Terms & Conditions | Chapter One

 Clara Miller has a book deadline, a serious case of writer’s block, and exactly zero patience left for the infuriating man across the hall.

Noah Bennett has garlic knots.

Unfortunately for Clara, he also knows exactly how to get under her skin.

Welcome to Terms & Conditions Apply, a four-part spicy neighbors-to-lovers short story. A new chapter will be posted each day, so come back tomorrow for Chapter Two. ❤️

Chapter One

Clara

I have rewritten the same sentence seventeen times.

Seventeen.

And the worst part is, somewhere around attempt number nine, I changed it back to almost exactly what it said when I started.

I stare at the paragraph on my laptop and consider deleting the entire thing out of spite.

My deadline is Monday morning. Technically, that gives me the rest of tonight, all day tomorrow, and Sunday to finish the last two chapters and clean up whatever disaster I've created in the middle.

Plenty of time.

Except I've been telling myself I have plenty of time since Wednesday, and somehow that hasn't translated into me actually finishing the damn book.

I reach for my coffee, take a sip, and immediately regret it.

It’s cold.

Of course it is.

I push away from the kitchen island and dump what's left into the sink. There are already two mugs in there, which feels excessive considering I live alone, but I'm choosing not to examine that too closely.

My phone lights up beside my laptop.

SARAH: How's it going?

I stare at the message.

My agent knows better than to ask that question two days before a deadline.

ME: Great.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

SARAH: Clara.

ME: You asked. I answered.

SARAH: How many words do you have left?

I flip my phone face down.

That seems like the healthiest response for both of us.

I drop back onto the stool, roll my shoulders, and put my fingers on the keyboard.

One paragraph.

That's all I'm asking of myself.

One decent paragraph that doesn't make me want to throw my laptop off the balcony.

I type four words.

Delete three.

Type two more.

Then the bass starts.

I close my eyes. "No."

A low beat comes through the wall near my front door.

Not loud enough that a normal person would care.

Unfortunately, I stopped being a normal person somewhere around chapter twenty-seven.

The volume rises.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

I twist around on the stool and glare toward my apartment door as though I can somehow see through it and directly into 4B.

Noah Bennett.

My neighbor. My personal irritation. The man who apparently has a biological inability to exist quietly when I'm on deadline.

We've lived across the hall from each other for almost a year, and in that time, we've managed to argue about parking, packages, music, my printer, his friends blocking the hallway, and one memorable incident involving a wet umbrella that I still maintain was entirely his fault.

There's also the bulletin board downstairs.

That one got away from us.

It started when I left a polite note reminding whoever kept leaving the lobby door propped open that we live in a city and perhaps shouldn't invite strangers inside.

Someone wrote beneath it:

Thanks, Mom.

I knew it was Noah.

Even though he denied it.

Poorly.

So when management posted a reminder about quiet hours two weeks later, I added:

Some of us can read.

His response appeared before lunch.

Some of us can buy earplugs.

Things deteriorated from there.

I grab my phone and check the time.

11:18 p.m.

Quiet hours started at ten.

I smile.

Got you, asshole.

I'm halfway off the stool when the music stops.

I freeze.

Silence.

"Oh, now you stop."

I wait.

Nothing.

I slowly sit again.

Fine.

Whatever.

I turn back to my manuscript.

My fingers settle over the keyboard when a knock hits my door.

I stare at it.

"No."

Another knock.

Three sharp taps this time.

"Go away."

"Open the door, Miller."

I look toward the ceiling.

Of course.

"Unless you're bleeding, I'm busy."

"I'm not bleeding."

"Then we've established you don't need me."

There's a pause.

"I have garlic knots."

My fingers stop over the keyboard.

That's dirty, and he knows it.

I hate that he knows.

"Not interested."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm also two seconds away from calling management."

"For bringing you food?"

"For existing aggressively."

I hear him laugh through the door.

That annoys me more than it should.

Mostly because Noah has a good laugh. Deep and a little rough, and I've spent eleven months pretending I don't notice it.

Another knock. "Clara."

I blink.

He rarely calls me Clara.

It's always Miller.

Usually said in the same tone someone else might use for pain in my ass.

I shove away from the island. "If those aren't from Bellucci's, I'm slamming the door in your face."

"They're from Bellucci's."

Damn him.

I cross the apartment and pull open the door.

