Beyond Walls

The box was heavier than it looked. Isla Monroe grunted as she hoisted it higher against her chest, the cardboard corner digging into her ribs. She should have labeled this one better. “Kitchen stuff” could mean anything from light-as-air dish towels to her grandmother’s cast iron skillet collection, which is apparently what she was currently struggling with. “Almost there,” she muttered to herself, navigating the narrow hallway of her new apartment building. Third floor, no elevator. What had she been thinking? She’d been thinking about the rent, that’s what. And the location. And the fact that her previous apartment had shared a wall with a couple who seemed to believe makeup s*x was an Olympic sport they were training for. A fresh start. That’s what this was supposed to be. Isla adjusted her grip on the box, her honey-colored eyes fixed determinedly on apartment 3C at the end of the hall—her new home. Just twenty more feet. She could do this. She took another step. The apartment door to 3D swung open without warning. Time did that strange thing it does in movies—slowed down just enough for Isla to register every detail of her impending doom. A man emerged, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans that looked painted on, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he looked down at his phone. He had a travel mug of coffee in his other hand. He wasn’t looking where he was going. Neither was she. They collided. The box flew from her arms. The coffee mug soared through the air in a graceful arc that would have been beautiful if it wasn’t so catastrophic. The contents—dark, unforgiving coffee—splashed across his white shirt in an abstract pattern that Jackson Pollock would have appreciated. Isla stumbled backward, her shoulder hitting the wall. The box landed with a tremendous crash that echoed through the hallway, the unmistakable sound of cast iron meeting hardwood reverberating through the building. “s**t!” The word came out simultaneously from both of them. The man looked down at his ruined shirt, then up at her, then down at the box that had exploded its contents across the hallway floor. Skillets, pots, a colander, and—wonderfully—about two dozen forks that were now scattered like some kind of bizarre art installation. Isla’s cheeks burned. “Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t see—” “Clearly.” His voice was deep, tinged with something between amusement and exasperation. She scrambled to her knees, gathering forks with the desperate energy of someone who wanted the earth to open up and swallow them whole. “I’ll pay for your shirt. And your coffee. God, I’m such an i***t. I wasn’t paying attention, and I should have been, and—” “Hey.” The single word cut through her babbling. “Breathe.” Isla looked up. And for the first time, really looked at him. Objectively beautiful. That was the only way to describe him. Not handsome in the safe, approachable way. Beautiful in the dangerous way that made smart women make stupid decisions. His eyes were an unusual gray-blue, like storm clouds, framed by dark lashes that should have been illegal on a man. His face was all angles and strong lines—sharp jaw, straight nose, lips that quirked up slightly at one corner even now, while wearing coffee. He was looking at her with those storm-cloud eyes, and she realized she’d stopped breathing entirely. “I said breathe,” he repeated, and this time there was definitely amusement in his voice. “You’re turning an interesting shade of purple.” Isla gasped in air. “Right. Breathing. I can do that.” “Good skill to have.” He crouched down, began gathering the scattered utensils. Up close, she could see paint stains on his hands—blues and greens and a splash of yellow on his thumb. “Moving in?” “What gave it away?” She gestured helplessly at the chaos. “The complete inability to navigate a hallway, or the kitchenware explosion?” He grinned, and dimples appeared. Actual dimples. Of course he had dimples. “Call it intuition.” He stood, offering her a handful of forks. “I’m Damien. 3D. Your unfortunate neighbor.” “Isla. 3C. Your unfortunate… assaulter?” She took the forks, their fingers brushing. A spark of something shot up her arm. Static electricity. Had to be. “Assaulter is a strong word. I’d go with ‘enthusiastic greeter.’” He pulled his coffee-soaked shirt away from his chest with a grimace. “Though I admit, the traditional methods are usually less… caffeinated.” Despite her mortification, Isla laughed. “I really am sorry. Let me at least buy you a new shirt. And coffee. So much coffee.” “Tell you what.” Damien gathered the last few items, placing them carefully in her box. “You’re moving in, which means you’re probably drowning in boxes and chaos. Rain check on the coffee?” “You don’t have to be nice about this. I ruined your shirt and probably your morning.” “My morning was boring until about thirty seconds ago.” He lifted the box with an ease that made her previous struggle look pathetic. “Which apartment?” “Oh, you don’t have to—” “3C, you said?” He was already walking toward her door. Isla scrambled after him, fishing the key from her pocket. “Really, I can take it from here.” “I’m sure you can. But I’ve seen your hallway navigation skills, and I’m not convinced this box would survive the journey.” He waited while she fumbled with the lock, then followed her inside when she finally got the door open. The apartment was chaos. Boxes everywhere, furniture in wrong places, her life in various states of unpacking. