Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~9 min read
Jolene Abbott knew she was screwed the moment she heard the telltale sound of liquid hitting fabric.
“No, no, no—Olive, we literally just went outside!”
The golden retriever in question looked up at her with those big brown eyes that had convinced Jo to adopt her six months ago, tail wagging happily as she finished peeing on the doormat outside apartment 3B.
Again.
This was the fourth time this month. Fourth. And the doormat’s owner—the grumpy, tattooed, devastatingly hot guy who lived directly above her—had made it very clear after incident number three that his patience was “non-existent.”
His exact words, delivered in a growl that should not have made Jo’s stomach flutter the way it did.
“Olive, you’re going to get us evicted.” Jo groaned, grabbing paper towels from her own apartment while Olive trotted inside like she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. “You know that, right? We’ll be homeless. Living in my car. Eating sad drive-through burgers while I try to explain to clients why my Zoom background is a parking lot.”
Olive just wagged her tail harder.
Jo sprinted back out and started dabbing at the doormat—a sleek black one with “MARCHAND” embroidered in silver thread. It looked expensive. Everything about 3B’s owner screamed expensive, from his motorcycle parked in the building’s lot to the leather jacket she’d seen him wearing.
The paper towels were doing nothing. The mat was soaked.
“This is fine,” Jo muttered, frantically blotting. “This is totally fine. Maybe he’s not even home. Maybe he’s at work doing… whatever grumpy hot guys do for a living.”
“Tattooing.”
Jo nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around to find the subject of her spiral standing in his doorway, arms crossed over a chest covered by a tight black t-shirt that showed off sleeve tattoos running down both arms.
Logan Marchand looked even more intimidating up close.
Dark hair that fell just past his ears in a way that probably looked effortless but definitely wasn’t. Sharp jawline covered in strategic stubble. Eyes so dark they were almost black, currently fixed on her with an expression somewhere between exhaustion and barely-contained rage.
And tall. Why was he so tall? Jo was five-foot-six—perfectly average—but she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“I—” Her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry. I literally just took her out twenty minutes ago. I don’t know why she keeps doing this.”
Logan’s jaw ticked. His eyes dropped to the soaked doormat, then back to Jo’s face. “Is this some kind of revenge plot? Did I do something to piss you off?”
“What? No! Of course not. I don’t even know you.”
“Exactly my point. I don’t know you either, but somehow my doormat has intimate knowledge of your dog’s bladder schedule.”
Despite the situation—despite actively ruining this man’s property—Jo felt a laugh bubble up. She tried to swallow it. Failed.
Logan’s expression darkened. “You think this is funny?”
“No! I just—’intimate knowledge’ is a weird way to phrase it.” She was spiraling. Making it worse. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new mat. A better one. Ten better ones.”
“I don’t want ten doormats. I want one doormat that doesn’t smell like golden retriever piss.”
“That’s fair. That’s completely fair.” Jo stood up, the soaked paper towels dripping in her hand. “I’ll get you a replacement today. Right now. I’ll go to—where do you even buy nice doormats? Is there like a doormat store?”
“Home Depot.”
“Right. Home Depot. Obviously.” Jo started backing toward her own apartment. “Again, I’m really sorry. Olive’s usually so good, I don’t know what her obsession with your door is—”
“Maybe she can smell that I don’t like dogs.”
Jo stopped. “You don’t like dogs?”
“No.”
“Who doesn’t like dogs?”
Logan’s eyebrow rose. “People with pee-soaked doormats.”
Fair. Also, rude. But fair.
“Well, I’m still sorry. It won’t happen again.” Jo said it with as much conviction as she could muster, which wasn’t much considering this was incident number four.
“You said that last time.”
“I know, but—”
“And the time before that.”
“Okay, but—”
“Is your dog sick? Does she have a bladder problem? Because if she does, maybe living in an apartment isn’t—”
“She’s fine,” Jo interrupted, defensive now. “She’s perfectly healthy. She just… she has opinions about your doormat specifically.”
Logan stared at her. Jo stared back.
Up close, she could see flecks of gray in his dark eyes. A small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. The hint of another tattoo creeping up his neck from beneath his collar.
He was objectively gorgeous in a completely terrifying way.
“Opinions about my doormat,” he repeated flatly.
“Apparently. Look, I really will replace it. Today. What color do you want?”
“I don’t care about the color.”
“Material? Thickness? Do you have strong feelings about welcome messages versus family names versus those ones with seasonal themes?”
Was she babbling? She was definitely babbling. But Logan Marchand was looking at her like she was some kind of chaos goblin who’d been sent specifically to destroy his life, and nervous babbling was Jo’s default setting.
