Chapter 1

When the kettle whistled, Tristan looked up to see the jet of steam shooting out of the snout

How long had he been leaning up against the kitchen counter, staring blankly at the floor tiles?

Quickly, he took the kettle off the burner so as not to wake the neighbors. It was three in the morning, and so perfectly quiet in his La Fontaine Park turn-the-of-century building, the neighbors could probably hear him walking around, wondering if he ever slept.

Exhausted, but wired with tension, Tristan poured hot water over the bag of chamomile in his cup. Ever since he’d stopped partying six months ago, going to bed at all hours of the morning, the insomnia was like a ghost living side by side with him. An entity unwilling to leave, waiting for the night to come alive and taunt him.

Wearily, he blew into the cup, trying to keep his mind off work. He wasn’t going to close his final weekly sale. He’d been in business long enough to read the writing on the wall. The customer hadn’t returned any of his calls today. Tomorrow morning, the man would probably back out of the deal and hand him the contract, unsigned. Tristan’s commission check for the quarter would be a joke. Again

He’d promised his daughters he’d take them back-to-school shopping this weekend. He’d have to put those expenses on his soon to be maxed-out credit card.

Cup of tea in hand, Tristan crept down the hallway to the entrance, the hardwood floor creaking under his bare feet. He’d sit on the front porch for a while and maybe the cool September night air would ease his nerves. As he opened the front door, he heard his cellphone buzzing somewhere in the apartment and the sound stopped him in his tracks. He thought he’d made it clear to everyone that he was retiring from the bar scene, but people were still blowing up his phone with text messages and calls.

Where are you, Tristan?

What happened to you?

We’re at the Sky club. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

No, he couldn’t live that life anymore. He didn’t have the money, the health, or the desire to continue down that path with Markus and his drinking buddies. Besides, in the last year, he’d slacked off so much at work, he’d be out of a job if he didn’t get his act together soon.

Outside, Tristan quietly shut the door behind him and then settled into his favorite wicker chair, curling his long legs under him. Thinking of his new peaceful life, he sipped his tea, and gazed out at the vast La Fontaine Park across the street from his apartment. He hadn’t grown tired of the view, even after three years of living in this upscale and coveted Montreal neighborhood.

The wind abruptly picked up, rattling the leaves in the trees and blowing through Tristan’s black hair. He was out in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The last thing he needed was to get sick. Maybe he could sleep now. Yes, maybe if he returned to bed and got cozy under the quilt, sleep would finally come.

Cup in hand, he stood and turned for the door, but when he heard the neighbor’s door opening at his left he glanced over at it. At the sight of his new, and impossibly cuteneighbor, Tristan couldn’t help a smile. “Hey,” he whispered, stepping a little closer to the bannister separating their front porches. Finally, maybe he’d get a chance to talk to this guy.

Clad in bright purple silk pajama bottoms and a fitted green tank top that showed off his thin but sculpted chest, the neighbor was holding up two recycling bags full of crushed cardboard boxes. “Oh…hey,” he whispered, obviously surprised to see Tristan standing there. He hesitated, his sexy eyes narrowing a little, and then he descended the three steps leading to the front lawn, giving Tristan a fantastic view of his bouncy little ass.

Tristan set his cup down on the floor and watched the man.

The neighbor was quietly lugging the bags down the narrow path to the sidewalk, the street lamp’s sheen catching in his blond hair that was bleached at the ends and darker at the roots. The man had an artsy look, something Tristan had always been attracted to. Even back in high school, he’d been drawn to the creative guys in his art class.

Intrigued, Tristan stared at the neighbor’s shoulder muscles flexing under his tank top. Ever since the man and his young son had moved in next door last week, he’d wanted to introduce himself to them, but the guy seemed a little shy and clearly not the social type.

The neighbor walked back to the porch and glanced Tristan’s way again, his pale eyes flashing in the gray night. “Uh, well, good night,” he said in a soft and androgynous voice. He stepped up the three stairs to his porch.