The Player Next Door

That sexy, sharp jut in his throat bobs with a swallow. “I didn’t mean for things to go the way they went.”

“Which part didn’t you mean, exactly? The part where you told me you were falling in love with me? Or when you dumped me because you weren’t ready for a serious relationship, only to hook up with Penelope the next day and then completely ignore me for the rest of the year? Which part exactly, Shane?” Way to get it all out in the open, Scarlet.

He winces. “Look, I was an idiot back then. A lot has changed and I’m not the same guy. Can’t we please be friends again?”

“Is that what we were?” Because what I remember is going from virtual strangers to falling into a teenaged summer romance, the likes of which Nicholas Sparks has surely written about. Then, crushing reality followed, delivered in heart-shaped lies.

And soon enough we were back to being strangers, passing each other in the hall without a single word exchanged, his arm roped around Penelope’s tiny waist.

His gaze drifts to my mouth, lingering for a long moment, his lips parting ever so slightly before lifting to meet my eyes again. “No. We were more,” he admits.

“No, we weren’t. You played me. You were hoping for an easy lay. Sorry, you went after the wrong Reed.” I hate that my voice cracks, revealing the pain that has remained dormant for all these years.

His jaw clenches and I swallow against the tension-riddled air in my stuffy kitchen, acutely aware of the tremble coursing through my core. What did Shane think would happen when he heard I was moving back? That we’d just pick up where we left off, as if all the crap since we last talked never happened? That I wouldn’t be able to resist him, because no other female ever has?

As if I’d ever trust him again. No, I’m not tumbling into this trap. My heart still wears the jagged scars from the last time I fell for his charm.

I steel my nerve. “We’re neighbors. How about we leave it at that.”

He bites his bottom lip. “Let me know if you need help around here. And seriously, you should go with this color.” Damn, again with that low, gravelly tone.

“Hmm … I don’t know,” I feign nonchalance. Meanwhile, his voice skitters along my spine and up my inner thighs. “I’m thinking more along the lines of a harsher shade. It’s called Blue Balls. BB for short. Ever heard of that one?” I smile sweetly.

Recognition fills his face. He pauses, as if weighing the right response. In the end, he merely nods, turns, and strolls toward the door.

“And Shane?”

He pauses, his eyebrows raised in question.

Put some curtains up on your window. It’s on the tip of my tongue but I can’t bring myself to say it. That would mean confessing to spying on him. It would also cut off my view into his bedroom, and that’s not something I’m willing to give up just yet. Though, watching Shane in his bedroom is one thing. If he brings a woman home and I have to witness that, I’ll be miserable.

I clear my throat. “Thanks again, for fixing this.”

He flashes a small, crooked smile. “Any time.” He ducks to fit through the side door and then he’s gone.

And I’m left fumbling with paint chips as I try to shake off the shock from having Shane Beckett back in my life.

Periwinkle was my top color choice anyway. That I’m choosing it has nothing to do with Shane.

Nothing at all.

I groan. Dear God, how am I supposed to live next to that man?

Nine

I knock on the solid gunmetal-gray door a second time and fidget while I wait.

But there’s no need to be nervous because Shane’s truck is gone. It’s 9:00 p.m. and he’s obviously out.

I look down at the envelope of cash in my hand, repayment for the plumbing materials he bought this morning. Should I come back tomorrow, or push it through the mail slot in his front door and be done with him?

Holding onto it would give me an excuse to see him in person, though.

An excuse that I shouldn’t be looking for, I remind myself as I stand here in my favorite flirty sundress and wedge heel sandals, my long hair flat-ironed sleek, my skin buffed and moisturized, my lips shimmering with cherry-flavored lip gloss. All entirely unnecessary to deliver cash to my neighbor, except I felt a spiteful urge to look far better than I did this morning, soaked by an exploding pipe.

The truth is, Shane has been in my thoughts all day—at the library, the paint store, wandering down the aisles of the grocery store. I can’t shake him. His face, his body, his words, his throaty “Let me know if you need any help.”