Spy Thy Neighbor

by Shandi Boyes

  "Is this your mom?" I lift up a photo of a lady with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. She has a broad grin stretched across her face, and her arm is wrapped around Hunter's waist. She's quite short, the top of her head only just reaching Hunter's shoulder.

  Hunter’s eyes lift from my laptop to peer at the photo I am holding. “Yeah, that’s my mom and my little sister,” he informs me, his tone gruff and reserved.

  “Your sister is very young,” I respond, my voice high in surprise.

  The little girl in the photo appears to be around the age of four or five, so I didn’t consider that she’d have some type of family connection to Hunter.

  “She was five in that photo; she’s ten now.”

  "How old were you in that picture?" I place the picture frame back on the mantelpiece and mosey closer to him.

  Hunter's brow cocks, and he eyes me curiously. "Are you trying to find out how old I am?"

  I smile and nod.

  “Then why don’t you just ask?”

  Although his tone has a slight edge of annoyance in it, the twinkle in his eyes doesn’t relay any anger.

  I prop my elbows on the counter and gaze into his dark blue eyes. “How old are you, Hunter?”

  “Old enough to know from the sparkle in your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if I were 25 or 55, you’d still want to jump my bones.”

  My mouth gapes. Nothing against him, he has the body of an Adonis and many other impressive attributes, but he's the complete opposite of the men I've dated. I like my men clean shaven and smooth. Hunter is rough and a little too edgy for my liking. Hunter couldn't be any more opposite of Riley if he tried.

  Riley is as stiff as the horrid ties he wears every day behind his crisp, perfectly laundered suits. The only time I've seen Riley out of a suit was when he was returning from a soccer match. He shaves his face every morning at precisely seven AM and polishes his shoes every Thursday night while sitting in our bed watching Scandal.

  Unlike Riley, I've not once seen Hunter in a suit. His clothing preference seems to favor designer jeans and a range of plaid shirts. The majority of his face is covered in a thick beard, and his hair is a little too long for my liking. If you saw Hunter and Riley standing side by side, it would be like comparing night to day. Riley looks like a cut-throat businessman, whereas Hunter looks set to cut down a tree.

  "I'm twenty-eight," Hunter informs me, the roughness in his tone demanding my attention. “I’m a Capricorn, don’t like long walks on the beach, am allergic to shellfish, and have one sibling.” His lips perk, and his brows furrow. “I think that about covers it. Unless you have any other questions you’d like me to answer?”

  Okay, now his eyes are sparked with annoyance. Obviously, he isn’t a fan of being interrogated… or holding a conversation.

  “Nope, we’re all good.” I plop onto the stool next to him.

  Several minutes pass in silence. It's awkward and highly uncomfortable. If he didn't have my laptop sprawled into a million pieces across his kitchen counter, I would have snatched it from his grasp and went and hid, only emerging when the devil horn-wearing Hunter disappeared. It sucks to admit this, but I prefer the fictional Hunter I've created on paper to the one sitting next to me.

  Cursing under his breath, Hunter sets down a small screwdriver and runs his hand along the edge of his scruff-covered jaw. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to… this.” He gestures his hand to me.

  “This?” I arch a brow.

  “Interacting with girls,” he responds, his tone apprehensive.

  I bow my brows even higher as I glare into his eyes. That's a blatant lie. I’ve seen him interact with plenty of women the past six weeks. Other than sleeping, that seems to be the only thing he does in his pretty glass house.

  “Interacting with them while they are stilled clothed,” he adds on when he notices my contemptuous face.

  “Oh, well, in that case.” I stand from my chair while fumbling with the buttons on my crushed linen shirt.

  When he fails to acknowledge my attempt at humor, I flop back onto the barstool. “I’m not getting naked just to make you feel comfortable,” I inform him, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  His murky blue eyes lock with mine. “Oh, was that for my comfort? I thought it was part payment for me fixing your laptop.”

  My brow cocks. “Part payment? Believe me, buddy, if I were going to strip naked for services rendered, you'd be stamping the invoice paid in full."

