proud of what I do next. Maybe you would expect a kind, upstanding citizen like me to actually do something about it all, maybe call the cops, or tell my landlord or something.

Maybe you expect me to move out immediately, unable to be the unconscionable accessory to a violent crime in the making. But what does brave, honorable little me do?

Exactly.

Nothing.

Okay, yes, that might be wrong. Ignoring a problem may not make it go away, but I sure as hell try. I hope that by morning, I'll forget all about it, and that I can spend the rest of my lazy weekend in an innocent state of oblivious bliss.

And actually, it seems like it might work.

For about half an hour.

Trying to let the oh-so mysterious Mr Darcy transport me into pre-Victorian England isn't easy with the angry, scared voices screaming at me from my sore brain. My head starts to pound with a horrible headache.

Just as the tension becomes almost too much to bear, I come to a heroic decision, one that would make Austen proud. I pick up my phone, completely prepared to call someone and tell them about it.

I finger the numbered keys of my iPhone, trying to decide who to dial. Of course, the police are the obvious choice. I try to imagine how that would go:

"Sorry to bother you, officer, but I think my next-door neighbour is a murderer. Um, why, you ask? Did I happen to hear any gunshots or blood-curdling screams? Actually, no. Then why? Well, I heard him yelling at a guy named Angelo, mostly in Italian, and I really think..."

Needless to say, I'm not in love with the idea. But I have to do something, right?

Wrong.

I don't have to do anything at all.

Of course, I don't know that yet. Just as I'm staring at my screen, willing the perfect idea into my head, I nearly jump out of my skin at the loud knock on my door.

Oh god.

Shit.

I just know. I know it's him; I know he knows that I know what happened, and that he's ready to punish me for it.

Shit.

My mind frantic and racing, I decide to ignore him, trying to remain absolutely still and completely silent. I will the shadows of his dark shoes to recede from beneath my door, but they don't. They stay for what seems like forever, and still they don't make even a small move to leave.

I cringe as he knocks again, harder, more insistently. How do I know that it's him, and not Al or Shauna or the mailman? I just do.

Even after meeting him just once, I can tell. He has this energy to him that's unique and unsettling, and it's the same dark, magnetic pull that I feel emanating through the locked, solid wood door, which is currently the only thing saving me from him.

"Rosalina," he calls, making my blood freeze. His voice is impatient and heavy, yet somehow teasing. He knows I'm in here, hiding.

"Rosalina, I know you can hear me."

Truth be told, I can barely hear anything over the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

He goes silent again, letting out an audible sigh. I swallow deeply in relief as I hear the small shuffle of footsteps, thinking he's gone.

I jump as he knocks again, louder, more impatiently. I curse, my panic rising to record levels. Take a deep breath, I think, don't freak out. It'll be fine. A lie, I'm sure you've guessed.

"Rosalina," he begins again, his voice suddenly filled with a measured kind of patience, "If you don't let me in, I'll have to let myself in, and you do not want me to do that." I hear him waiting for me to make a decision, and finally, painfully, I do.

Thinking quickly, I silently snatch my earbuds from the coffee table, plugging them in and putting them on. I take a long, deep breath before I head to the door, putting every ounce of energy I can into remaining calm.

Okay. I have a minor in drama for Christ's sake. I've been in school musicals. My plan is to BS my way through this.

As I swing open the door, I pull out the headphones from my ears with an obvious tug, and I give him a friendly, oblivious smile, watching his reaction carefully. "Oh," I begin, sounding surprised to see him, "Were you waiting long?" I give a little shrug, a natural sounding what-could-I-do kind of laugh bubbling expertly from my mouth.

I watch, inwardly cheering, as he raises a perfectly-sculpted brow, his breathtakingly gorgeous features morphing into confusion.

I explain, hopefully believably. "I had my headphones in," I begin apologetically. "How long were you waiting?" I try my best to sound contrite yet ignorant, hoping he'll believe that I didn't hear the sound of the door as he knocked, much less the horrific, incriminating conversation from earlier.

He narrows his eyes infinitesimally, trying to judge whether or not my story is plausible.

I try not to show my discomfort as he leans against my door frame, his perfect, lean body casually blocking my way. If I was really innocent, his posture would've seemed normal and fine. Since I am very much guilty, his tall, sturdy form worries me as it stands in the threshold of my apartment, his feet almost inside.

I try very hard to remain collected and casual, completely unsuspecting. I give him a warm smile, which falters as I watch his dark, suspicious gaze travel down my body slowly.

Heat rushes to my face as I become painfully aware of my stunningly embarrassing pyjamas, my only saving grace being that I'm still wearing a bra beneath my old pink top.

All this is made worse, of course, by his flawlessness—he wears a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches deliciously over his toned, muscled chest, his perfection making me feel weak and hopelessly inferior.