Noah is standing on the other side with a white paper bag in one hand and his phone in the other.

And unfortunately, he looks good.

Not that I haven't seen this man approximately four hundred times good.

Annoyingly good.

His dark hair is still damp, probably from a shower, and he's wearing faded jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Nothing special. Nothing I haven't seen him wear before.

Which is exactly why I shouldn't notice the way the shirt fits across his shoulders.

Or his forearms. Definitely not his forearms.

I look at the bag instead. "Peace offering?"

"Intervention."

My eyes lift to his. "Excuse me?"

He holds out the bag. "When did you last eat?"

"None of your business."

"That's not an answer."

"Why do you care?"

"Because you ordered Thai food Wednesday night."

I stare at him.

He continues. "And yesterday, a sandwich sat outside your door for almost three hours before you remembered you'd ordered it."

"Why are you monitoring my food?"

"I'm not monitoring your food. We live six feet apart."

"Across a hallway."

"A very small hallway."

"Still creepy."

"Still haven't answered me."

I cross my arms. His eyes drop briefly to the front of my oversized T-shirt before returning to my face.

I narrow mine. "Eyes up, Bennett."

"They are up."

"They wandered."

"Can you blame them?"

"Yes."

The corner of his mouth moves.

Asshole.

I reach for the bag.

He pulls it back.

"No."

My mouth falls open. "Did you seriously lure me to the door with garlic knots and then take them away?"

"I'm coming in."

"No, you're not."

"Then you don't get the knots."

"You can't hold bread hostage."

"I bought the bread."

"With malicious intent."

"Move, Miller."

I should shut the door.

I absolutely should.

Instead, I step aside.

Noah walks into my apartment like he's been invited, which he technically has not, and heads straight for my kitchen.

"Make yourself at home," I mutter.

"Thanks."

"That wasn't sincere."

"I know."

He sets the bag beside my laptop, then looks at the screen.

I slap it shut.

His eyebrows rise.

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were reading."

"I saw three words."

"Three words too many."

"Are they classified?"

"They're unfinished."

"So?"

"So no one reads my work until I'm ready for them to read it."

His expression changes slightly.

Not teasing now.

"Fair enough."

That easy.

No argument.

No trying to sneak another look.

It catches me off guard enough that I don't say anything when he opens the bag and pulls out the cardboard container.

Garlic hits me immediately.

Butter. Parmesan. Enough garlic to guarantee I won't be kissing anyone for at least twenty-four hours.

Not that kissing anyone is currently on my schedule.

Noah pushes the container toward me.

"Eat."

"Bossy."

"Hungry."

"I'm not."

My stomach growls. We both look down.

Traitor.

Noah's mouth curves.

"Not one word."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

I grab a garlic knot and tear off a piece. It's still warm.

"Oh, my God."

"I know."

I close my eyes while I chew.

"This might be the best thing I've had in my mouth all week."

Silence.

My eyes open.

Noah is staring at me.

I immediately realize what I said.

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"Don't."

"I'm standing here silently."

"Your face is doing it again."

His grin finally breaks.

I point the garlic knot at him. "This is why we aren't friends."

"Is that why?"

Something in the way he asks it makes me pause.

I lower my hand. "Yes."

"Interesting."

"What's interesting?"

"Nothing."

"No. You don't get to say interesting like that and then nothing."

He leans one hip against my counter and folds his arms.

"I've been wondering something."

"That sounds dangerous."

"Why do you hate me?"

I laugh.

He doesn't.

My smile slowly fades. "You're serious?"

"Humor me."

"Okay. You're loud."

"Sometimes."

"Arrogant."

"Probably."

"You stole my parking spot."

"Once."

"Four times."

"First come, first served."

"It was assigned."

"Then management should've painted the numbers bigger."

I point at him. "See? This. This is why."

"Anything else?"

"Your friends block the hallway."

"Once."

"You left your wet umbrella against my door."

"Accident."

"It fell into my apartment when I opened the door."

"I apologized."

"You laughed."

"You screamed."

"It attacked me."

"It was an umbrella."

"It was unexpected."

He's openly smiling now.

I hate how much I like his smile.

I take another bite so I don't have to acknowledge that thought.

Noah watches me for another second.

"Anything else?"

"Do you need more?"

"I'm just trying to figure out if there's an actual reason you hate me."

"I don't hate you."