“Just… get whatever.” Logan scrubbed a hand over his face. “And figure out the dog situation. Please.”
The ‘please’ surprised her. It wasn’t warm or friendly, but it wasn’t entirely hostile either.
“I will. I promise. Scout’s honor.” Jo held up three fingers.
“Were you even a scout?”
“No, but the sentiment stands.”
Something flickered across Logan’s face. Not quite a smile, but maybe the shadow of amusement. It disappeared as quickly as it came.
“Right. Well. Thanks for the paper towels that did nothing.” He picked up his ruined doormat, holding it at arm’s length like it might bite him. “I’m going to go burn this.”
“You’re not actually going to burn it, right? That seems like a fire hazard.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Logan stepped back into his apartment, doormat in hand. “And tell Olive she’s officially on my shit list.”
The door closed with a firm click.
Jo stood there for a moment, processing. Then she looked down at the soggy paper towels in her hand and let out a long breath.
“That went well,” she muttered, heading back to her own apartment.
Inside, Olive was sprawled on the couch, head resting on Jo’s favorite throw pillow, looking like a perfect angel who’d never committed a property crime in her life.
“You,” Jo pointed at the dog, “are grounded.”
Olive’s tail thumped.
“I’m serious. No treats. No extra walks. And if you pee on that man’s doormat one more time, I’m… I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”
The tail thumped harder.
Jo collapsed next to her on the couch, absently scratching behind Olive’s ears. “Why his doormat, though? What did he ever do to you? Besides exist and be unfairly attractive while hating you?”
Olive licked her hand.
“Yeah, that’s not an answer.” Jo pulled out her phone and texted her best friend Erika.
Jo: SOS. Olive peed on hot grumpy neighbor’s doormat again.
Erika: AGAIN??? That’s like 4 times!
Jo: I KNOW
Erika: What did he say?
Jo: That Olive has intimate knowledge of his doormat and that she’s on his shit list.
Erika: …is it weird that I think that’s kind of hot?
Jo: ERIKA
Erika: What! Grumpy guys are a thing. Especially if they’re hot. Is he hot?
Jo looked up from her phone at the ceiling, as if she could see through it to apartment 3B where Logan Marchand was probably still glaring at his destroyed doormat.
Tattoos. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes that looked like they could see straight through her carefully maintained positivity to all the messy, anxious thoughts beneath.
Yeah. He was hot.
Jo: Unfortunately yes
Erika: UNFORTUNATELY 😂
Erika: You should ask him out
Jo: I literally just ruined his property. Again.
Erika: Enemies to lovers! It’s a trope for a reason!
Jo: This is real life, not one of your romance novels
Erika: Real life wishes it was as good as romance novels
Erika: But seriously, go buy him a nice doormat. Maybe add a little note. “Sorry my dog keeps peeing on your life. Coffee sometime?”
Jo: I’m not doing that
Erika: Coward
Jo: Realist. He hates me.
Erika: He doesn’t even know you. Once he does, he’ll love you. Everyone loves you.
Jo: Everyone except grumpy tattooed upstairs neighbors apparently
Jo set down her phone and looked at Olive, who’d rolled onto her back for belly rubs.
“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” Jo scratched the offered belly. “This is some kind of master plan. You’re trying to force me to interact with him.”
Olive’s tongue lolled out happily.
“Well, it’s working. But not in the way you think. He thinks we’re chaos incarnate.”
The worst part? He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Jo pulled up Home Depot’s website and started browsing doormats. There were apparently hundreds of options. Did Logan seem like a simple black mat guy? Or would he appreciate something with personality? Maybe a “Welcome” message was too friendly for someone who clearly didn’t welcome anyone into his life.
She settled on a simple charcoal gray mat with subtle geometric patterns. Classy. Impersonal. Nothing Olive could make weird.
Order placed for same-day pickup.
Jo looked at the ceiling again. Apartment 3B was directly above her living room, which meant Logan was probably directly above her right now. Doing what? Glaring at things? Tattooing? Looking incredibly hot while being grumpy?
Her phone buzzed.
Erika: You’re overthinking the doormat, aren’t you?
Jo: How did you know?
Erika: Because I know you. Get the mat. Drop it off. Maybe smile at him. See what happens.
Jo: What’s going to happen is he’s going to take the mat and close the door in my face
Erika: Maybe. Or maybe he’ll surprise you.
Jo doubted it. But tomorrow, she’d deliver the new doormat. Apologize one more time. And then she’d keep Olive on the tightest leash schedule known to dog ownership.
How hard could it be?
(Narrator voice: It would be very hard.)
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