I play the part, gesturing sheepishly down at my outfit. "This is embarrassing. I didn't get the chance to pull something on. By the time I heard the door I was worried I had made you wait too long." I watch him expectantly, trying to gauge whether or not he's buying any of my bullshit.

For a second, it seems like he is. Mentally, I congratulate myself on my believable performance. Definitely Oscar-worthy. I tilt my head questioningly. "Did you need something?"

He gives me a stunning, brilliant grin which under different circumstances would have made my knees go weak. Now, though, it stupidly reinforces the idea that my charade has worked, and that he won't have to deal with me knowing... bad stuff about him.

"What are you listening to?" His tone is as innocent as mine, but I can sense the sharp distrust beneath each syllable. "Must be good, since you were so absorbed." His friendly smile doesn't fool me for a second.

"Oh, nothing much." I shrug nonchalantly. "I'm celebrating Throwback Thursday a day late. You know, ABBA, Duran Duran, Queen, the Beatles... the works." The effortless perfection of my lie astonishes me. I really deserve some kind of award.

The coldness behind his eyes remains, but he gives me a bright smirk. "You have good taste." Smoothly, he lets his eyes wander behind me into my living room, purposely making his curiosity evident. "Enjoying the new place?" He gestures behind me, waiting politely for my response. His question is so clean, so innocent, that I know something sinister is lurking beneath it. He's just waiting for me to let my guard down.

This game we play—the pretend innocence, quick-witted responses, calculated movements—we are both very good at it. I can sense the suspicion behind the normalcy of his words, and he can sense the well-disguised, guilty unease behind mine.

"Um, so far I really like it." A small shrug. "I got such a good deal on it, and as of yet I have no complaints." Still believing my trickery is a match for his, I force myself to meet his eyes, their sharpness and depth startling me.

He still knows. The sharp glimmer in his eyes confirms it.

"That's great," he acknowledges, smiling politely. He runs a hand through his thick, messy head of dark hair, feigning bewilderment. "I'm glad you're finding it okay." His tone shifts, and his next words spoken almost confidingly. "Actually, to be honest, I'm a little surprised."

I give him a curious whatever-do-you-mean? look.

He continues naturally, as if this were a regular conversation. "I mean, it's great that you like it, don't get me wrong. It's just—well, Al must have told you—people don't tend to stick around in this particular apartment very long, though I still have no idea why."

Sneaky bastard. Of course he knows that he is the very reason why people must run for their lives from this place, but I don't let on.

I give him a shrug, sounding surprised at the news. "That is so weird. So far I have exactly zero complaints." A conspiratorial smile grows on my face, completely believable. "Actually, okay, I do have one." He waits expectantly, pretending to be interested. "The furniture that this place came with makes it way too easy to spend my Friday nights holed up in here instead of hanging out with my friends."

He laughs on cue, my fabricated, winning personality making it hard for him to get to the point. I hope that little tidbit about my many friends will make him aware of the fact that if something bad were to happen to me, I would be missed.

But something tells me that the gorgeous criminal in front of me won't hesitate to get rid of me if he needs to, no matter how many friends I pretend to have.

He offers me a brilliant smile, his sincerity completely false.

His next words bring back all of my fears in a heavy, crushing wave.

"Really, the only complaint I've heard is that the walls can be awfully thin." He raises an eyebrow, and in that moment, I realize how naïve I was to believe, even for a second, that I could fool him. This is not his first rodeo, that's for sure, and right now, I have fallen for his charade, hook, line, and sinker.

I falter, a part of me devastated that I didn't manage to persuade him of my innocence at all. I try to recover, producing a light laugh, but my nervousness bubbles out along with it.

A look of triumph flashes across his face; he knows he's already won. I shrug, trying with all my might to make him believe. It's obvious that he doesn't, and I don't even want to know what's going to happen.

"I haven't noticed that, actually," I respond on cue, "but that must be because I have such good neighbours." The flattery wins me a mind-blowingly sexy grin, but I know that I'm not fooling him anymore.

That I never did.

He tilts his head to the side. "Rosalina," he begins, a dangerous glint to his eyes.

I swallow. "Actually, um, it's Rosalyn."

His lips curve up at the edges, almost like a challenge.

"Rosalina."

I can feel my throat grow dry, the stinging feeling of a stunning defeat making its way through my entire body. My lips tighten, my resolve leaving me by the bucketful. I say nothing, just watch, as the satisfaction works its way across his spectacularly handsome face.

He has won, and he knows it.

Now I'm doomed.

***

My idioms in this chapter were about the rodeo and fishing. Unapologetically Canadian. (That's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one...) *facepalm emoji*

XOXO Ami

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