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“A coffee mug moved.”

“Maybe your shelf isn’t level.”

Her mouth opens, stalls, and sets into a tight line.

I offer her a slow smile.

Probably a mistake.

“You moved in yesterday, right?” she asks.

“Day two, yeah.”

“And you’ve already managed to become the worst neighbor I’ve ever had.”

“That feels premature. Give me a week to really disappoint you.”

For a fraction of a second, her lips press together, fighting off a smile. Her eyes drop, just a quick flick down my chest and back up before she can stop herself. It’s brief, but after six months on stage, I know how to spot someone checking me out.

She clearly thinks I’m an arrogant prick. But she’s looking anyway.

I shift my weight against the frame, making no effort to hide my amusement.

Her eyes narrow. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever smug routine this is.”

I glance down at my bare feet, worn jeans, and faded gray T-shirt. “I’m literally just standing here.”

“You’re doing it loudly.”

“That’s harder to turn down than the volume.”

“I’m sure you’ve never tried.”

“Not once.”

That almost breaks her. The corner of her mouth twitches before she pulls it back under strict control.

She’s fighting hard not to give an inch, which makes me want to keep pushing. Most people in Redwood Point know who I am, or at least know the Hale name, and touring with Hollow North only made local recognition worse. But this woman doesn’t care about any of that. Every word out of my mouth seems to irritate her, and for reasons I probably shouldn't examine, that makes her ten times more interesting.

“So,” I say, “what’s an acceptable volume?”

“Something below seismic activity.”

“Subjective.”

“Cut it in half.”

“That feels aggressive.”

“Try it anyway.”

I tap my chin like I’m weighing the terms of a treaty. She lets out a slow, exasperated breath through her nose.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll turn it down.”