by Elodie Colt
My motor functions give out on me, and my fingers loosen their grip around the branch. It drops to the ground with a loud clonk. The startle shakes me out of my stupor, making way for full-blown panic, and I quickly duck in an attempt to hide behind the broken garden table. I bump into something. Pain shoots up my leg, but I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle my yelp.
The guy from the thrift store.
The one who had the nerve to peek at my phone and mortified me with his cocky attitude until I wanted to do the same bad things to him as I would to baby seal killers. The one with the dark hair flopping over his smoldering brown eyes, kissable lips, and a gruff, seducing voice that stiffened every hair on my nape. The one who made me go through the roof like a rocket, lose all sense of good and bad, and plaster a slap on his handsome face that missed the bandage covering his ear by inches.
Fuck!
With my heart pounding somewhere between my throat and my eyes, I stall for a few seconds before I carefully peek over the table. He scans my garden, probably trying to figure out where the noise came from. Dirt streaks his ribs, highlighting the sharp cuts of his abs. God, help me. Before I find the willpower to drag my eyes up, he stuffs his T-shirt into the waistband of his pants and turns around to resume his work.
Careful not to make any sudden movements, I scramble backward until my hands come into contact with the porch door and quickly scoot inside on all fours. Once there, I hang my head and blow out all the breath at once. I take a moment to calm down my heart rate before I dash up to my room and hurry over to the window.
“Good Lord.”
The guy takes a long-reach pruner from the tools scattered on the ground, walks over to a tree, and starts trimming. His torso stretches with the movement, accentuating his ribs and broad chest. Skyla said I’d have a nice view from my window. Girl, you have no idea…
At that moment, Christina sails out onto the porch with a tray of refreshments in her hands that also include a bottle of wine. I swear she’s downing that stuff faster than caffeine junkies do coffee. She’s probably washing her mouth with a gulp of Chardonnay after brushing her teeth.
“Matthew!” Her shrill voice echoes up to my window. “Come, you need a break.”
Matthew. Kendra was right. Christina hired the guy who fucks her daughter. Damn, how the hell did Jillian get her hands on a man like him? Sure, she’s pretty and smart, but this male here is so hot, I’d burn my fingers if I touched him.
You already touched him, and the only thing that burned was the spot between your legs. And his cheek, in all likelihood.
Matthew puts down his tools, rolling his eyes behind Christina’s back. She saunters over to him and puts a hand on his biceps, tugging him to the table. The forced smile on his face signals he’s not happy with the proximity. Understandable.
And then, out of nowhere, an epiphany hits me, prompting me to rush to my desk. I flip open my laptop, fingers hovering over the mouse as the first words for my next chapter click together in my invigorated brain. I glance at the window, but I can’t see shit from this angle, so I launch up and drag my desk to the side. Perfect. A clear view of Christina’s garden.
And Matthew, of course.
My inbox pings with incoming emails, but I’m in the zone. Lost in the story taking shape in my head, fixated on the words tumbling out of me like an avalanche. Plus points, Matthew resembles the main character in my book—black-brown hair, sun-kissed skin, and a torso as rigid as his washboard stomach.
My fingers whiz over the keyboard until Matthew puts his shirt back on. I grimace in disappointment. Then again, I can’t blame him. Christina has snuggled closer until she’s almost sitting on his lap. He grabs his glass of wine and darts up, pretending to enjoy the view on the porch.
I chuckle at the soap opera playing in the neighbor’s garden and get rewarded with a kick-ass turning point in my storyline. By the time I finish the chapter, my fingertips hurt. A triumphant grin builds on my face. Three thousand words in record time. Shit, who knew that all it took was a sexy gardener to find some lost inspiration?
I sneak another look down at Christina’s garden. Matthew and Christina are gone. Leaning back in my chair, I munch on my lip. I still need to pull Skyla’s surfboard out of my windshield. Knowing my luck, another storm blows up, and the thing cuts through Christina’s fence.
No way am I going down there with Matthew around, though. If he notices me—fuck, if he recognizes me—I’m going to have a stroke.
