Page 2 of My CEO Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #5)

"Mr. Dexter had a family emergency and needs to reschedule. Would Thursday at the same time work?"

Thursday. Two days of additional anxiety, two days for competitors to make their own moves, two days for DataFlow to steal more clients and employees, two days for his momentum to dissolve completely.

"Of course," Ted heard himself say. "Thursday works perfectly."

After Janet hung up, Ted sat in his chair and contemplated the cosmic joke his life had become.

Three months of preparation, condensed into a presentation that would now gather dust until Thursday.

Meanwhile, DataFlow was probably signing checks and stealing market share.

Meanwhile, his thirty employees were counting on him to close this deal so they could keep their jobs.

He could go home. The thought felt foreign, like considering a vacation on Mars. Home meant silence and empty rooms and the suffocating awareness that he had nothing to do except think about Thursday's meeting.

Well, not entirely empty rooms. Monica would be next door, probably flowing through more of those hypnotic yoga poses that had distracted him this morning. The thought gave him another unwelcome spike of interest.

Ted stayed at the office until midnight, answering emails that could have waited and reviewing reports that wouldn't change. When he finally locked up and headed for the parking garage, the building felt empty and hollow.

Exhaustion settled deep into his bones as the elevator chugged up to his level. Ted's key turned in the lock of 12A, and he stepped into an apartment that looked like a high-end hotel room. Clean lines, expensive furniture, no personal touches to suggest anyone actually lived here.

As he loosened his tie, Ted found himself glancing toward the wall he shared with Monica's apartment. It was past midnight—she was probably asleep. Did she sleep as peacefully as she moved? Did she wear those same fitted leggings to bed, or something even more tempting?

Stop, Ted commanded himself. The stress of the day was clearly getting to him if he was fantasizing about his neighbor's sleepwear.

He fell asleep on the couch in his clothes, still wearing his watch and dreaming about PowerPoint slides that rearranged themselves when he wasn't looking—and the inexplicable image of dark hair catching sunrise light, and the curve of a woman's spine bending in a sexy arc.

***

T HE NEXT MORNING

Monica

Monica's internal clock woke her just before her phone's gentle chime. She'd stopped using jarring alarms years ago, after reading about cortisol spikes and their impact on morning mindfulness. Her body had adapted to the rhythm of sunrise and intention, no mechanical intervention required.

The tea kettle whistled while Monica did her morning stretches.

Green tea with local honey, the kind that supposedly helped with seasonal allergies though Monica drank it more for the ritual than any medicinal properties.

Steam curled from her favorite mug, a handmade ceramic from a pottery studio in Fremont, glazed in blues that reminded her of the Sound on clear days.

Her fire escape garden was thriving despite Seattle's unpredictable weather.

Basil, rosemary, and lavender in terra cotta pots that she'd painted herself during a particularly inspired evening last winter.

Monica pinched fresh mint for her tea and whispered good morning to each plant like they were old friends.

Because they were, really. Plants listened without judgment and responded to care with visible gratitude. Unlike most of the humans in her life.

Monica's yoga mat unrolled across her hardwood floor with a soft whisper. The morning practice was hers alone—thirty minutes of breath and movement before she shared her energy with students who brought their stress and expectations into her carefully curated sanctuary.

Mountain pose. Inhale intention, exhale resistance.

Her apartment smelled like sandalwood and the lavender sachets she kept in every drawer.

Crystals caught morning light from strategic positions around the room, not because Monica believed they possessed mystical powers, but because beauty deserved space in daily life.

The rose quartz on her windowsill had been a gift from her grandmother, along with the advice that love started with loving yourself.

Monica was still working on that part.

Forward fold. Surrender what doesn't serve.

Through her floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see Elliott Bay stretching toward the Olympics. On clear days, she could make out individual trees on the ridges. This morning, fog softened the edges until everything looked like a watercolor painting left in the rain.

Warrior one. Ground down to rise up.

