Manipulative Attraction

The blaring of her alarm clock, a beacon of bright-blue digits, declared it seven thirty-five in the morning. Jeannie Jones groaned, burying her face deeper into her pillow. The meager light filtering through her gauzy curtains did little to alleviate her annoyance.

"The sun hasn't even shown its face properly yet," she mumbled, pulling the pillow tighter over her ears. She had envisioned sleeping in today, her last precious chance before the relentless demands of her dual medical and biological sciences degrees consumed her.

But her hopes were quickly dashed. A cacophony of voices, young and distinctly male, drifted up from below her bedroom window. One even possessed a charming Southern accent, which, under different circumstances, might have been pleasant. Not now, though. Not with the noise escalating to what sounded suspiciously like furniture being unloaded. She had carefully chosen this quiet neighborhood, full of retirees and empty-nesters, specifically to avoid such disturbances.

Suddenly, the distant thumping grew louder, accompanied by shouts that echoed down the hallway and slipped under her door. Names like 'Dalton,' 'Quentin,' and 'Thorne' were tossed about. A hammer was mentioned. Then, the realization dawned on her: 'The occupant of 2A is moving in today.'

"Oh, hell no," Jeannie muttered, leaping from her bed. Her purple baby-doll top and boy-shorts were askew. As the commotion briefly receded, she cautiously approached the window, determined to identify the source of her morning's misery.