  Hunter chuckles a full-hearted laugh. Once his laughter settles down, he says, “I like you, Paige.” His voice sounds surprised by his admission.

  Another length of silence passes between us. This time, it's void of the earlier awkwardness. Hunter continues pulling my laptop into hundreds of tiny pieces, making it look like one giant jigsaw puzzle I’d never have the chance of putting together, while I watch him in awe.

  After a beat, Hunter raises his eyes to mine. “What do you do for a living, Paige?”

  I won’t lie; I like the way he says my name. He adds a tinge of huskiness to it, giving it a sexy feel.

  “I’m a… writer?” I half-inform, half-question.

  I don't know why, but even with fourteen books penned under my name, I still feel like a fraud when I tell people I “write” for a living. I've never had any other occupation. I started writing short stories for the high school newsletter when I was a junior, then I went to college to study my craft. With the ease of self-publishing, my first novel was listed for download the month I started college. And as they say, the rest is history.

  Now don't read my admission the wrong way. It's often quoted that being a writer is hard work. It is. To gain traction in this industry, you must see it as a marathon, not a sprint. It took me a good two years to upgrade my dinner selections from ramen noodles to microwave meals. Only once my “work” was put into the right hands did I see substantial readership growth.

  But if I don't continue producing new novels every couple of months, I'll lose my vivacious audience, which in turn means I'll lose revenue. Since I don't want to go back to eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and ramen noodles for dinner, I must hand in my draft by the end of next month.

  When the smell of burning skin streams through my nose, I shift my eyes to the side. Hunter’s face is lined with anger; his nostrils are flaring, and his ferocious gaze is burning a hole in the side of my head.

  “You’re a reporter?” His voice is a vicious snarl.

  You’d think the panic I felt when he stormed over to my bungalow last week would be my most fearful moment with him. It isn’t. With the way he's glaring at me, and from the furious tick his beard-covered jaw is failing to hide, I'm shaking in my boots more now than I was when he busted me spying on him in the middle of a lust-hazed romp.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I write books.”

  In a flash, the natural beige coloring of Hunter's face returns, closely followed by the normal width of his eyes.

  Once the crinkles in his brows smooth, he asks, “What type of books?”

  I balk, flabbergasted by his sudden change in demeanor. He’s gone from looking like a man who was going to scoop out my liver and eat it for dinner, to the humble boy next door… if you can look past his tattoos and rough exterior.

  When I remain quiet, he shifts his gaze from my laptop to me. His eyes roam over my flushed cheeks, wide eyes, and O-formed mouth.

  “Do you write mommy porn?” he queries with a cheeky grin.

  My dropped jaw gains leverage. “What? No!” Although some of the scenes I’ve written about him are borderline mommy porn.

  “I write romance,” I inform him, my tone as unconvincing as the ruffled expression on my face.

  Hunter’s brow cocks. “Fifty Shades of Grey was classed as romance.”

  Now he has me by the throat.

  “Did you read it?” My voice is a high shriek as my writer fighting spirit emerges.

  Hunter angles his body to face me. “What? Fifty shad
es?”

  I nod. His tongue delves out to lick his lips before he turns his attention back to my laptop.

  “Well? Did you?” I ask again when he stays as quiet as a baby sleeping.

  When his beard fails to hide his wry smirk, I tap my boots against his. “Then you can’t really call it mommy porn, can you?! As I’m fairly sure you don’t have any mommy parts.”

  I'm not going to lie; my insides are doing the cha-cha from discovering that he reads. There's nothing sexier in the world than a brute of a man with panty-wetting good looks holding a book in his hand.

  I'm part of numerous Facebook groups solely dedicated to hunting down sexy man readers. Now, I wish I'd packed paperback versions of my books. It could have been a stellar marketing move on my behalf. Although, my clean, sweet romance reads may not be up to Hunter's mommy porn standards.

  Another dense moment of silence passes between us. But unlike the previous two times, there's a weird tingling sensation impinging the air around us. It's similar to the strange connection I feel when he stares up at my writing cave window. It's heart pumping and intense.

