The Player Next Door

But before I get the chance to lose to my hormones, Shane backs away, moving down the steps, out of my reach. “’Night, Scarlet.”

“Good night.” Can he hear my frustration screaming in those two little words?

His lips curl into a wicked smile. “Do I need to close my curtains tonight?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” I ask pointedly.

He gives his jaw a lazy scratch. “It’s probably a good idea. I’ve heard my new neighbor likes to spy on me at night. Wouldn’t want to give her the wrong idea.”

“She sounds like a real lunatic.”

“Nah. She’s pretty cool.” He chuckles as he walks away, his running shoes dragging along my walkway as if he’s reluctant to leave. “Sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

That night, I steal a glimpse into Shane’s room as I’m readying for bed. Much to my disappointment, his light remains out.

It takes me forever to fall asleep, my heart and my mind still reeling from today’s swift turn of events. I want this to happen, and yet I cannot ignore the dark cloud of wariness that lingers, the one there to remind me we’re no longer seventeen, and there are careers, children, and vindictive ex-girlfriends to consider.

Nineteen

It’s after lunch on Saturday when I trudge back upstairs to finish the first coat of paint. My back and arms ache, and streaks of periwinkle blue mar my skin, but if I keep going at this pace, I might be finished with my bedroom by the end of the weekend.

I steal a glance out my window—my favorite pastime lately, it seems—to the house beside me. I heard the rumble of Shane’s truck just after nine this morning. Two doors slammed and, when I peeked, I saw Cody skipping up the steps, chattering excitedly, oblivious to the way his dad dragged his feet and rubbed his eyes.

Shane looked exhausted.

His curtains are still drawn. I assume it’s to block out the daylight so he can catch up on sleep after a twenty-four-hour shift.

He’ll be in bed for another few hours, at least.

And I am becoming far too interested in Shane’s schedule for my own damn good.

With grim determination to push away thoughts of the sleeping man next door, I crank my music until I can’t hear myself think and fall into a rhythm—dip brush in tray, roll off excess, smooth over wall, repeat.

The minutes melt away as the unappealing mint green slowly vanishes, stroke by stroke, until a faint noise comes from downstairs. It’s barely audible over my music.

I set my roller down. I’m halfway across the room to mute the speaker when footfalls pound up my stairs.

Inside my house!

I freeze as a scream rises in my throat, ready to let loose.

“Scarlet?” Shane’s heavy, deep voice carries.

“Jesus!” I heave a sigh of relief a second before his face appears at my railing, my hand pressing against my chest. My heart thumps hard and fast. “I thought I was about to be murdered!”

“Sorry.” He grins sheepishly. “Saw you in your window, painting. I was knocking for a while but you weren’t answering. I figured you couldn’t hear me.” He climbs the rest of the way.

I dial down the music to a low hum. “How did you get in here?” Twelve years living in the city means my doors are always locked.

He holds up a key dangling from a blue string. “Iris had been falling a lot over the last few months, so her family gave me a spare in case she didn’t answer her phone and I needed to check on her. I forgot I had it until now. Hope you don’t mind.”

The way my breath caught at the sight of his handsome face? No, I don’t mind Shane’s surprise visit and key misuse at all. I would have been pissed had I found out later that I missed his visit. “That was very fireman-y of you.” Iris was lucky to have him as a neighbor.

“I’ll leave it here.” He loops it around the banister post. “But you should probably change your locks.”

“I’ll add it to the never-ending list. What are you doing here, anyway?” I check my bedside clock. It’s only one. He wouldn’t have gotten more than four hours. The dark circles under his eyes can attest to that. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I never sleep much when I have Cody for the weekend.” He wanders into the middle of my bedroom. His gaze drifts over my bed, my nightstand, the half-dozen boxes that have yet to be unpacked, my laundry basket where my pajamas and bra are strewn haphazardly—because I wasn’t expecting company—before shifting to my walls. “It’s looking good.”

So do you. He must have showered when he got home from work and then went to bed with damp hair because it’s dried into a sexy, tousled mess. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and shorts, and the T-shirt has a deep V-neck that dips down, highlighting his collarbones.