Two rounds of OH GOD later, I was wide-awake and could not get back to sleep.
Now I was a walking zombie, and I’d almost zombie walked my way into the vomit he or his companion had deposited on my doorstep.
All morning I’d argued with the arse in my head about him keeping me awake with his sexual antics, but like always, I’d eventually calmed down. I hated disagreements with people. The therapist I’d seen in my early twenties had told me my aversion to confrontation was born from the fact that I was constantly seeking the approval of others. For years I’d sought to win both of my parents over with little success, and that need for them to like me filtered into my relationships with everyone. I hated to be hated and so I avoided making people unhappy in any way.
I’d worked hard to overcome it because it could be damaging, and my job as a freelance book editor certainly helped, because as a good editor I had to be absolutely honest in my constructive criticism. I’d grown a thicker skin when dealing with my clients, but I still had a hard time pissing anyone off in my personal life.
And I really didn’t want the hassle of dealing with a pissed-off neighbor.
But now I was pissed off.
Well and truly.
Imagine vomiting on my doorstep and not bloody well cleaning it up!
I glared at Logan’s door.
It wasn’t as though I actually wanted anything to do with the man. Airing my complaints to him wasn’t going to have an adverse effect on our relationship because we didn’t have a relationship and we never would.
Logan MacLeod was going to clean up the mess he made, and I could give a damn if he thought me the most irritating woman in the world.
Anger simmering in my blood, I hopped over the vomit, locked up, and marched to his door. I pounded on it.
Nothing.
I pounded harder before I could regret my decision to confront him.
Two seconds later I heard movement inside, followed by a muffled curse. The door suddenly swung open, and there he stood in all his glory. I blinked, fighting the heat that bloomed on my cheeks, but failed. Logan MacLeod had opened the door in nothing but boxer briefs, and I had never seen a man like him in real life. There was not an inch of fat on him. Just pure, hard muscle.
Cut. My friend Chloe would say he was cut.
Logan rubbed a hand over his short hair, drawing my attention from his six-pack to his sleep-roughened face. “It’s Sunday fucking morning,” he said, squinting at me. “If you’re going to speak, speak.”
The heat in my cheeks flared hotter. Despite my blushing, I mustered on. “I am well aware it is Sunday morning,” I said in my quiet voice, wishing for once that I’d inherited my mother’s authoritative one. “After working into the wee hours, I was rudely awoken at dawn by your inconsiderately loud antics. I then stepped out of my door and missed the pile of vomit on it by inches. I can only assume it was deposited there by either yourself or the cackling female you brought home last night.” I was shaking badly, and I didn’t know if it was from anxiety or anger.
No one had upset me like this in a very long time.
“Fuck.” He dragged his hand down his face and then peered past me. “It was…” He frowned. “My friend.”
I rolled my eyes, realizing he couldn’t remember his one-night stand’s name.
“I meant to come out and clean it up first thing. Sorry. I’ll do it now.”
His apology deflated me somewhat. I stared dumbly at him.
He blinked sleepily, looking much too attractive for someone who was just awake. “Is there anything else?”
“No. I appreciate you cleaning it.” I turned away and had put only one foot on the stairs when he stopped me.
“You don’t have to be so antagonistic, you know. You should consider removing that stick from your tiny arse.”
And just like that I was enraged all over again. I stopped and looked at him over my shoulder. “Excuse me?” I wasn’t quite sure I’d even heard right.
“You talk down to me. And there’s that pinchy-mouthed look you give me instead of a smile every time you pass me in the hall.”
Pinchy-mouthed? I sniffed at the insult and turned to leave again, not deigning to give him a response.
“And that,” he called out to me as I descended the stairs. “That haughty little sniff is extremely fucking annoying.”
I halted, shocked.
Because it suddenly occurred to me that I wasn’t my usual pile of anxiety over the fact that this person found me wanting. No. Instead triumph coursed through me that he was just as aggravated by me as I was by him.
I looked up to find him standing out on the landing scowling down at me.
Despite my red cheeks, I managed an irritatingly haughty swish of my hair over my shoulder and snapped out, “Good.”
CHAPTER 2
T