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the bra draped over the back of her couch—her favorite red one—and the pile of romance novels visible in an open box by the window. If Damien noticed any of it, he didn’t comment. He set the box down in what she’d designated as the kitchen area, straightening with that easy grace that some people just seemed to have. “Welcome to the building,” he said. “Fair warning: the hot water takes about five minutes to kick in, the guy in 2B practices trumpet at odd hours, and Mrs. Chen in 1A will try to feed you constantly. She thinks anyone under forty is starving.” “Good to know.” Isla hugged her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how she must look—hair in a messy bun, wearing her ex-boyfriend’s old college sweatshirt and yoga pants that had seen better days. Meanwhile, Damien looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad, even covered in coffee. An awkward silence stretched between them. “I should let you get back to unpacking,” Damien said finally. “And I should probably change.” “Right. Yes. Thank you for…” She gestured vaguely at the box. “Everything.” He headed for the door, then paused, turning back. “Hey, Isla?” “Yeah?” “The coffee rain check? I’m going to collect.” He smiled, slow and devastating. “Fair warning.” Then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Isla stood in her disaster of an apartment, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. “Nope,” she said out loud to the empty room. “Absolutely not. You’re here for a fresh start. Fresh starts do not include gorgeous neighbors with dimples and paint-stained hands and eyes that probably violate several decency laws.” Her phone buzzed. A text from Rachel, her best friend: *How’s the new place?* Isla looked around at the chaos, at the smear of coffee on the floor from where it had splashed, at the box of romance novels that felt suddenly prophetic. *Interesting*, she typed back. *Definitely interesting.* ----- She spent the rest of the day unpacking with determined focus, trying very hard not to think about Damien. Or his dimples. Or the way his voice had gone soft when he’d told her to breathe. It didn’t work. By evening, she had her bedroom mostly set up, the kitchen functional, and the living room arranged in a way that made the small space feel almost cozy. She’d hung her favorite print—a vintage poster of the New York skyline—above the couch, stacked her books on the small shelf by the window, and even found her French press to make coffee. She was standing in said kitchen, waiting for water to boil, when movement caught her eye. Her window faced the building’s courtyard, but at an angle that meant she had a partial view into other apartments. Including, she realized with a jolt, the window of apartment 3D. Damien’s apartment. His living room was visible from here—or what she assumed was his living room. Where hers was practical chaos, his looked like a studio. Canvases leaned against walls, an easel stood in the center of the space, and even from here she could see splashes of color everywhere. He was a painter. Of course he was. As she watched (not spying, just… observing her surroundings), Damien walked past the window. He’d changed into a clean shirt—gray this time—and had his hair pushed back from his face. He was carrying what looked like a canvas, his attention focused on whatever he was working on. There was something mesmerizing about watching him in his element. The way he moved with purpose, the complete absorption in his task. It felt intimate, voyeuristic, seeing him when he didn’t know he was being watched. Isla forced herself to look away. The kettle whistled. She made her coffee, took it to the window seat she’d already designated as her favorite spot, and tried to focus on the book she’d been attempting to read for three weeks. Her eyes kept drifting to the window. To him. At one point, he stepped closer to his own window, probably looking out at the courtyard. But his gaze lifted, swept the building, and landed—for just a moment—on her window. On her. Even from this distance, she felt the impact of that look. Saw him lift his hand in a wave. She waved back, feeling her cheeks heat even though there was no reason to be embarrassed. He grinned—she could see it even from here—and held up a mug in a mock toast. She lifted her own cup in response. Then he was gone, moving back into his apartment, leaving her with a racing heart and the distinct feeling that she’d just stepped into something she didn’t quite understand. “It’s just a neighbor,” she told herself firmly. “A friendly neighbor who you happened to assault with kitchenware. That’s all.” But when she finally went to bed that night, her dreams were filled with thoughts of him. She was definitely in trouble.