The Dixon Rule: Chapter 1

TWO BEADS OF WATER FORM AT THE TOP OF MY MIRROR AND THEN slowly begin to race each other down to the bottom. I make a bet with myself that bead number two will be the winner, since it’s marginally bigger. Go big or go home, right? But while it picks up speed, there’s a quick veer to the left. Bead one stays the course and drips onto my bathroom vanity.

This is why I refuse to gamble.

I grab a washcloth and wipe the rest of the condensation away to reveal my reflection. A pink flush covers my chest and shoulders, evidence of the scalding water temperature. There’s something wrong with my shower, but I’m too broke to bring in a plumber, and my dad said he can’t drive down to my neck of the woods until later this week. Which means I need to deal with my lava water for a few more days, if my skin doesn’t burn off first.

Maybe after Dad fixes the shower, I muse, he can tackle the drawer of the kitchen cabinet that suddenly refuses to open. And then figure out why the refrigerator ice dispenser stopped working for no discernable reason.

Being a homeowner is exhausting. Especially when you’re totally incompetent. Did I mention the original issue with my showerhead was that it wouldn’t stop dripping? I attempted to fix the drip myself by watching an online tutorial, and that’s how the shower spray turned into a volcano. DIY plumbing is not my friend.

I turn away from the mirror and pull a fluffy, pink towel off the door hook, exiting the steam-filled bathroom to inhale the normal air in the hallway.

“I almost died in there,” I inform Skip when I enter the living room, tucking the towel around me. I glance across the roomy, loftlike space toward the twenty-gallon fish tank against the far wall of the living area.

The fat goldfish glances back at me with that deathly, unnerving stare.

“I don’t like that you can’t blink,” I tell him. “It freaks me the fuck out.”

He stares again, then swishes his fins and swims to the other end of the tank. A second later, he’s not so covertly hiding behind a gold-painted treasure chest. When I showed the guy at the fish store a picture of Skip, he told me he’d never seen a goldfish that large. Apparently my fish is obese. Not to mention too silent for my peace of mind. I don’t trust pets that don’t make noise.

“You know what, Skip? One of these days you’re going to be upset about something and instead of comforting you, I’m going to swim away too. So put that in your stupid pirate’s chest and choke on it.”

I hate fish. If I had the choice, I would not be a fish owner. This horrible task was foisted on me by my dead aunt, who bequeathed her prized, unhelpful goldfish to me in her last will and testament. The executor looked like he was trying not to laugh when he read that part out loud to our family. My younger brother, Thomas, didn’t make the effort—he busted out in laughter until Dad gave him the look.

On the upside, the fishbowl came with Aunt Jennifer’s apartment, which makes me a twenty-one-year-old homeowner. So you win some, you lose some.

The shower was so scorching it left me parched. I want to chug a bottle of water before I get dressed. I walk barefoot to the fridge, but my step stutters when the cell phone on the granite counter suddenly chimes, startling me. I pivot and check the screen, then stifle a groan. It’s a message from my ex.

PERCY:

Hey, want to get together tonight and catch up? I’m free after 8.

Nope. Not interested. But I can’t be that blunt, obviously. I might have a temper, but I’m not needlessly rude. I’ll have to find a nice way of letting him down.

This isn’t the first time he’s reached out to “catch up.” I suppose it’s my fault, since I said we could remain friends after the breakup. Here’s some advice: never offer to stay friends if you don’t mean it. It’s a recipe for disaster.

I abandon my phone on the counter and grab a water bottle from the fridge. I’ll deal with this Percy text after I get dressed.

I’m tossing the empty bottle in the trash can under the sink when the familiar sound of meowing permeates the hall. The paper-thin walls of my condo do nothing to block out the noise outside my door. I hear every footstep, and the pitter-patter of Lucy’s tiny paws is no exception. Plus the damn thing wears a bell on her collar, advertising her every move.

I stifle a curse as the sense of obligation sinks in. I love my downstairs neighbor, Priya, but her escape-artist cat drives me nuts. At least once a week, Lucy manages to break out of her apartment unseen.

Opening the door pulls a gust of cold air into my entryway. I try to shake off the goose bumps forming on my arms as I step onto the smooth tile outside my door.

“Lucy?” I ring out in a singsong voice.

I know better than to allow any hint of frustration to show in my tone when I call her name. At the slightest sign of anger, that gray ball of fluff will shoot downstairs for the lobby door like a meteor hurtling toward Earth.

Meadow Hill, our apartment complex, isn’t like other buildings. It’s not some fifty-story monstrosity stuffed with hundreds of condos. Instead, the architect who designed it fashioned it after a beach resort, so the grounds consist of fifteen two-story buildings each housing four condos. Winding paths connect all the buildings, many of which overlook the lush lawn, tennis courts, and swimming pool. The last time Lucy snuck out, my other downstairs neighbor, Niall, was just coming home from work. Lucy took advantage of the opening lobby door and flew past him in the search for eternal freedom.

“Lucy?” I call again.

The jingling of a bell beckons me from the staircase. With a hoarse meow, the gray, striped cat appears on the top step. She sits down, all prim and proper, and stares at me defiantly.

Yeah, I’m here, she’s taunting. What are you gonna do about it, bitch?

I slowly lower myself to my knees so we’re closer to eye level. “You are the devil’s cat,” I inform her.

She studies me for a moment, then lifts one paw, giving it a demure lick before setting it back on the tile.

