Текст книги "Right Next Door"

Автор книги: A. J. Pryor

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“Do you want a beer?” she asks.

Throwing a few popped kernels into my mouth, I grin at her. “Sure.” I’m looking at a photo of her and an older man standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. “This is all I have.” Walking back into the room, she hands me a Corona.

“It’s great.” I place the bottle on the table and point at the photo. “Is this your dad?” Her eyes scan the picture with pleasure, all trace of the anger she’d displayed earlier completely gone.

“That’s him. We took that trip ten years ago when I graduated high school.” She’s fumbling with the remote control and scanning through shows that keep popping up on the screen.

Setting the photo down, I briefly wonder about her mom and if she was in Paris with them as well, but the thought quickly fades as she sits beside me, settling into the deep white cushions and letting out a contented sigh.

My body has never before been so aware of another human being. Her hand is approximately three inches from mine, her shoulder a little further. Her dark hair is pulled back into something messy behind her head, a stray piece falling down her silky white neck and resting just above her shoulder.

She pulls her legs off the floor and crosses them. For the first time I notice she is wearing shorts, her bare thigh just within my reach. I curl my left hand into a fist, willing it to stay put and not extend out and stroke her soft, toned skin.

I kick off my Nikes and stretch my long legs out underneath her coffee table, attempting any means possible to relax and not act like I want to jump her bones, which is exactly what I want to do.

“Okay, watch this guy, he’s about to do the Salmon Ladder, it’s a total dream crusher.” She’s completely mesmerized by the television, and I can’t stop staring at her.

“What’s a dream crusher?”

“It’s something I made up because that one event seems to always knock people out of the competition, crushing their dreams of moving on.”

She has no clue the effort it’s taking for me not to lie her down on this couch and kiss the hell out of those lips. No clue that my heart is thumping loudly in my chest with how much I want to touch her or that she smells like the fresh morning air I breathe in on my early runs.

Doing whatever I can to take my focus off the effect she has on me, I watch the show. The Salmon Ladder is intense, men and woman taking a stick and jumping from peg to peg without touching the ground. I’m pretty sure if given the chance, I could tackle the Salmon Ladder. But the show itself is extreme. An obstacle course made to defy the human body; it’s right up my alley.

As the clock ticks on the final competition, she grabs for my hand and squeezes. “Oh my God I can’t take it! What if he falls?”

An electrifying jolt shoots through my blood at her touch, shocking me, and all I can think to do, is squeeze her hand back. Because I don’t want this dude to fall off the Salmon Ladder and I don’t want the show to be over, ending my night in Addison’s apartment. But in reality, I don’t want to let go of her hand.

The contestant makes it to the final round and we both stand and cheer at the television.

I’m still holding her hand.

The urge to pull her to me and wrap her in my arms overwhelms me, and if I don’t let go of her petite fingers soon, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

“I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” She darts off towards the back of her apartment, slipping her hand free of mine.

Damn. I need to get a grip.

I’m left standing in her living room, not sure what to do with myself. Grabbing the remote control, I scroll through her DVR list. This chick is a reality show goddess. Everything from Survivor to The Voice to Master Chef is recorded here. I continue to search for something else we can watch, because I’m not tired, and I really don’t want to leave—not yet anyway.

I sense her walk back into the room, and my focus is immediately drawn to her. Wanting to kick myself for not noticing her bare legs when she was standing at the front door, I now can’t seem to peel my eyes off them. She’s tiny, can’t weigh much more than one hundred and ten pounds, but she has curves that make her sexy as hell. Her legs are graceful, simply toned, and perfectly proportioned leading down to her slender feet with meticulously pedicured pink toenails.

Slowly I stand and greet her. “You watch the Kardashians?” I ask jokingly.

Her gentle laugh curls through me. “What can I say? I’m a reality show slut.”

She yawns.

I can take a hint. Sitting down, I slide my feet into my shoes.

“You’re leaving?” I sense disappointment in her voice.

Not wanting to push my luck, I stand and walk towards her. “It’s late and you’re tired.”

Her mouth opens to respond as Arctic Monkey’s “Do I Wanna Know?” begins in the distance.

In an instant, the easygoing demeanor she’s worn all night fades, and a faint smile with a touch of sadness appears.

I realize the music is coming from her phone. “The asshole?” I ask.

Silently she nods but doesn’t make a move to grab her phone.

“Are you going to answer it?”

She gently shakes her head as she holds my stare.

“Do you want me to leave?” I should be running for the front door, not needing to get myself involved in whatever drama is plaguing her life, but I can’t get my legs to move.

