Hercules bites his bottom lip and winces. “Oh. Sorry about that.”
“I flew in a few hours ago,” I say. “I’ve been traveling all day. My head is pounding. I’m sleeping on a ridiculously hard mattress with really flat pillows that overwhelmingly smell like Aunt Rue’s lilac perfume, and all I want is a little bit of sleep, but all I hear are drunk people screaming and music pulsing.”
He laughs, studying me.
I tug on the hem of my pajama top. “The green is just a coincidence.”
“So you didn’t come here looking to hook up, then?” He tilts his head, but his smiling eyes tell me he’s teasing.
“Not. At. All.” I hand him the beer-soaked rag, and he blindly tosses it in the sink behind him with stunning accuracy. “I haven’t seen a lot of people in yellow tonight. What’s your story?”
He shrugs. “Just coming out of a long-term relationship. Wasn’t sure if there’d be anyone here tonight worth wearing green for.”
“Cautious. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Something like that.” Hercules lets his gaze fix on mine a little longer before exhaling and gently hitting his hand against the counter beside me. He offers a bittersweet smile and steps back. “All right, well, Zane will be here in a sec.”
With that, he is gone, and I feel bad never having asked his name. He was the least asshole-ish man here tonight, and I wish I could’ve thanked him for not treating me like a piece of meat.
Once again, I’m alone in the kitchen, and I’m half tempted to start cleaning up because standing here twiddling my thumbs is only making me more riled up with each passing minute.
With my back against the island, I watch the clock.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
People flit in and out of the kitchen, passing through, grabbing drinks.
I yawn and check the clock again.
I haven’t even met Zane de la Cruz, and already I’m convinced he’s a giant asshole for throwing a ridiculously obnoxious party on a weeknight, no less, and for keeping me waiting, which I’m positive he’s doing on purpose.
And the stories.
Oh, lord, the stories.
He’s the one getting Aunt Rue so worked up all the time. I have to hear about it every week during our Tuesday night phone chats.
Aunt Rue claims he’s been nothing but trouble since he moved into their little gated community, and as the HOA president, she gets the pleasure of dealing with him every time he refuses to trim his hedges to the covenant-required height or the time he painted his front door in team colors or the time he answered the door with nothing but a sock on his privates and a smirk on his face when Aunt Rue interrupted his three o’clock three-way.
She says he won’t play by anyone’s rules but his own, and it’s a miracle the Gainesville Cougars haven’t kicked him to the curb already.
No wonder she can’t stand him: he’s made it his personal mission to live a life of hedonistic defiance.
I blow a strand of hair from my eyes and unhook my arms. I can’t stand here doing nothing a minute more. Stacking red Solo cups into other red Solo cups, I dump them into an overflowing trash can at the end of the island. Next, I move to the chips, crumpling up the empty bags and tossing them as well.
Some miscellaneous plates and silverware fill the rest of the island. I stack them neatly and place them in the left side of the kitchen sink before searching the cabinets for a bottle of cleaner for the spills on the counter.
Lastly, I stoop down to the mess on the floor, a clean rag in hand, and sop up the spilled beer and wine covering the dark wood floor courtesy of the crazy exhibitionists.
A man clears his throat. “I was told the maid wasn’t coming until noon.”
I look up, my gaze landing on a bulge the size of Texas hiding behind clinging, sun-faded, olive-green chinos.
A tan hand reaches down, palm open wide.
Swallowing the dry lump in my throat, I place my hand in his and allow him to pull me into a standing position. My lungs gasp for air as I attempt to find my balance as a delicious, woodsy scent invades the space around me.
This man oozes sex appeal. He doesn’t even have to do anything but stand here, looking at me the way he is, and my knees buckle.
No one, and I mean no one, has ever done this to me.
I’m quite embarrassed actually, and my cheeks are giving it all away.
My stare lands on a crisp white-shirt that clings enough to show off washboard abs, and then I lift my gaze to the bare flesh of his sun-kissed chest, accentuated by a V-neck only someone looking like this could pull off outside of a fraternity setting.
Clearing my throat and pulling myself together, I lift my shoulders back and rest my hands on my hips. Maybe I should be girding my loins too.
“I’m Zane,” he says, with a curious smirk that showcases a deep dimple in his right cheek. “You wanted me?”
My mind is hurried with thoughts that never find my lips, and I struggle to form a legible sentence in the company of a man who looks like . . . this.
His jaw goes for days, intersecting at the cleft in his chin, and his full lips are pulled up at the corners as his maple-honey eyes are locked on mine. Zane hooks a hand on his hip and rests the other casually on the edge of the kitchen island, his brows lifting as he waits for me to speak.
Forcing my own composure, I take a moment, inhale, and remind myself that sugar goes a hell of a lot further than vinegar.
“You normally stop by other people’s private parties and start cleaning up their kitchen?” He masks a laugh. “Or did you escape from somewhere? Should I be calling the authorities? Is anyone looking for you?”
Screw sugar.
He’s getting a mouthful of vinegar.
My jaw slacks, and I feel my word venom collecting and rising, burning my throat on the way up.
