Chapter two

Mandy

“ P lease don’t tell me this is your idea of unpacking.”

I look up from a pile of flashcards, surrounded by unopened boxes and three half-drunk energy drinks.

Kira stands in the doorway to the kitchen with one hand on her hip and the other holding a roll of paper towels like she’s about to stage a full-blown intervention.

Music pulses from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter.

It’s some bouncy pop remix that makes it impossible to concentrate.

“Technically, I’m reviewing criminal law,” I say, flipping a card. “The chaos is background ambiance.”

Kira’s eyes narrow. “You’ve been in this apartment less than twelve hours and you’ve already buried yourself in bar prep. You know what that tells me?”

“That I’m dedicated?”

“That you need a break. And a drink. Maybe even a kiss from someone who isn’t a Supreme Court case.”

I groan and toss a flashcard into the air. “Is this about the party again?”

“It’s not a party,” she says, dramatically offended. “It’s a soft housewarming. And it's this Friday night. Think intimate. Casual. Barely a gathering. Some of my friends from work. Some of yours. And that hot guy next door.”

I freeze. My mouth is wide open.

Kira doesn’t miss it. “What?”

“You invited him?”

“Of course I invited him. He looks like a Greek god and smells like sin and soap. Plus, it’d be rude not to.”

I bury my face in my hands. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Why? I told him to bring a few of his player friends.

“No!” I say, way too quickly.

Kira smirks. “Still wild that your sister dated the hot neighbor.”

“I know. Trust me, I wish I didn’t remember every single detail.”

“You said they went to prom, right?”

“Prom and everything,” I mutter. “He was her boyfriend for like most of their senior year. He was at our dinner table multiple times.”

“That makes this even better!”

“No. That makes this the beginning of my personal ‘ick’ documentary.”

She shrugs. “Well, he should still come. And bring friends. We could use some Detroit Acers eye candy.”

I try to go back to my flashcards, but it’s no use. My brain’s stuck on that smirk, the curve of his jaw, the way his voice wrapped around “Little Fields” like it was a secret only he knew.

He looked good.

No, he looked unfair. Older. Broader. Confident in a way that no one should be before 10 a.m.

And now Kira has invited him into our living room.

He'll be there holding a red solo cup.

God help me.

***

An hour later, while Kira’s doing some kind of pre-party sparkle cleanse in the bathroom, I get a text.

ALLISON: Did you move in okay?

I stare at the screen.

I type: Yeah. The building is nice. Currently unpacking.

I don’t type: Nate Jones lives next door.

Instead, I slide the phone facedown.

It’s fine. Nothing’s happening. We said maybe ten words. He probably forgot already.

Except he didn’t look like he forgot.

And I definitely didn’t.

***

The first week in Detroit is a blur of caffeine, cardboard, and constitutional law.

Kira works late most nights, so I take over the kitchen table with textbooks and color-coded tabs.

She FaceTimes dates while I wear noise-canceling headphones and highlight every third line out of spite.

I work during the day as a law clerk at a law firm.

In the evening, I rotate between the library and our apartment for study space, but nothing blocks out the noise like Nate’s existence does.

Because I keep seeing him.

The hallway. The gym. Once in the elevator, where he held the door and winked like he knew exactly what it did to my insides.

Each time, it’s casual. Harmless.

But his voice slides under my skin like velvet and hockey tape. Today, I see him in the mailroom.

“I should’ve guessed you’d be the kind to color-code your mailbox,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the mailroom wall, his arms crossed like he had all the time in the world.

I freeze mid-sort, one hand holding a bright pink envelope labeled "Study Materials" and the other clutching my tabbed legal pad like it was a shield.

“Organization is sexy,” I reply, trying not to fumble the envelope or the sudden uptick in my heart rate.

He grins, all slow confidence and cocky charm. “So is chaos. Wanna compare methods sometime?”

I roll my eyes, but it isn't real. Not when my face is already warming. “Let me guess. Your system involves losing everything and blaming the universe?”

He steps closer. “Only the unimportant stuff. I never lose track of the things that matter.”

My stomach flips.

“You always flirt in front of utility bills?” I ask, managing to drop a flyer for mattress cleaning and then immediately curse under my breath.

He crouches to pick it up and hands it back with a crooked smile. “Only when the company is this good.”

I try to laugh. I really do. But the way he looks at me? Like I am more than just Allison’s little sister? This is new and it’s dangerous.

I tuck the envelope under my arm and turn to leave, but not before glancing back. “Your mail’s hanging out of Box 204. That chaos you’re so proud of is showing.”

He winks. “Good thing I live next door to someone who thrives on order.”

I hit the elevator button and step inside, fully aware he follows a second later. The doors close with a soft ding, sealing us into a space that suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.

“You always this smooth in confined spaces?” I ask, arms crossed, trying to focus on the floor numbers lighting up.

“I save my best material for elevators,” he says, with a huge shit-eating grin on his face.

“I’m honored. Truly.”

He grins. “I mean, think about it. Limited escape routes, the perfect acoustics for witty banter, and zero distractions unless someone hits the emergency stop.”

“Do you flirt with all your neighbors like this or am I just lucky?”

“Only the ones who carry color-coded tabs and walk like they’ve already drafted closing arguments in their heads.”

“Guilty,” I say, refusing to smile. I’m already losing that battle.

We ride in silence for a moment, the next ten floors creeping slowly upward. He glances over at me.

“So… you and your roommate settled in yet?”

“Mostly. I hear that she's already invited you and your friends to our housewarming party. No game on Friday?"

“No game,” he says, smirking. “I’ll be there with two friends. Looking forward to it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Just know we’re classing it up with solo cups and suspiciously enthusiastic playlists. You’ve been warned.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like a good time.”

The elevator dings for our floor. He waits for me to exit first. As we walk side by side toward our doors, he tilts his head.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice quieter now but still cocky, “I think the folders are a front. You’ve definitely got trouble hidden somewhere in that highlighter collection. After all, you are a Fields.”

My hand pauses on the doorknob to my apartment. “And wouldn't you like to know!"

He smiles a big smile. “Maybe I would.”

I should laugh it off.

But instead, I blush.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about his smile since.

Which is bad. Very bad.

Because Nate Jones is exactly the kind of man I’ve spent years avoiding.

He’s gorgeous, confident and a badass.

And he flirts like a fire alarm—fast, hot, and with enough intensity to short-circuit common sense.

I’ve got the bar exam in six months. My life is flashcards, outlines, and grinding until I make partner before thirty. That’s the plan.

Nate Jones is not part of the plan.