“I mean it. You were brought here from hell, personally delivered by the cold hands of Satan. Be honest—did he send you up here to torment me?”

“Meow,” she says smugly. Unblinking.

My jaw drops. Bitch basically just confirmed it!

I shuffle forward on my knees, gripping the top of my towel. I’m two feet away when, without warning, voices echo in the lobby and footsteps thunder from the bottom of the stairs.

Lucy bolts, literally jumping over my shoulder like she’s a tiny hurdler in the feline Olympics. She flies through the open crack in my door, leaving me so startled that I stumble forward. My hands instinctively splay out in front of me to catch myself, causing me to lose my grip on my towel.

It hits the floor just as a shadow falls over me.

I screech in surprise. The next thing I know, three hockey players are staring down at me.

At naked me. Because I’m naked.

Did I mention that I’m naked?

“You okay there, Dixon?” drawls a deep, mocking voice.

My hands rush to hide my nudity, but I only have two of them and there are at least three zones I’d prefer obscured.

“Oh my God, look away,” I command, snatching the towel off the floor.

To their credit, the guys do avert their gazes. I shoot to my feet, hastily securing the terrycloth in place. Of all the people who could’ve found me in this predicament, it just had to be Shane Lindley and his friends. And what are they even doing here—

Understanding dawns. Oh no.

Dread forms in the pit of my stomach at the sight of Shane’s amused dark eyes. “No. It’s today?”

He flashes a broad smile, showing off a set of perfect white teeth. “Oh, it’s today.”

Satan strikes again.

Shane is moving in.

Luckily, not with me. Because that would be doubly appalling. I could never share an apartment with such a cocky jackass. It’s bad enough that we’ll be sharing a floor. Shane’s parents—because they’re rich and apparently believe that excessively spoiling their children is conducive to raising humble adults—bought their not-at-all-humble son the unit next to mine. It’s been sitting vacant since my last neighbor, Chandra, retired and moved to Maine to be closer to family.

My best friend, Gigi, is married to Shane’s best friend, Ryder, so she warned me the move would be happening sometime this week. I would’ve appreciated a more specific day and time, however. Or at least a heads-up text today. Then I could’ve been prepared and maybe not in a towel. I’m definitely yelling at her about this at dinner tonight.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t see a thing.” The reassurance comes from the boy-next-door face of Will Larsen.

“I saw your tits and one butt cheek,” Beckett Dunne says helpfully.

I don’t know whether to laugh or groan. With his perfect face, faint Australian accent, and wavy blond hair, Beckett is too sexy for his own good. Anything that exits his mouth simply comes off as charming, whereas from anyone else it would be sleazy.

“Erase them from your memory,” I warn.

“Impossible,” he replies, winking at me.

I glance back at Shane, my good humor fading. “It’s not too late to sell,” I say in a hopeful tone.

But I know that’s just a beautiful dream. He’s not going anywhere, not after his parents probably spent a fortune renovating the place for him. There’ve been nonstop construction noises coming out of his condo this past month. Poor Niall from downstairs was having daily power drill–induced nervous breakdowns. That man is violently allergic to noise.

I wonder what changes Shane made to the apartment. I bet he turned it into a stereotypical man cave to suit his fuckboy tastes.

And trust me, I’m well aware of those tastes. They include (as of now, but I’m still counting) two and a half of my cheerleading teammates—half because he only made out with the third one. Still, the guy’s plowing through them like a farmer after harvest season. Gigi told me he got his heart broken last year and this is his first time being single in forever. She says he’s making up for lost time. But that sounds like a whole bunch of excuses, and I don’t think you need to make excuses for fuckboys. They’re just born with that gene.

“You don’t have to put on this tough-girl act in front of the guys,” Shane tells me. “Everyone knows about your crush.”

I snort. “I think the only one who has a crush on you is you.”

Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy spent his free time off the ice ogling himself in the mirror. Hockey players are notoriously obsessed with two things: hockey and themselves. And Shane Lindley is no exception.

I’m not sucked in by how handsome he is, though he’s unarguably gorgeous. Tall and handsome. Wide, sensual mouth and black hair in a buzz cut. A jacked athlete’s body and dimples that dig little grooves into his cheeks whenever he tries to lure you in with a brash smile. This afternoon, that ripped body is clad in basketball shorts and a red T-shirt that complements his darker skin tone.

When I notice Beckett’s gray eyes give my towel-wrapped body another scan, I aim a frown his way. “You can stare as long as you want, but I promise, the towel isn’t slipping down again.”

“Well, if it does, I’d prefer not to miss it.” His teeth practically gleam from the fluorescent lights when he gives that fuck-me smile.

“Is that your apartment?” Will asks, gesturing to the door behind me.

“Unfortunately.”

“Damn. When Gigi said you two were going to be neighbors, I didn’t realize you were neighbors,” he remarks, his gaze shifting from my door to the one down the hall.

“Please don’t rub it in,” I grumble. To Shane, I say, “If you’re expecting a welcome parade, you’re shit out of luck. My new goal is to find a way to live my life without ever bumping into you.”

“Good luck with that.” Shane’s dark-brown eyes flicker with humor. “Because my new goal is for us to become best friends and spend every waking hour together. Oh, hey, actually. I’m throwing a party this weekend. We should cohost. Keep both our doors open and—”

“No.” I stab my index finger in the air. “Nope. That is not happening. In fact, you two”—I shoot a glare at Will and Beckett—“go wait for him in his apartment. Lindley and I need to discuss the rules of engagement.”