“Relax, gorgeous.” His hand cups my shoulder, engulfing it, really. The man has some big . . . hands. And he called me gorgeous. Though lucky for me, I’m smart enough to know he probably doesn’t mean it, and I sure as hell won’t let that weaken my resolve. “I’m teasing. But really, you don’t need to clean my kitchen. I pay people to do that.”
His messy dark hair is tugged and pulled into a work of art on top of his head, playing off his bronze skin, innately sensual gaze, and white smile. The hint of a tattoo peeks out from beneath his collar, and drawings in black cover his muscled, veiny forearms.
“I just came by to ask you to keep the noise down.” I fold my arms, taking a step back. “I’m next door trying to sleep, and it’s kind of hard with all this noise. Would you mind asking your guests to come inside?”
We both glance outside, where a group of guys are hitting a beach ball over the pool volleyball net with bikini-clad girls on their shoulders. The sound of their laughter carries into the kitchen, floating on a breeze of pumping house music.
“You Rue’s niece?” he asks.
“Great niece. Yes.”
“Ah.” His stare washes over me, head to toe, dripping slow. His shoulders rise and fall as his eyes narrow. “Delilah, right?”
My fingertips reach toward my collarbone, instinctively looking to toy with a necklace that isn’t there.
“How’d you know my name?” I ask.
“Rue told me,” he says, brows lifted, as if the answer should be obvious.
I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh at the kinds of things I can imagine coming from that seventy-five-year-old woman’s filter-free lips.
“But she didn’t tell me why you’re here.” His full lips jut as he slides his hands in his pockets. “Just told me to stay the hell away from you.”
That sounds exactly like Rue.
“She told me no niece of hers would be caught dead associating with a filthy football player,” he adds, though the twinkle in his warm eyes tell me he’s more amused than offended.
“Have to hand it to Rue, she doesn’t mince words.” My
strong front is dissolving at warp speed. I need to get back on track. Injecting my voice with as much professionalism as I can muster at this ungodly hour, I add, “Anyway, if you could maybe just steer the party inside, I’d appreciate it.”
He stands, staring with this intense expression on his ridiculously handsome face, making this moment more awkward than it needs to be.
“Ok…ay.” I nod and eye the doorway. Luckily the masses have relocated, and I can see the front door from here. I take a step, and another, eyes fixed on the doorknob. I can almost feel the cool metal in my palm.
“Wait.”
I turn to see Zane following me, and I stop to face him when I reach the foyer.
“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I tilt my head, confused.
“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he states with even more conviction than the first time.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too young to be the fucking Fun Police,” he says. “And I’d be doing you a disservice if I immediately obeyed you, because then you might actually start believing you’re the center of the universe.”
I see red for a moment, gulping in air and composing my thoughts. “I do not think I’m the center of the universe, and I certainly don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little bit of human decency. You live in a neighborhood. With neighbors. It’s the middle of the week and people are sleeping. You can’t just turn your backyard into a brothel-slash-club and then get offended when someone politely asks you to take it down a notch.”
Zane offers an incredulous half-smirk and steps closer. The top of my head fits snugly beneath his chin, but I won’t let his size intimidate little old me.
Oh, no, no no.
I can go rounds with this meathead if I have to.
“First of all, this isn’t a brothel. This is a stoplight party,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact.
“Aren’t you a little old to be having a stoplight party?” I ask. “Or are you in some kind of grown man fraternity?”
He ignores me. “Second, a little house music does not constitute a club, and third, you didn’t politely ask me to take it down a notch. You requested that I relocate my entire party, and you pretty much demanded it.”
“That’s your interpretation of things,” I say. I’m well aware that each and every word leaving my mouth is not doing me any favors, but I refuse to stand here and let this Abercrombie athlete make me walk out of here with my tail tucked between my legs.
“Was there anything else you needed, Delilah? I have guests to attend to, so . . .”
My fists clench at my sides. He’s lucky I’m not a violent person, because a firm smack across his chiseled chin would feel really good about now.
“I guess we’re finished here,” I say.
It’s glaringly obvious he’s not going to cave to my request, so I suppose my business here is done.
Reaching for the doorknob, I jerk the door open, gifting him a squinting glare, and slam it behind me. I didn’t think it was too much to ask for a little common courtesy. A little human decency. And if he thinks I was demanding it, he’s delusional. I was nothing but professional and dignified.
And I was right earlier.
Zane de la Cruz is a giant asshole.
Chapter 2
Zane
Coach Roberts truly believed that if I moved to a gated community in a suburb of Gainesville where the average resident is sixty-seven, it might calm me down. He thought it would break me of my “wild ways.”
Instead, I’ve felt like nothing more than a tiger pacing his cage, anxious to get out, to not be tied down, bossed around, and told what to do.
My neighbors to the north are Clarice and Don Chapman. Retired transplants from Big Sky, Montana. Mid-sixties. Clarice likes to lay out by her pool in modest floral bathing suits, slathered in SPF 50 as she bitches at Don for not clipping the hedges to HOA-approved height. Why they don’t hire it out like the rest of the neighborhood is beyond me. By the time Don finishes, he’s sunburnt and blustery, throwing his shears and waving off Clarice as he heads inside to fetch her an ice-cold lemonade.
