Page 80 of Off the Grid

And just as I’m about to shut my door, my delivery person rounds the corner with food in hand and shaking their head. “That’s one wild party.”

“My headache agrees,” I say as I fish cash out of my purse to pay him.

“I had a neighbor like that once. Talk about a fucking nightmare.” He hands the food over to me.

“What did you do?”

He shrugs. “I tried to be patient, but after a few months and trying to sleep with a pillow over my head, I’d had enough. I stormed down there and told him to either turn the shit down or I was going to tell all his partiers how he liked to sleep in women’s lingerie and that he held Bestiality Anonymous meetings at his house so to make sure they kept their pets away from him.”

I bark out a laugh. “That’s brutal.”

“Maybe, but it worked.” He looks down the hall and then back to me with a grin. “He thought I was exaggerating at first but then the next time he threw a rager, I joined the crowd, got on a chair, and shouted for everyone to listen up. That got his attention real quick and he held his hands up in surrender. The music was turned down. The drunk people stopped banging on my door. It was heaven.”

“Sound advice. Thank you for it.”

“There is no telling the lengths one will go when they’re exhausted and someone’s preventing them from sleeping.”

“I can’t agree more.”

He takes a step back and tips his imaginary hat. “Best of luck to you. And if you want sleep, it’s best you lay down the law sooner rather than later.”

His advice runs circles in my mind as I eat my lasagna from the only restaurant here that makes it even close to what it tastes like at home. The worst part is that I’m so distracted by the party noise, I accidentally drop some of my food on my brand-new, white sweatshirt.

“Grrr,” I say to no one as I strip the damn thing off and spray stain remover on it. But it’s right as I finally sit back down to the food that’s starting to get cold that another fist pounds on my door.

But when I answer this time, no one is there.

Seriously?

Annoyed beyond reason that now my food is definitely cold, I put it in the microwave to heat it up.

Just as it’s done, there’s another knock on the door.

Ignore it, Cam. Eat your food. Pick up your book and your glass of wine, and try to enjoy all three.

But that’s the thing—there is no peace to enjoy shit, especially when whoever is at the door pounds at it again.

Irritated.

Annoyed.

Angry.

I stalk over to the door and yank it open. “What?”

Doe eyes stare back at me. “Um, is Wills in there?” She looks over my shoulder. Her face falls when she sees my place is empty.

“Wills as in the future King of England?” I look over my shoulder like she did then back to her. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint you. I’m sure he’s at the palace somewhere.”

She giggles. “No. Wills as in Wills Wentworth. You know who I’m talking about.” She waves a hand in indifference and holds her phone out to me so I can see the text on the screen. My flat number is listed right after the address of our building. “See? He sent the group text out to us telling us this was where the party was.”

“Of course he did.” There isn’t an ounce of humor in my tone. “Dare I ask how many people are on that text?”

She bites her bottom lip in concentration as she slides her finger over her phone. “Twenty-ish. I lost count.”

“Great. Even better.” I glance back at where my microwave has alerted me several times that my food is done reheating and then back at her. “Why don’t I show you where the party is?”

“How sweet of you,” she coos like I’m a little child.