

The drive back to the Towers felt longer than usual, rush hour traffic giving Monica too much time to think.

She kept replaying the rescue scene, analyzing every micro-expression on Ted's face when the elevator doors opened.

Had he looked embarrassed? Regretful? Or just professionally inconvenienced?

Monica's phone buzzed with a text from Mal: Coffee? You never answered yesterday, and I have Derek drama to dissect.

Monica typed back: Can't today. Teaching schedule is packed.

Which was a lie. Monica had deliberately left her afternoon open, planning to catch up on administrative tasks and maybe experiment with some new class sequences.

But the thought of sitting in a coffee shop, pretending to care about Mal's relationship drama while her own emotional life was in shambles, felt impossible.

The parking garage felt different now, charged with memory. Monica found herself staring at the elevator bank, remembering how Ted had looked when they'd first stepped inside together—checking his watch, radiating the kind of controlled urgency that had initially annoyed her.

Now she missed it. She missed his intensity, his barely leashed energy, the way he'd fought the meditation exercise like it was a personal attack on his productivity.

Monica took the stairs.

Her apartment felt too quiet, too empty. Without the background noise of Ted's conference calls bleeding through the walls, the silence was oppressive. Monica had always valued quiet, but this felt different, like the absence of something essential rather than the presence of peace.

She tried to prepare for her afternoon classes, reviewing sequences and selecting music, but concentration felt impossible. Every few minutes, she found herself listening for sounds from Ted's apartment, wondering if he was home, if he was thinking about her at all.

Monica's first afternoon class was at the studio downtown, a mixed-level flow for office workers looking to decompress after lunch. Twenty-three students filed in, unrolling mats and settling into the familiar ritual of transition from work to practice.

"Welcome," Monica said, taking her place at the front of the room. "Let's begin by setting an intention for our practice."

But what intention could she set when her own heart felt scattered across multiple time zones? When every breath reminded her of teaching Ted to breathe properly, of the way his shoulders had dropped when he'd finally relaxed into it?

Monica guided the class through sun salutations, but her usual smooth transitions felt choppy. She called out poses a beat too late, forgot to cue the left side of standing sequences, and during a particularly complex arm balance demonstration, she simply couldn't hold the pose.

"Let's try a different variation," Monica said, covering her stumble with a smile that felt brittle.

The students followed along without complaint, but Monica could sense their confusion. These were people who'd been coming to her classes for months, who expected a certain level of expertise and presence. They were getting a distracted substitute instead of their usual teacher.

During final relaxation, Monica found herself thinking about Ted's Dexter Capital meeting.

Was it happening right now? Was he sitting in a conference room somewhere, delivering the presentation he'd spent months perfecting?

Was he thinking about her at all, or had yesterday been filed away as completely as everything else that didn't serve his business objectives?

"Take three deep breaths," Monica instructed, but her own breathing felt shallow and insufficient.

After class, several students approached with questions about poses, but Monica's answers felt automatic and hollow. She packed up her props with unusual haste, eager to escape the studio and her own performance anxiety.

The evening class was worse.

Monica's regular students noticed immediately that she was off her game. Her sequence was disjointed. Her voice lacked its usual warmth, and during a particularly complex flow, she completely lost track of where they were in the series.

"Let's just move into child's pose," Monica said, abandoning the sequence altogether.

During the final meditation, while her students lay in peaceful relaxation, Monica still hadn’t been able to exercise Ted from her thoughts. And then she remembered the way he'd looked at her in the hallway, like she was an afterthought to his big meeting.

Monica rang the singing bowl to end class, but the sound felt discordant, lacking its usual clear resonance.

"Thank you for your practice," she said, but the gratitude felt forced.

As students filed out, Monica noticed the concerned glances, the hesitant expressions of people who wanted to ask if everything was okay but weren't sure how. These were people who came to her for guidance, for the kind of centered presence that helped them navigate their own chaos.

She was failing them completely.

The drive home was a blur of traffic lights and self-recrimination.

Monica had built her entire professional identity around being grounded, present, emotionally intelligent.

She was the person who helped others find balance, who taught the importance of staying centered regardless of external circumstances.

One afternoon with Ted had shattered all of that.

Monica pulled into the parking garage and sat in her car for several minutes, dreading the return to her apartment and the oppressive silence that waited there.

Through the concrete walls, she could hear the distant hum of traffic, the ordinary sounds of a city moving forward while she felt stuck in the space between yesterday and tomorrow.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother: Haven't heard from you lately. Hope you're not getting too caught up in that California nonsense to call your family.

Monica stared at the message, wondering what her mother would think of yesterday's events.

Probably that Monica had finally proved her point about the impracticality of choosing feelings over reality.

After all, what did Monica have to show for her encounter with Ted?

A few hours of incredible connection followed by immediate abandonment, and the complete destruction of her professional composure.

Maybe men like Ted always chose spreadsheets over human connection, and women like Monica were fools for expecting otherwise.

She deleted the text without responding and finally forced herself out of the car.

The elevator was working perfectly now, humming between floors like yesterday had never happened.

She rode to twelve in silence, hyperaware of the space where Ted had kissed her, where he'd made her forget every rule she'd ever made about complicated men.

Her hallway was quiet, no sounds coming from Ted's apartment. Monica stood outside his door for a moment, listening for any sign of life, the tap of keyboard keys, the murmur of conference calls, even the hum of his television.

Nothing.

Was he still at the office? Out celebrating a successful meeting? Or sitting in his apartment in the same silence that was driving her slowly insane?

Monica unlocked her door and stepped inside, immediately hit by the scent of her own space, sandalwood and lavender, the herbs from her windowsill, everything that usually made her feel peaceful and grounded.

Tonight, it all felt like loneliness.

She heated water for tea, going through the motions of her evening routine, but everything felt hollow. The green tea tasted bitter, the honey couldn't sweeten the disappointment sitting heavy in her, and even her favorite meditation cushion felt wrong when she tried to sit with her emotions.

She changed into pajamas and crawled into bed even though it was barely nine o'clock, pulling covers over her head like she could hide.

Sleep felt impossible, but so did staying awake with her thoughts circling endlessly around questions that had no good answers.

What had she expected? That a few hours of crisis-induced intimacy would fundamentally change a man who measured his worth in quarterly reports?

That incredible sex could bridge the gap between their completely incompatible worldviews?

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe Monica had fallen for a fantasy, a stress-response version of Ted that had nothing to do with who he actually was when the world wasn't falling apart around him.

Maybe the real Ted was exactly what she'd always thought, a man who put business before everything else, who treated human connection like another item on his task list to be managed and optimized.

And maybe Monica needed to accept that and move on.

And then her phone rang. Ted? Her stupid heart leapt, but no. It was her landlord to her studio. Why was she calling at this hour?