Jesus, he was losing his mind. Yes, her voice crept into his room through the vent, but no way could her scent permeate solid walls. He wasn’t breathing her in through shared air. A blast of heat hit his face as he opened the dryer and began shoveling his clothes into the basket. Like a good housemate, he cleaned the trap before shutting the machine as quietly as possible. He hefted the basket and turned to go back the way he’d come when the door behind him swung open. Bracelets jangled and a breathless voice called, “Wait. Stop!”
The same voice that had insinuated itself into his dreams, except in the erotic scenarios woven by his subconscious she’d called out, “Don’t stop, West. Please don’t stop.” He ordered his cock to stand down—utter fail—and defaulted to holding the laundry basket over his groin. With a strange combination of dread and excitement, he turned to face Roxy. “What?”
“You’re the upstairs tenant?”
He didn’t mean to ignore her question, but a more pressing one burst out of his mouth. “What the hell are you wearing?”
She looked down at herself, then up at him. “My robe.” Her expression said, Duh.
Only an Okinawa hooker would call the bordello red kimono with gold fringe dripping from the thigh-skimming hem a “robe.” “Uh-uh. No.” He shook his head. “We’re not having a conversation until you put on real clothes.”
“This is real. Look, it covers all the pertinent parts.” She waved a hand in the general vicinity of said parts, which scattered the bracelets and caused major slippage at the front of the robe where two gold embroidered dragons guarded the goods. Meanwhile, her gaze scorched a path down the center of his chest, along his abdomen, and straight to the blockade of the laundry basket. “What are you wearing?”
“Shorts. And before you start an argument you’re not going to win, let me point out that I could get the newspaper off the front walk in what I’m wearing.” Assuming he could get his pertinent parts under control.
“And I couldn’t?”
The idea of her bending to fetch the paper in that getup made every pulse in his body pound. “Not unless you want to be arrested for indecent exposure.”
Instead of scooting her at-risk ass back into her apartment, she stepped around the laundry basket and alongside his body. His muscles pulled painfully tight as cool silk slid over his suddenly hot skin. A challenge in the form of a smile curved her lips. “Well, Officer, here’s the problem. I can’t get dressed until I retrieve”—she rummaged in his basket and u
nearthed a wisp of red lace clinging to one of his undershirts—“these.” She peeled the lace. The fabrics separated with a snap of static.
A far more dangerous spark crackled along his nerve endings. Seemingly oblivious to the fire she played with, she turned her back to him and threaded one foot through the panties, then the other. The sight of the Band-Aid on her heel calmed him a little. This woman wasn’t as invulnerable as she tried to appear. But then she drew the lace over her calves. His calm burned away under a new assault of lust.
“I hope you don’t mind me tossing my undies in with your things.” Her robe rose higher as she guided the panties up her legs. He swallowed but didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
“I hand-washed them this morning because I needed a clean pair, and you beat me to the machine, but I figured I could sneak them into your dryer. You wouldn’t want me to show up for my first day of work with damp panties.” She slid the lace into place and glanced back at him. “Would you?” Gold fringe swayed back and forth, brushing her ass, barely curtaining the curves.
It took his mind a moment to rewind her words. “First day of work?”
Her smile made his gut tighten. She straightened, turned, and smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the front of her robe. “I’m DeShay’s newest waitress. Thirty hours a week until Lark Middleton gets back on her feet.”
The plastic laundry bin handles groaned under his white-knuckled grip. What the fuck had he done to piss fate off? “How long before she comes back?”
“Oh, not too long. Thanks for the tumble.” With that, she opened the door leading to her unit and started to walk through.
“Roxy.”
His pumped a full load of warning into the single word. She heard it, apparently, because she paused and looked back at him.
“How. Long.”
“Six weeks, give or take. See you around, neighbor.” Before he could wrap his mind around that timeframe, she walked out, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Six weeks? He sagged against the door as the information sank in. Then he thunked his head against the frame. Hard.
…
Stop poking the hornet’s nest, or you’re going to get stung.
Roxy put in an order, grabbed the pot of freshly brewed coffee, and circulated through her section, offering refills. She didn’t know what had gotten into her, taunting West like she had. Okay, correction, she knew exactly what had riled her. Big, intimidating Officer Donovan standing in the laundry room all chiseled and half naked, scowling at her.
Yeah. Him. She had a regrettable history of wanting things she shouldn’t have, and her new neighbor currently topped the list. Given her situation, deliberately baiting him only courted disaster.
She didn’t know how much her ex-manager had collected when he’d gone behind her back and pawned her daddy’s vintage 1965 Gibson SE autographed by the late, great Tom Petty, but on a bad day, the one-of-a-kind instrument appraised for twenty-five grand. Randy Boudreaux would hock his own dick for a fraction of that amount, and Randy’s shady uncle Billy who owned the pawnshop would no doubt let him.
The monetary value meant nothing to her. Gibson was one of her few tangible mementos from her parents. That guitar had seen her through some very tough times, and she’d beg, borrow, and steal before she’d willingly part with it. But something told her stealing a twenty-five-thousand-dollar anything fell on the wrong side of the legal definition of shoplifting, and the penalty would be far more than a slap on the wrist.