Wrong Bed Baby (Crescent Cove 10)

“Man, score.” She rubbed her hands. “I’m ready for boys to fight over Reese.”

“You know those two boneheads aren’t fighting over me, right?”

Ryan grinned and took out the second bottle of wine she’d stashed in my fridge. “Right, but it made me want to watch This Means War. Something delicious about two dudes fighting over you.”

“Yeah, but it’s the suck in real life.” I pulled out my air popper and all the fixings for sweet and savory popcorn.

“Says you.” She sat and crossed her mile-long legs. “What would it hurt if you did try them both out?”

“I’m not really looking to try either of them out, thanks.” Though the idea of it made me hum just a bit.

But not when it came to the hair metal best friend. He was sort of a meddling puppy who would probably chew on your shoes and shit in your garden.

Caleb was a different story. I just wasn’t sure if it was one I wanted to let play out.

Four

Clearly, I was a natural at this whole moving in thing.

I shelved a bunch of books in my bedroom nightstand and then rolled out the boho chic area rug I’d just picked up at my sister-in-law’s place. She’d tried to explain what exactly boho chic meant and why I wanted it for my new digs, but in the end, I’d shoved my credit card at her and tuned out.

Who needed a decorator? Not me. I was a thoroughly enlightened male who was not day drinking ever again. Possibly not night drinking again either.

Alcohol was bad. Especially when you rarely drank so when you did, you made an ass of yourself in front of the gorgeous new neighbor you’d already looked like an ass in front of previously.

I blamed Lucky, as I did for many of the social failures I’d endured in recent years. He had the tolerance level of a herd of buffalo, and he knew I didn’t so he enjoyed mightily encouraging me to “let my hair down.” Since I had a reasonable length hairstyle, unlike my best friend—I’d let it grow out for the summer, so I looked woolier than usual, beard included—it meant something different for me.

It meant I had to be smart and keep my damn hair up, or whatever the equivalent was, whenever I had a chance of seeing Luna. The likelihood she’d allow me to make her my famous eggs Benedict was shrinking by the hour. It wasn’t exactly an ideal lunch offering, but I wasn’t counting on an opportunity to make her breakfast anytime soon.

At least not after spending the night. Yeah, right.

We’d met up in the laundry room earlier today, just as we had a few days ago after my tipsy proposition in her doorway after golfing with Lucky. At least I was pretty sure I’d propositioned her then, though the details were vague. I just remembered her smile, the one that indicated she believed I was a few crackers short of a sleeve.

God only knew what had come out of my mouth in her presence. Somehow she reduced me to a hormonal dude with no game whatsoever.

And that was when I wasn’t drinking.

On our laundry room meetups, I’d managed not to act like too much of a jackass. We’d made casual, easy conversation, the kind that usually happened between neighbors. Talk of the weather—still hot as balls—and our work and our detergent preferences to get our whites brighter. All typical, low pressure topics.

I’d nearly asked what she used on the purple teddy mixed in with her underwear before sense had briefly reappeared.

Handily, she’d had on jeans and T-shirts that didn’t overtly reveal her navel piercing or her super long tanned legs or any of her many assets below the neck. Of course her face was a damn knockout too. But she was also fun to talk to with a great sense of humor as we discussed some of our other neighbors, an eclectic bunch I was still getting to know.

Basically, we talked like people who had no remote interest in sexual congress with each other.

That was probably true on her part.

I opened another box and crammed more books on my shelves. These were easier to fit, since they were some of my college texts that had particularly resonated with me. Poetry volumes from Rainer Marie Rilke were mixed with a true crime tale I’d picked up a few months ago about a college teacher who stored bodies of several of the college co-eds he taught in a freezer on his property in the woods.

That had been suggested reading from Asher Hamilton’s locally set true crime podcast, which I’d started listening to entirely on accident. So far, I’d read some creepy shit, usually when I couldn’t sleep at night, which probably explained why I rarely got back to sleep afterward.

One way or another I had to get back in the game sexually. Back when I’d cured my occasional insomnia with non-self-administered orgasms, I’d gotten a lot more sleep.

Spotting my bottle of antibiotics on the nightstand, I popped one and chased it with water. Had I taken one yesterday? I didn’t think so. I swallowed another with more water and wiggled my foot.

Yet another moving casualty. I’d stepped on a damn nail while carrying in more boxes and had to get a tetanus shot and a round of antibiotics since naturally, the wound had looked nasty and hurt like a bitch. My toe was wrapped up now and didn’t ache much anymore since it had been a few days.

Assuming Lucky didn’t drop another futon on it out of spite over the Luna door opening situation.