The words come out before I can stop them.

His eyebrows lift.

Shit.

"I find you deeply irritating."

"That's different."

"Barely."

"It's very different."

"Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"I'm not."

"You are."

He pushes away from the counter. And suddenly the kitchen feels smaller.

That's ridiculous.

Nothing changed except Noah took two steps toward me.

But now he's standing on the other side of the island instead of leaning against the counter, and I'm painfully aware that I'm barefoot, braless, wearing sleep shorts and an old T-shirt while he looks unfairly put together for nearly eleven thirty on a Friday night.

His eyes move over my face.

"You know what I find irritating?"

"I assume you're about to tell me."

"You."

"Shocking."

"You run your printer at six in the morning."

"Work."

"You leave your packages outside your door until I trip over them."

"Sounds like a coordination problem."

"You steal my mail."

"Twice. And it was delivered to me."

"You talk to yourself."

I stop. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I absolutely do not."

"Mason deserved it."

My entire body goes still. Noah's mouth twitches.

"What?"

"Tuesday night. Around one in the morning." He lowers his voice, doing a terrible imitation of me. "'Mason, if you do one more stupid thing, I swear to God I'm deleting this entire fucking chapter.'"

I stare at him.

He grins.

"You heard that?"

"The whole hallway heard that."

"No, they didn't."

"Mrs. Alvarez probably knows Mason's character arc."

I cover my face with both hands. "Oh, my God."

He laughs.

"Stop."

"Does Mason survive?"

I drop my hands. "Barely."

"Good. I'm invested now."

"You're an asshole."

"Probably."

I shake my head, but I'm laughing too, and somewhere in the middle of it, something changes.

Maybe it's because we're standing in my kitchen instead of trading insults in the hallway.

Or because he brought me my favorite garlic knots without asking.

Could be that I've spent almost a year convincing myself that the stupid little kick I get out of fighting with Noah Bennett is irritation and nothing else.

Whatever it is, I become very aware that he's looking at me.

Not my laptop.

Not the garlic knot in my hand.

Me.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"So were you when you opened the door."

"I was not."

"You looked at my arms."

"I was assessing whether you were capable of carrying the garlic knots safely."

"Ah."

"Very important evaluation."

"And?"

"Marginal."

He comes around the end of the island.

My pulse skips.

"Noah."

"Clara."

There it is again. My first name.

I hate how different it sounds when he says it quietly. He stops in front of me. Close, but not touching. Close enough that I have to tip my chin up to meet his eyes.

"You should eat another one," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"Garlic knot."

"You came all the way over here to flirt with me, and now you're worried about my caloric intake?"

His eyes sharpen. "Who said I was flirting?"

I stare at him. He stares back.

"You cannot be serious."

His mouth twitches. "Maybe I wanted to hear you say it."

"You're flirting with me."

"Apparently."

"For how long?"

"Tonight?"

"Noah." 

His gaze drops to my mouth. And there goes every smart thing I've ever thought.

"Longer than tonight."

My heartbeat picks up.

"How much longer?"

He looks back into my eyes. "How long have we lived across the hall from each other?"

Oh.

Oh, shit.

"That's not flirting," I whisper. "That's antagonizing."

"Sometimes."

"You deliberately piss me off."

"You get cute when you're mad."

"I am not cute when I'm mad."

"You're adorable."

"Take it back."

"No."

I put both hands against his chest.

I mean to push him. At least I think I do. Except my palms stay exactly where they are. His shirt is warm beneath them, and Noah looks down at my hands before slowly bringing his gaze back to mine.

Neither of us moves.

"This seems like a bad idea," I say.

"Probably."

"I have a deadline."

"Monday."

"You know when my deadline is?"

"You've complained about it in the hallway fourteen times."

"That sounds exaggerated."

"It's not."

I should move my hands.

I don't.

Noah lifts one hand and curls his fingers loosely around my wrist.

Not pulling.

Not holding me there.

Just touching.

"You want me to go back across the hall?"

The question wipes the last of the teasing from the room.

I know what he's asking.

And more importantly, I know he's actually giving me the choice.

I shake my head. "No."

His thumb moves once over the inside of my wrist.

"No?"

"No."

"Good." Then he kisses me.

And apparently, garlic isn't going to be a problem after all.

More to come...

And apparently, the neighborhood cold war just got a whole lot more interesting. 😏