by Misti Murphy
Why I gave her a second glance is beyond me. She is exactly the type of woman I want nothing to do with.
If it’s possible, she straightens her spine even more. At this point, a decent gust of wind would snap her in half she’s so stiff. Ignoring me, she gives Garrett a smile. It’s probably meant to be sweet but doesn’t get past a slight curve. I doubt she uses those muscles much—too afraid her face will crack. It’s a shame because she really is pretty.
Twisting to face Garrett, she asks him, “Does your brother visit often?”
Of course she would assume it’s Garrett who lives here. And it probably isn’t because his polo shirt’s still holding creases from the dry cleaners and he’s wearing the rather impressive watch James gave him for his birthday last year. There really isn’t much difference between Garrett’s and my appearance other than a couple of years. But she wouldn’t be able to fathom how the guy who doesn’t measure up to her expectations of what the male species should be could own this house. I am so going to enjoy the expression on her face when I break this news.
“I just moved in. Guess that makes you my neighbor.”
“You’re my neighbor?” she sputters, her face losing color so that her red cheeks and how big her eyes are becomes noticeable. Dropping her arms to her sides, she glances over her shoulder at her own house before glaring at me. “You’re not serious?”
“Sorry.” I couldn’t care less what she thinks of the situation.
“That’s just great.”
“Good.” I push away from the edge of the deck, ready to end this lovely introduction to the new neighborhood. “See you around, Chloe.”
“I’m going to pay you back for your stunt last night,” she calls out.
“Sure.” I chuckle at the idea of her trying to get one up on me. “Give it your best shot.”
Whipping around, she marches back to her house, picking up the discarded washing basket on the way. When she gets to the door, she gives us one last glowering look before flipping that ponytail and sticking her nose in the air.
“Interesting,” Garrett says. “I’m almost certain hiring a stripper was not the way to make friends in this case.”
“Do you think?” I roll my eyes and make a beeline back inside with him following, still glancing back at where Chloe disappeared.
“What do you think she’s going to do?”
“Nothing.” I set my half-empty beer on the counter. “Other than insulting people, I doubt she could manage to pull a prank. She’d need a sense of humor for that.”
He places his empty bottle next to mine; his mouth tugs up on one side. “A word of advice. Never underestimate your opponent.”
***
The keyboard click clacks under my fingers as I work through another page of coding. Time-consuming stuff, but I enjoy creating programs out of nothing. I’ve been doing it since high school. I started off creating games then switched to business programs in college. Now it’s all about apps.
Saving the program, I sit back and stretch before setting my glasses on the desk and scrubbing at my eyes. The clock in the corner of the larger screen says it’s 4:15 on Friday afternoon. My stomach grumbles loudly while I reposition my glasses on my nose and stroll out of the office toward the kitchen. I lost time again. It happens sometimes when I code. I’ll be sitting down to do an hour or so before bed and the next time I look up it’s the following day.
Taking a glass from beside the sink, I fill it with water. A knock comes from the front of the house. I’m not expecting anyone. It’s probably one of those door-to-door salesmen, selling siding or new windows or some shit. I gulp down the water while I peruse the contents of my fridge. Salad and a leftover lamb chop from last night will fix the hollow spot in my belly.
They rap on my door again, more insistent this time. Then again. It sounds like more than one person knocking. Okay, maybe it’s important. Closing the fridge, I wander into the foyer and open the door.
“Hello.”
So sometimes when I’m coding I fall asleep on my desk. I have to glance back toward the office to decide whether I might still be there, my face mashed against my hands over the keyboard, or actually standing at my front door. A chorus of hellos greet me from the line of women that starts at my porch and winds down the front path and along the street. “What the hell is going on?”
One of the three girls jostling for space on the first step pushes in front of the others. She’s wearing a bright yellow sundress and sandals, dolled up as though she’s auditioning for a role on that bachelor show Bernadette liked to watch. “You’re Paynter.”
“That depends on who’s asking.” I take another slug of water as I run my gaze over the group. There have to be at least thirty, thirty-five women at my door.
“I’m Adeline, and this is my friend Kara.” Another of the three girls pushes herself forward. “We’re here about the advertisement on Craigslist.”
Advertisement on Craigslist? “I think you have the wrong house.”
“Oh no.” She shakes her head. “This was definitely the address.”
“The address for what? I didn’t put any ad on the website. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wait,” the third says as she opens up a small, bright blue purse. “I have it right here.”
I run my gaze over the line again. There’s a disturbing variety of women waiting for me to acknowledge what’s going on, from the young women on the steps to the woman who is talking about her grandchildren and showing pictures to those around her. I’m pretty sure the tallest one near the mailbox is more than a woman. Most of them speak in hushed tones between themselves.
“I wonder if the house is as big as it looks.”
“I hope he’ll pick me.”
“He’s cute. And those glasses. Don’t you think they make him a little like Clark Kent?”
“Do you think he’s into role playing? I’d love to be Lois Lane to his Superman.”
“I’d let him fly me around the world, if you know what I mean.”
What on earth is going on? Why are these women here?
“Here. I found it.” One of the girls pushes a Samsung Galaxy into my hand.
Wealthy Man Seeks Bride
Wealthy man seeks what? If this is one of Garrett’s stupid attempts to get me back on the dating market, he better be prepared to find himself going prematurely gray over the next month. I bet his dates will love a more distinguished look.