Indecision wars in her eyes as her nostrils flare slightly and she stands in the middle of her living room staring at me.

I didn’t want him to leave, but I didn’t feel right asking him to stay. He made the decision for both of us, kissed me on the forehead, and let himself out. I hadn’t seen him the rest of the weekend, and I was definitely looking.

He probably has a girlfriend, and I . . . have baggage.

Matt wants me back, and I can’t deny the sliver of happiness those words brought me, the satisfaction that after five years of loneliness, I may get my happily ever after. He’d plugged his number into my phone, setting the ring tone to that crazy song.

“Don’t give me an answer just yet, Addy. Only know that I’ll be back. Every time this song plays, it’s me, doing what I should have done five years ago. Crawling back to you.” He kissed me, and then . . . he left. With a promise to return soon, he left me . . . again, as I stood on my doorstep with swollen lips, a guilty conscience and a heart that felt like it had more cracks than I know what to do with, a scenario that felt entirely too familiar.

His wife’s name is Helen.

It was easier when I could call her the wife. Adding a name to the description makes her real and ruins my fantastical life, that no matter how hard I deny it, I still secretly dreamed would one day come true.

But then Damian knocked on my door, and the cracks in my heart eased, the guilt began to fade, and a faint feeling of hope began to bloom somewhere deep inside, as I moved Matt to the back of my mind and enjoyed the company of my new neighbor.

It was impossible not to notice the hint of sexual tension that rested between us. His dark olive skin had been flush with excitement at the completion of the Salmon Ladder. When he grabbed my hand, I didn’t want him to let go.

How was it possible that in the span of thirty minutes, my heart went from cold and angry, as I watched Matt walk away from me—bruising my heart again, to once more beating, like it was running the race of a lifetime?

The urge to run my fingers through his dark hair electrified my hands, having to practically sit on the damn things so I didn’t subconsciously inch them closer to his side of the couch. Nothing about that night felt right, until Damian walked into my apartment—suddenly everything fell into place.

Something about him makes me want to change the course of my life, because falling into Matt’s devilish hands is not going to work.

“I like the mug,” a deep but casual voice says to my right. I turn to see Damian, shirtless and deliciously yummy walk onto his balcony, a plain black coffee mug gripped in his strong right hand, a soccer ball tucked inside the curve of his arm.

“It’s one of my favorites.” This one happens to be shaped like a toilet bowl.

“No nudie girls today?” I ask, as I nod at his coffee cup.

An easy smile begins at the contours of his mouth as he places the ball on the ground. “Nah, thought I’d give you a break.”

I smile inwardly at his relaxed demeanor. I hadn’t seen him since he left my place Friday night, and he was quickly becoming my favorite morning routine.

Checking the clock on my phone, I realize there are only ten more minutes to enjoy the ocean view before I have to get going.

This morning, my eyes seem to wander to the view next door instead of the glistening blue sea. I can’t help but admire his powerful body standing at the edge of the balcony, focusing his gaze on the endless ocean. His large masculine hands cupped around that boring mug.

Leaning forward, he grabs a gray T-shirt off the table. Turning in my direction, he throws it over his head, covering himself.

“Whoa. Wait a minute.” I sit straight up. “You just blocked my morning view.”

His brow wrinkles in confusion.

“You have that V.”

He looks at me strange “V?”

“You know the V, the one that starts at your hips and goes . . . down?”

He blushes and easily laughs, the sound rippling through me and settling comfortably in my gut.

“When you have the ‘V’ you never cover the ‘V’. It’s like a rule.”

“What would you like me to do, Addison?” My name sliding out of his mouth in that deep sensual voice may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard, causing my breath to momentarily catch, and my stomach to cinch tightly.

Wetting my lips with my tongue, I look into his eyes. “Take the shirt back off. What you’ve got going on there . . .” I point at his body, my finger moving furiously from head to toe, “should never be covered—if it can be helped.”

His eyes grow wide in amusement, and a smile that sends my pulse into rapid overdrive erupts on his face, making it impossible not to turn my own lips up in an easy grin.

“I’ll try to remember that.” He steps towards me, his eyes dancing with mischief. He slowly reaches behind him and pulls the shirt back over his head, treating me to the jaw dropping sight of his abs.

Content that all is finally right in the world I make small talk. “How was the rest of your weekend?”

He shrugs nonchalantly and sits down to drink his coffee. “Same old thing, a little of this a little of that.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. “You are such a guy.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asks slightly affronted but also trying not to laugh.