A slimy ball of dread rises up my throat. I can hide all I want, but it will be impossible to steer clear of him if he’s practically living next door for now.
I drag a hand down my face. Pull your head out of your butt, Sam.
Speaking silent prayers in my head, I skip down the stairs again and venture out. The coast is clear, so I skulk over to my car parked next to Christina’s fence. Keeping an eye on her porch door, I put one knee on the hood, grab the surfboard, and pull. A few more cracks tear the windshield, but otherwise, it doesn’t budge. Adjusting my grip, I curl my fingers around the fin and give it another yank.
The board comes loose, but the kickback throws me off balance, and the windshield shatters into a thousand pieces. A sharp pain explodes in my left hand, and I drop the surfboard as blood streams down my knuckles.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I hiss, forgetting all about staying inconspicuous. “Dammit, Skyla, I’m going to kill you!”
“Hey, you okay?” someone yells, and I whip around to see Matthew gunning in my direction.
No. Please, God, no.
“F-Fine… Totally fine,” I stammer, staggering back a few steps to hide behind my Chevy and choking back the tears as blood pools onto the ground. My knees buckle, nausea spreading in my belly, and I sag down the door despite the sun-scorched metal burning into my back.
A dull thump makes me jerk up my head, and I realize with horror that Matthew has just jumped over the fucking fence. Jumped! I wouldn’t even get over the edge if I was a pole vaulter.
Not wasting a second, he drops to his knees and pulls at my hand cradled into my chest. I’m too stunned to pull away and quickly hang my head, hiding my face with the loose strands.
“Ouch, this looks bad,” he says.
I don’t utter a word, too afraid he’d recognize my voice as I focus my mind on something else. Like, what wash cycle do I have to use to get the blood stains out. 110 degrees? 130?
“Over here.” He pulls me up and drags me over to the garden tap. I’m still concealing my face behind my hair when he turns it on and holds my hand under the ice-cold water, making me hiss.
After a minute, he turns it off and examines my hand. “This will need stitching.”
“Okay, thanks,” I mumble in rushed tones and yank my hand out of his grip. Shouldering past him, I try to walk in a straight line, my focus solely on my porch door until one door becomes two, and the world tilts on its axis.
Something strong and warm clamps around my upper arm, pulls me back, and puts me down on my ass. I shake my head to clear my vision.
“Hey, don’t pass out on me here.” More blood streams out of the wound, and I avert my gaze. “Don’t worry, we’ll tend to that.”
“Please, don’t,” I mutter, but my words drown in rustles of fabric as he takes off his shirt for the second time that day and presses it onto the cut. So not helping my attempt not to faint again…
His frame blocks the sun as he squats down in front of me. My chin is already poking into my breast bone as I feebly try to lower my head.
Then, two fingers, rough but gentle, nudge up my chin. Somehow, I still manage to keep my eyes anywhere but at him, even if he can clearly see my face now. I’m bracing myself for an outraged ‘You!’ or whatever, but he just lowers his head, trying to catch my gaze. An amused smile flashes in my periphery.
“Yes, I remember you,” he purrs in a smug tone. “Wouldn’t forget that bitch slap in a lifetime. Or the pretty face.”
My gaze snaps up
to him. Again, that damn floppy strand frames his eye as he smirks at me. He doesn’t seem surprised, so I guess he noticed me before that stupid accident.
“Come, let’s get you to a hospital.” He tugs at my hand, but I stay put. No matter how intoxicating his scent, the sour smell of alcohol is unmistakable.
“Uh, not necessary, really.”
His eyebrows squish together. “That wound needs stitches. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“My car isn’t up to the task.” I point to my shattered windshield.
“We’ll take mine.” He rises to his feet, tugging at my hand again, but I pull it back.
“You’ve been drinking,” I argue with a sharp undertone.
His jaw works. I tear my gaze away again. From down here, all I can see is two pecs the size of Florida.
“I only had two glasses.”
“Two too many. No DUI with me in the same vehicle.” High-five Sam. Stand your ground, come on.