If that’s what married life is, then count me the fuck out.
Anyway, when the Chapmans cruise down the street together in their little green golf cart, they smile and wave like we’re pals here, but I’ve heard the things they say about me.
The lots here are huge, but they’re all landscaped to death. Voices carry. Out windows. Through hedges. Down retaining walls. Over fences.
I know what they think of me – especially that sassy ol’ Rue Rosewood next door. She’s seventy-five, has a hell of a lot of opinions, and she’s not afraid to make sure everyone within a five-mile radius of Laguna Palms knows them.
She’s also the HOA president, a role she takes very seriously.
Too seriously in my opinion.
That woman watches me like a hawk, noting my comings and goings. Dropping by with “friendly” reminders in the form of written warnings taped to my door.
How was I supposed to know that the trash can had to be hidden from street view Tuesday through Sunday? That we could only use white or gray rock in our landscaping? That backing into driveways wasn’t allowed because registration stickers needed to be viewable from the sidewalk? That we had mandatory Christmas light colors that coincided with our house numbers?
I’ll never forget her standing on my doorstep my first December in Laguna Palms. She was sweet, bringing a plate of sugar cookies decorated like snowmen. And then she demanded I take down the twinkling blue lights lining my roof and promptly replace them with red.
And here I was just trying to fit in. To be neighborly. I don’t even fucking like Christmas that much.
But despite the fact that Rue Rosewood has been the biggest fucking pain in the ass since the day we met, I kind of have a soft spot for her. She reminds me of my abuela, Magdalena, the grandmother who raised me since I was nine. We lost her a couple years ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. Or the crazy things that came out of her mouth half the time.
I never take Rue’s insults to heart, because if she’s anything like Magdalena was, they’re all coming from a good place, and somewhere beneath that hardened exterior is a whole lot of harmless fluff.
Rising above the over-chlorinated water of the Laguna Palms community pool, I inhale a lungful of air and dive back down, my arms and legs propelling me toward the end. When I reach the wall, I rise, sliding my hand down my face to clear my vision as I steady my breath.
“Seriously?” A woman’s voice fills my water-filled ears.
I shake my head to try and recover my hearing once more, and my eyes focus on a set of pink-manicured toes resting on a lounge chair in front of me.
“Don’t you have your own pool?” she asks, folding her book and setting it aside.
I move toward the ladder, climbing out. Drenched, I’m caught off guard when she tosses me a towel from the chair beside her.
“My pool is . . . out of commission today.” I opt to leave it at that and not go into detail about the floating globs of orange vomit left by a mystery guest this morning. “I pay my association dues. I’m allowed to swim here.”
I dry off, half-attempting to comb my hair into place and hoping she doesn’t think I’m doing it for her.
I mean, sure, Delilah’s hot.
She’s beyond hot.
She’s like a mermaid and a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had a baby . . . hot. And I’m not even sure she realizes it.
Bee-stung lips. Hourglass curves. Dark, sultry gaze. Long, dark hair that falls in her face.
But after the season I had last year and almost getting kicked off the team for dropping twelve too many F-bombs on live television and discovering my playboy reputation was beginning to overshadow all the hard work I put into my athletic prowess, I made an emergency re-commitment to all things career-oriented.
No g
irls.
Less booze.
Zero shenanigans.
Coach’s orders – or else I’ll be released from my wildly lucrative contract.
I’d forfeit millions in future earnings.
The party last night was an exception. A couple of players and I decided to throw something together for our buddy, Weston, who’s been down and out since breaking things off with his long-time girlfriend. We gave him strict instructions to show up in head-to-toe green, and the asshole had the nerve to walk into his stoplight party in fucking yellow.
Yellow!
“Fair enough.” Delilah shrugs, retrieving her book and burying her nose between the pages. Lowering it into her lap a moment later, she shields her eyes from the sun and looks my way. “Anyone ever tell you staring is rude?”
“I’m not staring. I was thinking. You just happened to be blocking my line of sight.”
She flicks a page. “Stare in a different direction.”
“What if I don’t want to? What if I want to stare to the north?” God damn it. I have more game than this.
I continue to gape, trying to get a read on the enigma before me. A perfect, shiny bun rests on top of her head. Not so much as a hair out of place. She adjusts her giant sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of her straight-as-an-arrow nose and leans back in the lounger, swiping a Red Vine from a small package to her side and sticking the end in the corner of her mouth.
Oh, how I’d give anything to be that Red Vine right now, nestled between those two pillow-sized lips she has.
And then my gaze drops down to the rest of her.
Her hourglass figure is covered in a modest, black one-piece.
Lame.
“You should really try to cover up a little more.” I toss my towel over my shoulder and pretend to be disgusted.
She tugs her sunglasses off her face, jaw gone slack.
“I mean, really. This is a family establishment and you’re lying around in that?” I point. “I don’t think Myrtle Rickers would appreciate the kind of looks you’re going to draw from Mr. Rickers when they get here in . . .” I glance at the clock hanging on the side of the pool house. “Oh, about fifteen minutes.”
The Complete Rixton Falls Series Page 46