  Our strange kinship only dampens when the shrill of a cell phone fills the void of silence. Hunter places parts of my laptop onto the white marble countertop and retrieves a cell out of his pocket. My brows furrow when I notice how outdated his phone is. With how computerized his house is and his obvious wealth, I'm shocked he's carrying a phone similar to the one I had when I was a teeny bopper.

  Drifting his eyes to me, Hunter flips open his phone and presses it to his ear. “Boss,” he greets. “Hmm, weird… Okay, I’ll take some equipment to your apartment this afternoon and complete a search.”

  Hunter stands from his chair and paces to the large door at the back of the living room.

  “What type of devices am I looking for?” he asks before slipping out the glass door.

  Surprisingly, all noise stops when he closes the door behind him. I know for a fact his house isn’t sound proof. But from the way his lips are moving, and I can’t hear a peep he's speaking, I’m going to assume he made his house sound proof from outside noise. This man just keeps getting more intriguing as the weeks move on.

  Once Hunter finishes his call, he returns the phone to his pocket and walks back to me. "I have to go and run a few errands," he informs me, his tone back to its initial gruffness.

  “Okay, no worries.” I glance down at my dissembled laptop as I slip off the barstool.

  Noticing my nervy expression, Hunter says, “I’ll finish repairing your computer as soon as I get back and drop it off later tonight.”

  “That will be great, thanks,” I reply, smiling.

  I lean in, preparing to kiss him goodbye on the cheek before remembering I'm practically a stranger to him. So instead of a friendly kiss goodbye, I wave like a gullible idiot. I swear I look like a twelve-year-old. Cringing at my idiocy, I make a beeline for the glass door Hunter just entered.

  Even with waves crashing onto the foreshore and my pulse shrilling in my ears, I still hear his faint laughter as I dash across the patch of sand between our patios.

  Chapter Six

  “Oh my god. I think I’m in love!” I declare loudly, excitement in my voice.

  Hunter smirks. "It was nothing major, just a fuse short-circuiting the tantalum surface mount capacitor, causing…"

  He stops talking when he notices my baffled expression. It's safe to say computers and I have never been close friends.

  “It’s fixed,” he advises in a terminology I can understand.

  I place the switched-on laptop on my entranceway table and fire up my Scrivener writing program. I snap my eyes closed and send a prayer to the writing gods for guiding me to Hunter when all my manuscripts, both current and old are displayed on my once-again-functioning screen.

  “Thank you so much!” I squeal with dramatic flair. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  In my excitement, I lean in and press a kiss on the side of his cheek. A small grin tugs on the corners of my mouth when the prickles from his beard tickle my nostrils. I can't believe how soft his beard is. I'd been anticipating it to have a steel wool type of feel, where it feels as soft as a cashmere sweater. An interesting fact I’ll note for future reference.

  Ignoring his noteworthy rugged smell, I pull back from my impromptu embrace and peer into Hunter’s eyes. “How much do I owe you?” My voice is still high with elation.

  “It’s fine. No payment is required.”

  “Come on, I have to pay you something.”

  I drift my eyes to his palatial home on my right while my mind contemplates on an appropriate method of payment.

  “What about a beer?” I suggest, realizing anything of monetary value wouldn’t be of interest to him.

  My lips curve into a vast smile when Hunter nods. “A beer sounds great.”

  “Awesome.” I clap my hands together. Why the hell does he have me acting like a twelve-year-old?

  "You take a seat," I instruct, gesturing to the paper covered two-seater sofa in the middle of the cozy living area, "And I'll grab us a beer."

  After gathering my scraps of handwritten notes off the couch and coffee table, I sashay into the kitchen and snag two cold bottles of beer from the sparsely stocked fridge. Pacing back into the living room, my head angles to the side and a grin tugs on my lips. Although Hunter isn't overly large, standing approximately six feet tall with a moderate build, his frame swamps the homely-sized living room.

