Please don’t let it be 1816.
I find the message on my phone and cringe. It’s 1816.
Of course it is.
I walk slowly to the door, hoping I don’t wake up the guy. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, and he’s leaning with his back propped up against Corbin’s door. His chin is tucked to his chest, and he’s snoring.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.
He doesn’t move.
I lift my leg and poke his shoulder with my foot. “I need to get into this apartment.”
He rustles and then slowly opens his eyes and stares straight ahead at my legs.
His eyes meet my knees, and his eyebrows furrow as he slowly leans forward with a deep scowl on his face. He lifts a hand and pokes my knee with his finger, almost as if he’s never seen a knee before. He drops his hand, closes his eyes, and falls back asleep against the door.
Great.
Corbin won’t be back until tomorrow, so I dial his number to see if this guy is someone I should be concerned about.
“Tate?” he asks, answering his phone without a hello.
“Yep,” I reply. “Made it safe, but I can’t get in because there’s a drunk guy passed out at your front door. Suggestions?”
“Eighteen sixteen?” he asks. “You sure you’re at the right apartment?”
“Positive.”
“Are you sure he’s drunk?”
“Positive.”
“Weird,” he says. “What’s he wearing?”
“Why do you want to know what he’s wearing?”
“If he’s wearing a pilot’s uniform, he probably lives in the building. The complex contracts with our airline.”
This guy isn’t wearing any type of uniform, but I can’t help but notice that his jeans and black T-shirt do fit him very nicely.
“No uniform,” I say.
“Can you get past him without waking him up?”
“I’d have to move him. He’ll fall inside if I open the door.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds while he thinks. “Go downstairs and ask for Cap,” he says. “I told him you were coming tonight. He can wait with you until you’re inside the apartment.”
I sigh, because I’ve been driving for six hours, and going all the way back downstairs is not something I feel like doing right now. I also sigh because Cap is the last person who could probably help in this situation.
“Just stay on the phone with me until I’m inside your apartment.”
I like my plan a lot better. I balance my phone against my ear with my shoulder and dig inside my purse for the key Corbin sent me. I insert it into the lock and begin to open the door, but the drunk guy begins to fall backward with every inch the door opens. He groans, but his eyes don’t open again.
“It’s too bad he’s wasted,” I tell Corbin. “He’s not bad--looking.”
“Tate, just get your ass inside and lock the door so I can hang up.”
I roll my eyes. He’s still the same bossy brother he always was. I knew that moving in with him would not be good for our relationship, considering how fatherly he acted toward me when we were younger. However, I had no time to find a job, get my own apartment, and get settled before my new classes started, so it left me with little choice.
I’m hoping things will be different between us now, though. Corbin is twenty-five, and I’m twenty-three, so if we can’t get along better than we did as kids, we’ve got a lot of growing up left to do.
I guess that mostly depends on Corbin and whether he’s changed since we last lived together. He had an issue with anyone I dated, all of my friends, every choice I made—even what college I wanted to attend. Not that I ever paid any attention to his opinion, though. The distance and time apart has seemed to get him off my back for the last few years, but moving in with him will be the ultimate test of our patience.
I wrap my purse around my shoulder, but it gets caught on my suitcase handle, so I just let it fall to the floor. I keep my left hand wrapped tightly around the doorknob and hold the door shut so the guy won’t fall completely into the apartment. I take my foot and press it against his shoulder, pushing him from the center of the doorway.
He doesn’t budge.
“Corbin, he’s too heavy. I’m gonna have to hang up so I can use both hands.”
“No, don’t hang up. Just put the phone in your pocket, but don’t hang up.”
I look down at the oversized shirt and leggings I have on. “No pockets. You’re going in the bra.”
Corbin makes a gagging sound as I pull the phone from my ear and shove it inside my bra. I remove the key from the lock and drop it toward my purse, but it misses and falls to the floor. I reach down to grab the drunk guy so I can move him out of the way.
“All right, buddy,” I say, struggling to pull him away from the center of the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt your nap, but I need inside this apartment.”
I somehow manage to prop him up against the doorframe to prevent him from falling into the apartment, and then I push the door open farther and turn to get my things.
Something warm wraps around my ankle.
I freeze.
I look down.
“Let go of me!” I yell, kicking at the hand that’s gripping my ankle so tightly I’m pretty sure it might bruise. The drunk guy is looking up at me now, and his grip sends me falling backward into the apartment when I try to pull away from him.
“I need to get in there,” he mutters, just as my butt meets the floor. He makes an attempt to push the apartment door open with his other hand, and this immediately sends me into panic mode. I pull my legs the rest of the way inside, and his hand comes with me. I use my free leg to kick the door shut, slamming it directly onto his wrist.
“Shit!” he yells. He’s trying to pull his hand back into the hallway with him, but my foot is still pressing against the door. I release enough pressure for him to have his hand back, and then I immediately kick the door all the way shut. I pull myself up and lock the door, the dead bolt, and the chain lock as quickly as I can.
As soon as my heart rate begins to calm down, it starts to scream at me.
My heart is actually screaming at me.
In a deep male voice.
It sounds like it’s yelling, “Tate! Tate!”
Corbin.
I immediately look down at my chest and pull my phone out of my bra, then bring it up to my ear.
“Tate! Answer me!”
I wince, then pull the phone several inches from my ear. “I’m fine,” I say, out of breath. “I’m inside. I locked the door.”
“Jesus Christ!” he says, relieved. “You scared me to death. What the hell happened?”
“He was trying to get inside. I locked the door, though.” I flip on the living-room light and take no more than three steps inside before I come to a halt.
Good going, Tate.
I slowly turn back toward the door after realizing what I’ve done.
“Um. Corbin?” I pause. “I might have left a few things outside that I need. I would just grab them, but the drunk guy thinks he needs to get inside your apartment for some reason, so there’s no way I’m opening that door again. Any suggestions?”