“I just wanted to see if you felt like going to that new tapas place after work. A bunch of us are going for happy hour.”

She’s being nice because I’m so pitiful, which makes me feel even worse. “It’s sweet that you always include me, but . . .” I gesture helplessly at the sheaf of papers Portia left on my desk.

“Okay. Maybe next time.” Sue departs with a shrug and a smile.

I spend the next few hours at my desk with my nose buried in pages. I keep at it long after everyone else has gone home for the weekend, long after any sane person would’ve packed it in.

Maybe I ate my sanity with the gallon of ice cream I had for dinner last night.

By the time I get back to my apartment, I’ve got a headache that feels like a serial killer is drilling a hole into the top of my head with a rusty drill bit soaked in hot sauce. My plan is to eat something, get a few hours of sleep, and get back into the office bright and early to work on the manuscript. Normally I can work on my projects from home using the computer, but paper files aren’t allowed to leave the building for security reasons, so I’m stuck going back to my desk.

Thank you, Portia.

As soon as I step off the elevator, I hear the music. It’s extremely loud and thumping with bass—some kind of rock. Or maybe rap. I can’t tell for sure. All I know is that the lyrics include a few words that would curl my mother’s hair.

As I walk down the hall, I’m alarmed to discover the music is coming from the apartment directly across from mine. Judging by all the voices and raucous laughter, my neighbor isn’t alone.

Kellen never has parties.

Irritated, I pull up my coat sleeve and look at my watch. I debate whether or not I should knock on his door, but my stomach is making some aggressive rumbling noises that manage to penetrate through the thundering bass, so I decide to eat first and deal with Kellen on a full stomach.

In the event of a nuclear war, the first thing I’d do is eat. I can’t handle life when I’m hungry.

As soon as I unlock my door, Mr. Bingley attacks.

“Rr-ow!” He stands on his hind legs and sinks his claws into my skirt.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry I’m so late. Mommy’s gonna feed you right now, okay?”

Another howl tells me I better, or there will be hell to pay.

I scratch behind Mr. Bingley’s ears, talking baby talk to him the way he likes, which makes him sink his claws deeper into my skirt in pleasure, which in turn makes me wince in pain, keeping the eternal feline/human relationship in balance. He’s lucky he’s so adorable, or I might . . . do nothing. Never mind.

When it comes to Mr. Bingley, we both know who’s in charge.

I close the front door, drop my purse on the table in the foyer, avoid looking at myself in the mirror, and hang my coat in the closet. Then I head to the kitchen, Mr. Bingley trotting at my heels.

He’s a bossy, plump ginger tabby cat with amber eyes and a fluffy plume of a tail. He’s also totally deaf—the unfortunate side effect of a reaction to antibiotics prescribed for an ear infection. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, or even realize he’s handicapped. I think he’s learned how to read lips.

The only problem is that I can’t sneak up behind him. I startled him once, and he ended up hanging by his claws from the living room curtains, wild eyed and hissing.

“You’re lucky you can’t hear that music,” I tell him, removing a can of cat food from the cupboard. “Somebody sounds like they have anger management issues.”

Mr. Bingley twines around my ankles, purring and rubbing his head against my legs. I fork the food into his special china dish, put it on the floor, and watch, smiling, as he digs in.

Then I jump at the sound of a woman’s scream.

“What the hell?” I rush to the front door. My heart galloping, I flatten myself against the door and peer through the peephole. The hallway is empty. Warily, I ease open the door and poke my head out. Then I hear another scream, this one accompanied by the sound of female laughter and a chorus of male hoots.

The noise is coming from the apartment across the hall.

Relieved I’m not dealing with murder, only a house party spiraling out of control, I start to fume. I picture an inflatable kiddie pool filled with Jell-O in the middle of Kellen’s living room, a pair of naked girls squirming around in it while a bunch of frat boys gleefully spray them with champagne and dollar bills.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m marching across the hall and applying my knuckles with vigor to Kellen’s door.

The music doesn’t lower, but after a moment, heavy footsteps approach. Then the door opens and I’m rendered speechless.

A man I’ve never seen before stands in the doorway. He’s tall, broad, solid as a mountain and about as large. He has shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, lots of tattoos, and a devastating smile, which my brain notes at the same time it’s trying to process that the man is wearing unlaced combat boots, a kilt, and nothing else.

You could get lost in the canyons between his abs. If he has any body fat at all, it must be hidden beneath the kilt, because his muscles are so defined it’s like looking at an anatomical drawing.

Staring open mouthed at his stomach, I say, “Uh . . .”

The Mountain says, “Can I help you, lass?”

Cannae help ye, lass?

Dear God, he’s a Scotsman. A huge, half-naked Scotsman in a kilt. Smiling at me like he knows all my secrets, what color my panties are, and that I’m curious what it would be like to have a man pull my hair during sex.

“Uh . . .”

“Ach, sorry, it’s the music, innit? Just havin’ a wee party. I’ll get it sorted.” Over his shoulder he thunders, “Turn the bloody music down, you dumb knobdobber, you’re disturbin’ the neighbors!”

Inside the apartment are people of both sexes, drinking and laughing, in various stages of undress. They lounge on the sofa and sit cross-legged on the floor around the coffee table, where a blonde woman with stupendously large naked breasts is dealing cards.

I start to blink as if I’m trying to signal someone in Morse code.

The music lowers one decibel, and the Mountain turns back to me with a triumphant smile. He’s weaving slightly on his feet. And unless he doused himself in malt-and-barley cologne, he’s been drinking what smells like an awful lot of beer.

Before I recover the power of speech, he belches loudly, sends me a jaunty salute, then slams the door in my face.

TWO

When the alarm goes off at five o’clock the next morning, I’m jolted from a disturbing dream about Mel Gibson leading a clan of burly kilt-wearing warriors into battle. There’s a lot of spears, screaming, and blue face paint, along with copious belching.

I grope for my iPhone on the nightstand, knocking it to the floor in the process.

“Mr. Bingley.” I gently poke the slumbering ball of fur on my chest. “Mr. Bingley, wake up.”

He lifts his head from his paws and blinks, then yawns cavernously, flattening his ears and displaying his canines. Then he lowers his head and promptly goes back to sleep.

“Mr. Bingley,” I insist, rubbing his cheek. “I have to get up.”

His answer is a gentle snore.

“C’mon, kitty, Mommy has to go to work so she can afford to buy you kibble. You don’t want to starve, right?”

Sometimes, like now, I wonder if his hearing is better than he lets on, because in answer to my question I get a tail flicked in my face.