  Still smiling, I hand Hunter a bottle of beer before taking the spare seat next to him. “Cheers.” I clink the neck of my beer against his before downing a generous mouthful.

  Beer comes spurting out of my mouth, drenching both Hunter and myself with malted liquid when he asks, “So how long have you been a voyeur? Just the six weeks you’ve been here or is it something you’ve done before?

  I cough and wheeze, fighting to breathe through a mouthful of beer now sitting in my lungs instead of my flipping stomach. Although mortified with embarrassment, my panic doesn’t last long when I fail to see any type of anger reflecting from Hunter. He appears more concerned about my coughing fit than my incriminatory activities.

  Once my mini meltdown simmers, I lift my eyes to him. “You knew I was watching the whole time?”

  A cunning grin etches on his sinful mouth before he nods. "For future reference, when you’re standing in pitch black darkness, the brightness of an iPhone screen illuminates your entire face."

  I gulp loudly. He eyes me curiously while taking a sip of his beer. I set my beer on the coffee table and sit on my hands, hoping to conceal their rattling shake from Hunter.

  “Why aren’t you mad?” My heart beats double time as I impatiently wait for him to answer my question.

  After letting me stew for several heart-pounding seconds, he says, “Your interest has given me a slight curiosity in Martymachlia.”

  “Marty what?” The tremble of my heart is evident in my voice.

  “Martymachlia is sexual arousal from having others watch their activities,” Hunter explains.

  My pupils dilate to the size of dinner plates. But I’ll be honest, even shocked beyond hell he just admitted getting turned on by having people watch him during intimate moments, I am incredibly aroused. It isn't the fact he's a little more deviant than I expected. It's because he's so comfortable with his sexual preferences. It's a refreshing change from what I am used to. Riley refused to talk about anything relating to sex – in or out of the bedroom.

  I lift my eyes to Hunter. “So instead of being angry about me spying on you, you liked it?”

  He smirks but remains quiet with his eyes locked on me. I inwardly gasp when a warm slickness coats my panties from the look of hunger materializing in his eyes as he stares at me. I've watched Hunter for weeks, and my body has never reacted this way. Like he can read my inner thoughts, he smiles an audacious grin before taking another swig from his beer. I return his ardent stare, blinking and confused
.

  I thought the friendship I created with Hunter’s pseudonym, Archer, was a little crazy, but this is ten times weirder. Hunter and I are virtually strangers, but we are sitting in my living room – that now seems two sizes too small from the stifling heat bouncing between us – talking about his sexual preferences as if we are discussing the difference between full cream and skim milk. Although a little weird, I do appreciate his frankness. It's very rare to find a guy willing to discuss anything these days, let alone sex.

  I adjust my position, angling my body more to Hunter. “So how did you discover you had this marty condition?” I try to keep my tone neutral, pretending this is something I discuss regularly.

  He glares at me over the rim of his beer. “Please don’t say it like that. It makes it sound like I’m some sort of… freak.”

  I arch my brow and stare into his eyes in a sadistic, jeering type of way.

  “Who are you to talk?” he reprimands, returning my leering stare. “You’re the one getting all horny watching. I at least had a partner.”

  “Partners,” I correct, drawing out the S. “Besides, I wasn’t getting all horny.” My voice sounds like a pre-pubescent teen when I say the last word.

  “Come on, Paige. I’m here being honest, and you’re sitting there spitting out lies like Richard Nixon during the Watergate Scandal.”

  I sneer at him before drifting my eyes to the coffee table to contemplate. I can’t look at Hunter’s enchanting eyes and maintain rational thoughts. I honestly didn’t find the interactions between him and his female companions sexually arousing. I viewed their exchanges as if they were a piece of the nude artwork hanging on his walls. I appreciated the smooth lines and fluidity of their connection but didn't get any stimulation from it. Well, other than mental.

  “There's nothing to be ashamed of, Paige. If watching people is your thing, then it’s your thing,” Hunter says, misunderstanding my quietness as embarrassment.

  “I’m not a voyeur,” I assure, returning my eyes to his.