Here I am, doing the same thing I’ve done twenty-seven times a day since the moment I left her behind, convincing myself to call her, then convincing myself not to call her. My thumb hovers over her name on my phone with more need than it ever has before. If I just tap it and call her—

Glass shattering somewhere in the depths of my condo pulls my body from my bed hastily. Distant shuffling and muffled male voices light a fire under my feet as I stride to my closet and pull out a pair of sweatpants. I pull them over my boxer briefs and grab the baseball bat I’ve propped against the corner of my closet for this very occasion.

This building has incredible security. How an intruder could get this far is beyond me, but whoever he is, who they are, they picked the wrong damn door. Letting go of some steam is exactly what I need right now.

Stealthily padding down my hallway, my bare feet barely make a sound.

“Ouch… Fuck…” a male voice grits.

I peek around the corner into the open space of my common areas, both hands gripping the neck of my bat. Across my living room, I see a dark figure hunched over in the entryway, a few feet from my ajar front door. The light from the hallway outside my door slivers into the entryway enough for me to see there’s only one man, but it’s too dark to see more than a silhouette.

I step carefully into the room, bat ready to swing, until I’m right behind the dipshit. I arch my bat back with one hand, then tap the guy on his shoulder with the other. He whips around, the sliver of light shining across his face, freezing my arms mid-swing.

“Hayden?!”

“What the fuck?” he spits, stumbling back.

My muscles relax, and I hold the bat at my side. “I almost killed you. What the hell are you doing here?”

Closing my front door, I lock it, then flip on the overhead light. Hayden squints from the brightness and staggers to the couch with a laugh bubbling in his chest.

“You’re drunk…” I say, staring down at the broken vase that was on my entryway table.

“Just visiting my little brother.” He hiccups, then plops on my couch, kicking his feet onto my coffee table.

“You’re only three months older than me. Stop calling me your little brother.”

“Tomato, tomato…”

I walk to the kitchen pantry, grab a broom and dustpan, then back to the entryway to clean up the mess.

“I went home with a woman I met at Hendrick’s Pub. That was my first mistake—that place is a shithole. The sex was decent, but she had a stuffed llama collection and her apartment smelled like vinegar. Needless to say, I decided not to stay the night. Then I remembered I had a key to your place. And since you were so much closer and sitting in a moving car right now makes me want to expel the contents of my stomach…” He glances at me as I walk the glass shards I swept up to the trash.