“A little of this a little of that? Could you be more vague?”

Shaking his head and kicking his feet up on the table, he gives me a little more insight into his world. “I was in Malibu visiting my family.” Setting his coffee cup down, he turns his dark gaze my way. “What about you, Green Eyes, how did you stay busy this weekend?”

My mind doesn’t come up with the groceries I bought, the marathon of American Ninja Warrior I watched, or the dinner I had with Paige. Nope, it instantly thinks of the dirty fantasies I had of Damian all weekend, naked, sweaty and between my legs. Heat creeps up my neck and into my face.

“That’s an interesting shade of pink you just turned Addison, care to enlighten me as to what’s got you blushing so deep?” His humorous tone makes me shift in my chair.

Sitting straighter I lock eyes with his. “My weekend was about as interesting as yours.”

Belting out a huge laugh, he stands and comes closer in my direction. “I have to go meet Reed, but I’ll be around this week. Stop by and say hi.” Resting his hands on the railing that separates our balconies, he leans over placing his ruggedly handsome face right in front of mine. “I can guarantee it will be more fun than what,” he pauses and dangerously grins, “or who, you were doing this weekend.”

“Addison!” Thomas is shouting down the hallway. Every cell in my body tenses at the sound of his bossy, asshole voice. “Addison! Where is the contract for that family, the one with the two kids at boarding school?”

Walking through my office door, I’m momentarily startled he had the decency to get off his ass and come in here. Thomas Feeley, the divorce attorney who has built his practice up to be the most successful moneymaking law firm in all of Santa Barbara, is standing in my doorway. Five foot nine and balding at the tip of his head, he has the worst case of short man’s complex and loves to make everyone else’s lives miserable.

“On Veronica’s desk.”

“Veronica is at lunch.”

“Exactly where I’m headed, I’ll grab it for you on my way out.”

“Bring me back a sandwich or something. Oh and can you get me a cup of coffee before you leave?”

“I’m not your assistant, Thomas. I passed the Bar.”

His beady little eyes narrow at me. “You’re not a partner, either. Get me the damn coffee.” He’s out of my office before I can call him an asshole to his face instead of his back. If I didn’t need this job, I’d have left years ago. But finally crawling out from the burden of my dad’s mounting debt has left me tied to this miserable position. My only saving grace is the relief I see on my clients’ faces when I win their battles for them, tearing apart the one person they vowed to love forever and getting them whatever custody or assets they believe is owed in their favor.

There’s an old pot of coffee on the counter. Good, I’m happy to deliver him a cup of old morning brew, maybe some of the black grains will fall into his cup as well.

Thomas doesn’t raise his head as I place the Styrofoam on his desk. Fine with me, I’d rather not talk to him anymore either.

Walking to my car, I’m planning to meet Mia for lunch. As I step into the parking lot, I realize something isn’t right. But it’s not until I get closer that I notice what has my instincts on high alert, and I groan in frustration.

There’s bird shit all over my car, and I mean, all the hell over it. It’s like the bird leading the pack had a megaphone and called out one, two, three, go and every sea gull within a ten-mile radius followed suit. How else would a flock of birds decide to shit at the same time? It looks like they declared war all over my front window and down the sides of my car. It’s . . . disgusting and another reason to add to my growing list of why living at the beach isn’t all that.

I know I shouldn’t complain, but—come on.

Looking for a clean area on my door handle, as cautiously as possible I open the door and slide behind the wheel. Turning on my car I pull the windshield wiper towards me, hoping to clean off at least a small portion of the crap so I can get to a gas station and remove the rest.

The wipers move, they squeak, and they move again, but no water comes out as I continue to pump the handle towards me.

Fuck! You have got to be kidding me! I can’t see past all this shit, how am I supposed to drive around like this? I smear it some more with the dry wiper before I decide there’s enough visibility for me to safely drive.

As the car moves forward, something doesn’t feel right. One side of the jeep is higher than the other and a plopping noise echoes inside the car.

What the . . . ?

I press on the brakes and get out. Sure enough, my right rear tire is flat, completely flopping around.

This is not my day.

I should go home, get in bed, and start all over again.

My phone rings as I’m about to call AAA.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Green Eyes.”

“Damian?”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

I flip my head up, scanning the parking lot and wondering how he knows I’ve been shit all over. His 4Runner is parked across the street, his hands in his pockets as he holds the phone between his ear and shoulder. He’s wearing a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and even from this distance, I can see the bulging muscles in his forearms, my new favorite part of a man’s body.

