The other woman was dressed for a night out in a black top, skirt, and heels. She teetered slightly and blinked when she saw Victoria. “Wait, I know you. You’re his neighbor. Are you two hooking up already?” She paused, and her eyes widened in realization. “Oh my God, you’re the neighbor. I knocked on the wrong door, didn’t I? Crap, I’m so sorry. I was looking for Ford.”

Ford.

The mysterious F. Dixon finally had a first name.

The brunette continued to apologize and explain, her words slightly slurred. “I thought I would surprise him . . . Last week we talked about getting together again, so I was out with my friends and thought, ‘What the hell?’” She paused, and then gave Victoria an embarrassed smile. “You know, I was a lot better at this kind of thing in my twenties.” She got a little teary-eyed, and cleared her throat. “Well. I should let you get back to sleep. Sorry again.” She looked unsure which direction to head in as she turned first left, then right.

Victoria pointed. “He’s that way,” she said, not unkindly. Yes, it was one o’clock in the morning and this woman had woken her up and scared the hell out of her, but still. She looked a bit . . . lost.

“Thanks.” The other woman smiled appreciatively, and then headed down the hallway in the direction of unit 4F.

Victoria closed her door, but not all the way. Because, naturally, she planned to eavesdrop.

She heard a knock, and after a few moments of silence, there was the sound of a door opening.

A deep voice, gravelly with sleep. “Charlotte . . . wow, hey. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Victoria wondered if he had the blonde cozily stashed in his place at this very moment, or perhaps yet another, heretofore unseen woman—since he seemed to have them coming out of the woodwork.

If so, somebody was going to have some ’splaining to do.

She tilted her ear toward the crack she’d left open in her doorway, trying to hear whatever the brunette was saying.

No dice.

Enunciate, people—if you’re going to wake me up in the middle of the night, at least make sure I can hear the darn show.

“It’s okay. Come on in,” Ford said.

A few seconds later, Victoria heard the click of a lock. The hallway now silent, she closed her own door and reactivated the alarm. She went back into her room and glanced at the wall she shared with Ford Dixon as she climbed into bed.

Seriously, the man should just get a revolving front door and spare everyone a lot of trouble.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Victoria dragged herself into the shower and yawned underneath the spray. After last night’s unexpected visitor, it had taken her a long time to fall back asleep. She’d gotten out of bed twice, the first time because she couldn’t remember if she’d armed the alarm, and then twenty minutes later, when she’d realized she’d left the baseball bat by the front door.

Coffee was definitely in order.

She had a few hours to kill before the dreaded appointment with Dr. Metzel, so she decided to catch up on some work at The Wormhole coffee shop. She grabbed her laptop and stuffed it into the tote bag she used on weekends, then grabbed her keys.

She opened her front door and nearly barreled right into a man’s broad chest.

“Oh!” Startled, she looked up and found herself staring into a pair of piercing light blue eyes. Eyes that belonged to a man who had his hand raised, as if about to knock on her door.

Victoria blinked.

It was him.

The hot guy from the bar last Friday, the one Rachel had made up the backstory about, the one with whom Victoria had been exchanging looks until the blond woman with short hair sat down next to him.

He was here. On her doorstep.

“It’s you,” he said, breaking into a smile.

And when he smiled like that, the strangest thing happened to Victoria. Even though she was cynical and jaded, even though she didn’t believe in “the one” or soul mates or any of that kind of crap, for a split second her heart did this little skipping thing when she thought—oh my gosh—he had felt something that night in the bar and he’d tracked her down so they could meet, like something out of a romantic comedy movie.

“And it’s you.” Impossibly, the guy was even more attractive in the daytime. Those eyes. She cocked her head. “What are you doing here?”

He chuckled, a warm, rich sound. “This is the craziest thing. I’m Ford.” When she blinked, not getting it at first—Ford, Ford, why did that seem like a name she was supposed to know?—he pointed in the direction of unit 4F. “Your next-door neighbor.”

Oh . . . right.

Ford.

The ubiquitous, womanizing, saw-wielding, TV-yelling Mr. F. Dixon.

Ah, yes. Fate, that sneaky little trickster, was undoubtedly giggling proudly over this one.

Victoria peered across her doorstep at the man who, in the span of eight days, had given her sexy looks at the bar while talking to another woman, spent the night with Charlotte the Brunette just hours later—and possibly last night, too—and had a fourth woman, the blonde on his balcony, tell him that she loved him. All while merrily sawing through his drywall during her nap and throwing late-night soirees with penis pops.

She rested her hand on the doorjamb. “Seems like you’ve had a busy week, Mr. Dixon.”

Seven

IT REALLY WAS the craziest thing.

His new next-door neighbor, the woman renting Owen’s loft, was none other than the brunette in red heels that he’d seen last Friday at The Violet Hour. Currently there were no actual red heels—not that he had any objections to this weekend-casual look she had going on. Wearing a cotton zip-up and black yoga pants that made her legs seem as long as sin, she had her long, glossy, chestnut-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

He assumed the comment about his busy week had something to do with Charlotte’s surprise drop-in last night. And, as it happened, that was the reason he’d come by. To apologize. “The woman who showed up at my place last night said she knocked on your door by mistake. I’m really sorry about that. I had no idea she planned to come over.” He flashed her a playful grin. “Any chance you were still awake at the time, so I can feel like less of a jerk here?”

Her eyes were a warm chocolate brown, framed by thick lashes. “Dead asleep.”

Damn.

“Ah. Well, I promise that won’t happen again.” Last night, he’d had a nice but honest conversation with Charlotte in which he’d made it clear that they were not looking for the same thing. She’d apologized for dropping by uninvited, and had sheepishly joked about feeling like she was in college again, using alcohol to make her bolder when it came to men and inevitably making the wrong decisions. And Ford got that—she certainly wasn’t the first person to make a bad decision while drinking. But seeing how that definitely wasn’t a situation he wanted to get dragged deeper into, he’d called her a cab, waited with her downstairs to make sure she got in safely, and wished her well when he’d said good-bye.