The Player Next Door

It has to be Cody.

“Do you really need me …” Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, okay. I’m just”—he grits his jaw—“finishing up here. Be home in a minute.” He ends the call. “I’ve gotta go.”

My disappointment swells. “He’s stuck on a level?”

“I’m going to tear the power cable out of the wall,” he grumbles, but then sighs. “I promised him I’d take him to the mall to buy some new clothes. He doesn’t like going with his mother.” Shane’s eyes rake over my naked body. “But I really don’t want to go.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t.” I stare pointedly at his groin, at the still-prominent hard ridge. My body was priming itself for the promise of feeling that inside me and I really don’t want him to leave either. But I’m also not willing to rush it. “We can pick this up another time.”

“Promise?” He peers at me now, not with his typical confidence but with a hint of hesitation. As if he’s afraid I might change my mind about allowing this to happen if given time to come to my senses.

I smile. “Maybe dinner first next time.”

He crawls onto the bed to hover over me, searching my facial features. “You know I would do that for you all night.”

I skate my fingertips over his sexy jawline. “And I would let you.”

He leans in to press a soft, leisurely kiss against my lips before pulling away with a heavy sigh. “Until next time.” He reaches for his discarded T-shirt.

I grunt with disapproval as I watch that stunning torso disappear behind a veil of crisp white cotton. With a gentle pat against my calf, he strolls for the stairs, flicking at the spare key hanging off the banister. “Don’t forget this is here.”

“Do you have any more keys I should know about?”

He laughs. “No, unfortunately. And you really should change your locks.”

“Worked out for me rather well this time, don’t you think?”

With a smirk and one last, longing gaze down the length of my naked body sprawled across my bed, followed by a quiet curse, he disappears down my steps.

It’s a long while before I force myself up to dress and return to my task.

Twenty

Shane’s front door creaks open at seven on Sunday morning, as I’m digging a particularly stubborn weed from my garden bed. Memories of yesterday are still firmly emblazoned in my mind, so when I look up to see him standing on his front porch in navy track pants, running shoes, and nothing else, my heart rate goes from zero to sixty in a blink.

He trots down his steps and heads toward me, his chiseled arms lifting over his head in a series of warm-up stretches. It’s the perfect day for a run, the sky clear, the temperature comfortably crisp. It reminds me that I haven’t gone for one since I moved here, this house swallowing up my time and energy. I’ll need to start again soon and get myself into a routine.

For now, though, I just need to keep my wits about me.

Shane comes to a stop on the other side of my picket fence to loom over me. “You’re up early on a Sunday.”

“Wanted to get a head start on the day.” The truth is I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned half the night, thoughts of my neighbor keeping my body wired with need and my mind spinning with wandering thoughts. “Isn’t it a little early for you, though?” Those twenty-four-hour shifts must be deadly for his internal clock.

“Cody and I have a busy day ahead of us. We always visit my parents on Sundays when I’m not working. I wanted to get a run in before he wakes up.” He grabs an ankle and pulls it behind to loosen his hamstrings.

And I do my best not to notice his sculpted abdominal muscles, or how his pants hang low on his hips, or the deep, muscular V that begs to direct my attention south to the notable bulge tucked inside.

God, how I love track pants for the lack of modesty they afford.

He catches me staring at his crotch, and his full lips curve into a knowing smirk. Those lips that were buried between my thighs yesterday afternoon.

How are we supposed to act around each other now?

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, as if reading my mind.

I shove the hand trowel deep into the soil, severing the weed’s root. “About you helping me paint my room?”

He chuckles. “That’s honestly all I intended to happen when I came over.”

“Uh-huh.” I give him a doubtful look. “I thought we agreed to take things slow.”

His hands go up in surrender. “Hey, you’re the one who flashed me.” His voice has dropped to a low timbre. I feel it in my chest.

“That was an accident.”