The shirt is casually un-tucked over his blue jeans. Skin—golden bronze skin peeks out of the top of that shirt, right where his collar and chest meet. Everything about that man screams sex, and I have to pinch my legs closed tight.

Our eyes meet, and he begins to walk in my direction, his hand reaching up and grabbing his phone, his head straightening as he advances towards me. In my mind I run to him, jump in his arms, and kiss him as he saves the day. But this is reality, not a romantic comedy where all the heroine’s dreams come true in one shining moment. My life wasn’t mapped out to be easy, there’s no reason this should be either.

It takes all of thirty seconds for him to be standing directly in front of me.

“Hi.” I hear it from his lips and at the same time, through the speaker on my phone.

“Hi back.”

Taking the phone out of my hand, he ends our call. His lips curl up in that grin, the one that has my heart going pitter-patter. He hasn’t shaved today, but he’s clean. I can smell his laundry detergent and the musky soap he uses all around me. I want to face plant into his chest and breathe in deeply, but that’s not a very sexy move.

I’m sure he’s used to sexy moves.

“I got crapped on.”

His grin turns into a full on smile, his straight white teeth shining bright, and his eyes smiling along with his cheeks. “I noticed.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I have a meeting, and I saw you get out of your car. I watched you frown.”

“My tire’s flat.”

Walking around my car, he locates the deflated piece of rubber. “Keys?” His hand is outstretched, and I’m not sure what he’s planning on doing.

“It’s not good to drive on a flat. I’m going to call roadside assistance.”

That grin appears again, and my knees slightly wobble. He advances once more, his eyes not leaving mine. Lowering his face to my ear, his breath fans across my cheek as in a deep and sensual voice he says, “I’ll change your tire—you can watch.”

He begins to unbutton his shirt. One. Damn. Button at a time, and my legs quiver.

In the parking lot of my office, where my co-workers can come out at any moment, my hot off his ass neighbor hands me his shirt, then holds his hand out for my keys.

It’s possible I may be panting, but I’m trying to keep it together.

I hand over the keys. “Here you go, Offside.”

He looks at me, head slightly tilted and a flash of confusion clouding his dark eyes.

I can’t help the name. He draws me closer to an invisible line I know I shouldn’t cross . . . yet the idea is extremely tempting.

“Offside?” he questions.

I shrug, willing the blush that is beginning to creep up my neck away. “I like to give people nicknames. All of that,” for the second time today, I point to his chiseled physic, “pushes me out of my comfort zone.”

He smirks and takes a step forward. “Hm. Offside. I like it, Green Eyes,” he says as he bends down, his lips grazing my ear. “And one day, maybe you can step across my line and I’ll give you a penalty.”

My breath catches as he quietly steps away and begins to work on my car, as if that exchange had no effect on him whatsoever.

I had no idea people in today’s world changed their own tires. I remember watching my dad do it a few times when I was a child, but Matt was never one for manual labor. Now, watching Damian’s muscles flex as he raises the car with some contraption he found in my trunk, I’m thankful Damian Walker knows how to change a tire. I’m gawking, possibly drooling as each one of his back muscles flexes and moves with each stroke he makes. His jeans are low on his hips and his entire back viewable for my pleasure. That faint scar that runs the length of his torso stretches and moves with him.

Now this should be a Super Bowl commercial. Not a half-naked girl eating a Big Mac on top of a Chevy, but Damian Walker, shirtless and pumping up a car with a slogan that says, ‘Get under my hood, and I’ll give you a jump start’. I’d get under anything he asked me to as long as he kept his shirt off.

He’s bending down and removing the tire, replacing it with the spare. The entire process takes less than twenty-minutes, my car back in working order except for the shit still smattered all over it.

I wish it had taken longer.

“You’ll need to handle the crap. I’ve got to get to another meeting.” He’s barely broken a sweat, and he’s still shirtless. I can’t help but stare. Placing my keys back in my hand, he folds his fingers over mine and gently squeezes.

“Thank you.” My eyes finally leave his abs and meet his dark intense gaze as I hand him his shirt.

Gradually, he slips his arms through each sleeve, leaving a sliver of taut, hard muscle exposed. Starting at the top, he begins to button the white fabric, slowly, meticulously and deliberately taking his sweet time, until he’s completely covered, except for a sexy triangle of skin at the top. I exhale the breath I’d been holding and look up into his intense gaze, his lips curving into a knowing grin.

“Come by later. I’ll make you dinner.”

“Don’t you think I should be making that offer? You just changed my tire.”

“Maybe. But you didn’t offer. See you at seven.”