Her phone buzzed from the kitchen counter. Monica ignored it. Morning practice was sacred time, protected from the digital chaos that infected every other hour of the day. Whatever crisis required her immediate attention could wait thirty minutes.

Just like her landlord's increasingly frequent calls about "market adjustments" to her studio rent. Just like the stack of bills on her kitchen counter that seemed to multiply overnight. Monica pushed the financial anxiety aside and focused on her breath.

Child's pose. Rest in the space between effort and surrender.

Monica's morning practice ended with three minutes of meditation. Not the guided variety she taught in classes, but simple silence and breath awareness. Some days her mind felt clear as mountain air. Other days, thoughts crashed into her consciousness like rush-hour traffic.

Today felt like traffic.

Why can't I meet someone who understands this matters? Why does everyone think yoga is just expensive stretching? Why am I twenty-nine and eating dinner alone six nights a week? And why does my studio rent keep going up while my enrollment stays flat?

Monica breathed into the questions without trying to answer them.

Meditation wasn't about achieving perfect mental silence.

That was a myth perpetuated by people who'd never actually tried to quiet their minds.

Meditation was about noticing thoughts and letting them pass without getting pulled into their drama.

Inhale acceptance. Exhale judgment.

Her phone showed a text from her best friend Mal: Coffee later? I have gossip about Derek.

Derek was Mal's on-again, off-again boyfriend who treated relationships like a hobby he practiced badly. Monica typed back: Can't today. Teaching at the beach, then evening class at the studio. Tomorrow?

The response came immediately: You work too much.

Monica stared at the text, struck by its unintentional irony. She worked too much? She taught twelve yoga classes per week and ran meditation circles twice monthly. Compare that to her neighbor in 12A, who apparently never left his apartment except to drive somewhere in his obnoxiously loud car.

Speaking of which.

Monica found herself listening for the familiar sound of Theodore Corwin's voice through their shared wall. When had that become part of her morning routine? She caught herself straining to hear whether he was awake yet, then felt annoyed at her own curiosity.

There it was—the low rumble of his voice as he paced his living room, barking into his phone about "market penetration" and "user acquisition metrics.

" Despite her irritation with the timing, Monica had to admit his voice was actually quite attractive when he wasn't shouting.

Deep and authoritative, with just a hint of roughness that suggested too much coffee and not enough sleep.

Stop it, Monica told herself. She didn't care what Theodore Corwin sounded like.

But she did wonder what drove someone to work such insane hours.

She'd glimpsed him in the hallway a few times over the past months, always in those perfectly tailored suits that probably cost more than her monthly rent, always carrying himself with the kind of controlled urgency that made her wonder what he was running from.

Dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it, and eyes that held the hollow intensity of someone who'd forgotten the difference between ambition and desperation.

He was handsome, she'd give him that. Probably devastatingly so when he wasn't wearing stress like a second skin.

Definitely not my type, Monica thought, then wondered why she'd considered his type at all. And why she found herself listening for his voice every morning like some kind of corporate-obsessed meditation bell.

His voice carried despite the building's supposed noise barriers. He had disrupted her morning practice three times last week, but she'd started to recognize the rhythm of his calls—usually around six-thirty, lasting about twenty minutes, always ending with what sounded like frustrated sighs.

What kind of business required that level of intensity? What was he so afraid of losing?

She'd called the building manager twice about the noise ordinance. Quiet hours officially lasted until seven a.m., but Theodore seemed to believe his business took precedence over everyone else's peace.

Her morning smoothie contained spinach, banana, almond milk, and a scoop of plant-based protein powder that tasted like disappointment mixed with good intentions.

Monica drank it while checking her schedule for the day, trying not to calculate how much each class needed to earn to cover her mounting expenses.

Beach yoga at eight-thirty, which meant leaving her apartment by eight-fifteen to set up.

Private session with Margaret in 12D at ten for anxiety management through breathwork.

Lunch with her mother, who would spend two hours explaining why Monica's lifestyle choices were "impractical for finding a serious relationship.

" Afternoon classes at the studio—if she could keep affording the rent—then evening meditation circle for her regulars.