Feeling a little clearer in my head, I slowly rise to my feet.
Matthew hooks a thumb through his belt loop, heaving a sigh as if I’m grating on his patience. “Fine. Do you have stitching material?”
I blink at him. “Uh, a stapler, but—”
Grabbing my hand, he drags me toward the house.
“Bathroom?” he asks when we’re inside, and I nod to the first room on the left—one of two bathrooms in the house.
He follows my directions wordlessly, opens the medicine cabinet next to the mirror, and fishes out a sterilized stapler. I press my hand harder against my chest, slowly shaking my head.
“Wait. I think that’s a bad idea.”
“You wanted it the hard way, you’re getting it the hard way,” he says matter-of-factly, pulling out a flask from his jeans pocket and slamming it down in front of me. Booze to replace the local anesthetic they would have granted me in the hospital.
“I don’t want it any way.”
“Feel free to google what happens to open cuts if you don’t fuse them in time.” He rips open the package and lifts the stapler at eye level, propping his hip against the basin. “Now, what shall it be? Staples or an infection?”
His conceited look rubs me in all the wrong (and shamefully right) places, and I snatch his flask with a pout. But instead of just chugging down the booze, he has to come to my aid and unscrew the cap before I knock back as much as I can without puking the stuff back out. Then, he places his hands on my hips, and I stumble two steps to the side as he repositions me so my lower back leans against the basin. Heat sprays over my face as he inches closer, crowding me.
“Eyes on me,” he demands when he removes the blood-soaked shirt to clean the wound, but I opt for focusing on a spot above his head. “How did that happen?”
“Cut my hand on the surfboard fin.”
“Why didn’t you ask for help? You must have seen me working in the garden.”
Nope, didn’t see you. You were practically invisible. “Don’t know. I figured it shouldn’t be so… hard!” I scream when he snaps the first staple into my hand.
The bastard chuckles. This is my payback. Got it.
“And how did that happen?” I ask when the pain becomes bearable, nodding to the band-aid covering his ear and part of his neck.
“Bad fight with a barbed-wire fence.”
I hiss, both from feeling his pain and my own as he shoots another staple into my flesh.
“A pity you didn’t take the sweatpants you chose yesterday. You could have really needed another pair.” He nods to my blood-stained pants, making me chew on my lip.
“And here I was, thinking you’d buy them for me and run after me to apologize for spying on my phone.” Maybe humor can deflect from my humiliation.
He chuckles. “And here I was, thinking you’d run back to me to apologize for slapping”—slam! Another staple—“me in public.”
But despite the lopsided grin on his face, the humor becomes too much, and I cave right after, deflating against the basin like a wrung-out washcloth.
“Shit, I’m so sorry, okay?” I send him a contrite look. “I don’t know what came over me. I was just so… so…”
“Utterly embarrassed? Maddeningly furious? Irritatingly… fiery?” he helps me along, coming closer to my face with each word until he practically whispers the last one over my lips. Just as I open my mouth, he shoots another staple through my skin, making my teeth clack shut.
“Sums it up pretty much.”
He smiles. Good Lord, that smile. It melts my heart and drops hot wax into my belly.
“Apology not accepted.” The last staple drills my skin, but I just gawk at him. “For that slap, I deserve more than some remorseful words and a puppy look.”
My guilt somewhat elevates to a flicker of irritation. “Yeah? What?”
He keeps quiet until he’s finished disinfecting the wound and applying a bandage. Then he stems his hands on the basin, caging me in, his gaze lowering to my mouth. “A kiss?”
Yes, right here, please! my quivering lips scream, but the defiant part in my brain gets the upper hand. “Who’s to say I’m not spoken for?”
“Your boyfriend on vacation, or why did he not pull out that surfboard for you?”
Clearly, a rhetorical question, just to rub it in that he’s calling my bluff. Fine. Let’s clear the air then.
“Dinner,” I say, pushing away from the basin and pushing him away, too. “I’ll invite you over to dinner. Tonight, eight o’clock.”
