Apparently, he does.

Shocked, I stand with the dish of leftover shepherd’s pie and listen until the thuds and moans reach a thundering climax. The woman screams like an air-raid siren. Cam grunts some unintelligible words—something dirty, I’m sure, though I can’t make it out—and then makes a sound like a wolf growling. It raises all the hair on the back of my neck.

Then it’s quiet, and I feel like I need to take a shower. In bleach.

Ticked off that I’m now a two-time unwilling participant in the Mountain’s sexcapades, I holler across the hall, “She totally faked it!”

I go inside and slam the door shut behind me.

What a pig. What an absolute animal! What a cocky, conceited, self-centered, insufferable man whore!

From his perch on the back of the sofa, Mr. Bingley watches with interest as I stomp into the kitchen and violently throw the dish of leftovers into the fridge. “I’m complaining to the super first thing in the morning,” I tell the cat while slamming the refrigerator door. “We shouldn’t have to deal with this idiot and his music and parties and loud vertical hookups! I work for a living! I pay my bills! I shouldn’t be subjected to—”

Boom, boom, boom!

I pull up short. Someone is pounding on my front door. “Who is it?”

The answer is muffled but clear enough. “Stop spyin’ on me, you little Peepin’ Tom, or I’ll call the super!”

I gasp in outrage. It’s Cameron. Accusing me of peeping!

I march to the door and yank it open. Into the big idiot’s face, I shout, “I’m going to call the super because you’re loud, obnoxious, and rude!”

My tirade loses a bit of steam when I realize he’s smiling. And—of course—he’s barechested and barefoot, wearing only a pair of shiny black athletic shorts that are so tight the bulge in front practically screams Look at me!

Holy cow. This beast is packing some serious heat.

“Starin’ at my baby maker again, lass,” says the Mountain with a low chuckle. “It’s becomin’ a bad habit of yours, innit?”

Steam pours from my ears. My entire face goes red. I clench my hands to fists to stop them from curling around his throat. “If you wouldn’t prance around half-naked all the time—”

“Prance?” he repeats, one eyebrow lifted. “Cameron McGregor does not prance.”

“—people wouldn’t have to be subjected to the sight of your body—”

“You make it sound like a punishment.”

“—accosted in their own homes while they’re trying to mind their own business—”

“When I know for a fact you actually enjoy it.”

My mouth hangs open. “Excuse me?”

He grins. “You heard me. I know when a woman wants me.”

I’m surprised he doesn’t explode into a million tiny caveman shards from the thermonuclear look I give him. “For your information, you’re the last man on the planet I’d ever be attracted to. In spite of your obviously overinflated opinion of yourself, you’re not my type.”

“Oh, really?” Still grinning his ridiculous, conceited, pearly-white grin, he props his hands on his hips. “Then why’re you always starin’ at me like I’m lunch and lookin’ at me through your peephole?”

“You’re insane,” I say flatly.

He jerks his chin at the tiny round window in the middle of my door. “It goes dark when your head’s there, blockin’ the light. I’d say you stared at me for a good five minutes while I was warmin’ up this mornin’, lass.”

Damn. He knew I was watching.

My face flaming, I glare at him. He grins back at me. This lasts for an uncomfortably long time, until a woman’s voice floats into the hallway.

“Cam, get back in here! We’re not finished!”

Without looking away from me, he says casually over his shoulder, “Aye, we are, sweetheart. I’ll call you a cab.”

“Wow. What a gentleman.”

He shrugs. “She knew the deal. You don’t go home with a stranger after one drink if you’re interested in a long-term relationship.”

This guy is a real piece of work. “Okay, number one? You’re disgusting. Number two? This conversation is over. Number three? If you keep up the noise, I’m not only calling the super, I’m calling the cops.”

He cocks his head, looks me up and down, then pronounces, “You’re tense. Guess your date didn’t go as well as mine did, eh?”

I suddenly understand how otherwise rational people can lose their minds and commit murder in a fit of rage. “It’s been real, McGregor.” I swing the door closed. It slams shut in his face with a loud, satisfying thud.

Through the door, he says, “I’ll make you a deal, Joellen.”

“If it involves you swallowing a vial of poison, you’re on.”

“Bake me one of your shepherd’s pies, and I’ll be quiet as a mouse. Your pie for my silence.” A hint of laughter warms his voice.

“Pie. I get it. Hilarious. What are you, ten years old?”

For an answer, I get two short affirmative knocks on my door, as if we have an agreement, though I’ve agreed to nothing. Then his door closes across the hall, and I’m left standing there glaring at a slab of painted wood like an idiot.

When I turn around, Mr. Bingley is busy lovingly licking the place where his testicles used to be.

“Ugh. Men. Everything you are is between your legs!”

I console myself with the thought of Michael Maddox, who has more class in his pinky finger than that beast across the hall has in his entire body.

When I hear the beast’s door open and close again, I refuse to go to the peephole to get a look at the girl he shagged standing up, even though it nearly kills me.

FOUR

“What did the maxi pad say to the fart? You’re the wind beneath my wings!”

“Denny, it’s eight o’clock on Sunday morning, and I haven’t had my coffee yet. I’m not mentally prepared for fart jokes.”

I enter the elevator at work with the enthusiasm of someone ascending the steps of the gallows and slump against the wall, bleary eyed. I had approximately two hours of sleep last night, thanks to the rap concert going on in Kellen’s apartment.

Twice I picked up the phone to call the police to make a noise complaint, and twice I hung up before going through with it. Despite my threats to Cameron, I really don’t like being cast in the role of the grouchy, fun-hating spinster who’s out to ruin everyone’s good time. Even if they are selfish idiots. So instead I slept with a pillow over my head, promising myself I’d invest in a pair of good earplugs in the morning.

I had more fitful dreams of Scottish warriors in battle, only this time they all wore tiny white bath towels around their hips.

I don’t allow myself to consider why all those bath towels had conspicuous bulges in front. I suspect that’s a topic for a trained therapist.

“What do you get when you eat refried beans and onions?”

I heave a sigh and close my eyes. “Denny. For the love of God.”

“Tear gas!”

Denny cackles like a crone at his own joke, while I stand with my eyes closed, pondering the life choices that have led me to this moment.

“Why don’t little girls fart? Because they don’t have assholes until they’re married!”