Surprised delight twinkles in his eyes. “You’d rather cook for me than get a kiss? You called me handsome yesterday, so I can’t be that revolting.”
“By all means, no…” I purposely take in my fill of his godlike body, just to show him that he can’t intimidate me. Although he can. Clearly. “But I don’t do neighbor triangles.”
He jerks back, eyebrows nearly meeting his hairline. “If you’re implying that I’m fucking Christina Robinson, I’ll have to rip out your staples again. One by one.”
I snort. “The other Robinson. Jillian.”
His expression turns from disgusted to mildly annoyed. “Jillian? We haven’t even—”
“I saw you two in your truck,” I slice into his speech. Drawing an invisible line here, I tell him with my stern look.
Lips pursed, he nods slowly. Invisible line reluctantly accepted, for now, his expression says. “And how do you want to cook with one hand?”
This time, it’s me who shows a shit-eating grin as I swagger over to him and place my injured hand right above his heart. “Oh, you’d be amazed by what I can do with one hand…”
And with that, I turn on my heels, leaving him standing in my bathroom.
Invisible line poked but still there.
Six
Samantha
“Sorry, I didn’t get that part,” Kendra says, perching on the counter as she watches me clumsily cutting carrots with my bandaged hand.
“Which part?”
She shakes her head. “So, let me get this straight. You have a date with Jillian’s guy, after you slapped him in a thrift store, after he humiliated you to no end?”
“It’s not a date.” Lie. “Could you give me some space, dammit?” I hiss as I have to reach around her to wash the steaks.
“It is a date. You want us to leave, so you can have him for yourself.”
“I don’t want you to stay because I don’t trust any of you not to say anything awkward.”
“And, therefore, ruining your date.”
“He’s sleeping with Jillian,” I remind her as I pepper the steaks.
“Did he actually say that?” She taps a finger onto her chin. “I just saw them making out, for the record.”
“And you really think they won’t go at it when they’re practically living in the same house?” Ruby throws in, popping a piece of carrot into her mouth.
“Hm, did you notice that his window is opposite yours?” Kendra points to the first floor of Christina’s home.
“How would you know?” Leo asks from the sidelines.
“Jillian showed me the house last month. There are two guestrooms, and I bet my Louis Vuitton bag that Christina gave him the one next to hers.”
I glance out the window. She’s right—it’s exactly opposite mine. My belly makes a silly flip.
“See, maybe my surfboard was meant to hit your car,” Skyla comments, and I shoot her a dark look. She cringes.
“Don’t remind me, Skyla. Your damn surfboard doesn’t have a scratch, whereas my Chevy is full of them.” I hurl the steaks into the pan with more force than necessary.
“I already told you I’ll pay for it…”
“Still, this wouldn’t have happened if—”
“Guys!” Ruby cuts in. “One more word, and I’ll get ear cancer. Stop this. We can’t change it.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Skyla,” I huff, deflated. “I just feel like fate is against me, lately.”
“Oh, I know, honey.” Skyla bounces over to pull me into a tight hug, almost poking my eye with the lollipop sticking from her mouth. “I’m sorry for all the trouble.”
“We’ll help you get rid of the broken tree on Thursday,” Ruby says. “I have my exam in the morning, so I’ll be free in the afternoon.”
“Yeah, I can help out, too. I can switch my Friday shift,” Leo joins in, scratching a spot on her temple with her pencil.
“Thanks, guys. This means a lot to me,” I say, letting loose a smile. “Ruby, do you mind looking after the steaks? I need to get changed.”
And find an outfit for a date that’s not supposed to be a date.
Seven
Matthew
I toss one shirt after another over my shoulder, ransacking my bag in search of something somewhat presentable. Other than shabby tanks and dirt-stained work pants, I only find a rumpled button-down in one of the side pockets.
“A good thing you went shopping yesterday, idiot,” I mutter to myself. Sure, I could borrow something from Christina’s ex, knowing from the tour through the house he’s left an entire walk-in closet full of designer suits, but I try to keep our interactions to a minimum, so I attempt to smooth out the wrinkles with my hands.