I scan the rest of the content. Sure enough, my name is at the bottom along with my address and a time to meet. And as a last addendum, my ideal, totally unrealistic, and far-fetched woman must be able to iron.
“Uh.” I spike my fingers through my hair as I gaze over the group. Considering what was in the ad, I’m surprised so many of them turned up.
That’s when I notice Chloe in front of her house. She’s made herself at home in a lawn chair, her short, serious skirt tucked neatly around her legs. Back to being prim and proper, I see, and nothing like the cute girl sans makeup I got a good peek at the other day. Smug satisfaction brightens her whole face as she raises a wineglass to her mouth. I fight not to grin back at her. I honestly didn’t think she had it in her to pull off any prank, let alone something like this. Well played. Quite well played.
And the ironing thing? She must have been checking me out that night.
“So are you going to interview us?” the girl in yellow asks.
I bring my attention back to the women in front of me. I could just tell them to leave, that the ad was a joke, but the idea of getting the last laugh from Chloe’s stunt is too tempting to pass up. “Why don’t you all come inside? I’ll whip up some refreshments.”
“You can cook?” one of the girls asks, her eyes lighting up. “The ad didn’t say anything about that.”
“That’s sexy,” another exclaims.
Great, now they’re more excited about being here, and I have no idea how I’m going to break the fact this is a stunt to t
hem when they all look so eager and hopeful.
The line moves quickly into the house. Women giggle and chatter animatedly between themselves.
Three of them stop in the foyer to stare in awe at the ridiculous chandelier.
“That’s a big—”
“Everything about this place is big. Do you think the man himself has something comparable?”
“Oh gosh. It really does look like a guy’s...” Her voice drops to a whisper I don’t hear.
Chloe is no longer looking smug. Actually, her smile has been replaced by a thin line, her shoulders pulling back farther and farther. The last woman enters my house, and I smirk and wave. She’s going to have to do better than this.
CHAPTER THREE
CHLOE
He lives next door? Tall, Dark, and Practically Homeless from that evening at the bar lives in my prestigious, two-year-waiting-list-to-get-in neighborhood? It’s a Stepford neighborhood, for God’s sake. He wouldn’t fit in here in a million years, and that’s beside the fact I cannot fathom how he has enough money to actually afford that house.
My dream home. The one I had my eye on when Marcus and I were still together. I could have afforded it only if I’d gotten that promotion. His selfish, underhanded act had not only ended our relationship, it had forced me to purchase a significantly smaller house.
Bastard.
Just like my neighbor. I can’t believe he’s living in my house. How the hell did he get past the approval committee? I barely passed inspection, and I’m the epitome of who they want living in this stuck-up neighborhood.
Meanwhile, Paynter doesn’t look like he works. He sure as hell isn’t a doctor or a lawyer. I would have known ten seconds after meeting him. Men in those professions don’t hide it. Everyone is a potential client, after all.
Maybe he’s a business owner. But what kind of business? He did look like a construction worker or lumberjack that night I met him. Not that I have fantasies about those kinds of men. At least I didn’t before I met Paynter.
I bet he won the lottery. He looks like the type who blows half his paycheck each week on lottery tickets, hoping for the big win so he never has to work again. The kind of guy always looking for the easy way out. He’s probably like that in bed, too. Doesn’t even focus on his partner, just wants to get his rocks off and fall asleep. He’s got selfish and lazy written all over his five o’clock shadowed not-quite-pretty-boy face. Although if he shaved, that smooth skin, those sexy glasses, and those gorgeous blue eyes sure would be pretty. With the whiskers, he’s more... scruffy, sexy in a, well, a lumberjack sort of way.
What am I doing? That stunt with the stripper earned my hatred. I came home that evening and had a rather spectacular date with my vibrator, and then I’d lain in bed and imagined all the ways I would get my revenge, if I ever had opportunity to see the guy again.
And now he’s my neighbor. I will potentially see him every single day. Never mind that I can no longer be myself in my own backyard—none of the other people living in this stuffy place ever use their yards, so I’d thought I was safe in my sweats and ponytail and no makeup.
I have to get him back now. I seriously cannot remember the last time a guy saw me in the middle of the day without makeup. I don’t even answer the phone on the weekends, let alone the door. Just in case. In case of what … well, that’s between me and my therapist.
After hiding in my house all weekend, the idea comes to me while I head into work on Monday morning. The ad. The wording. That bit about the ironing, that’s pretty damn genius, if I do say so myself. James always shuts down the office early on Fridays, unless we have a big project due, so I set the time in the ad for 4:30. I don’t even mind that I’ll have to remain in my suit instead of change into sweats as soon as I arrive home. It will be worth it.
When the first vehicle pulls up and parks at the curb in front of Paynter’s house, I spare a moment to worry that the homeowners’ association will get upset, but a line of cars comes tooling down the street, so it’s too late now.
Paynter’s house looks quiet, like there’s no one home. But I know he’s there, because I saw the light flip on in his kitchen a short time ago, caught a glimpse of his torso as he’d passed a curtainless window. His shirt was as wrinkled as ever and he’d pushed his glasses onto his head and was rubbing his eyes as if he’d just woken up. He probably did sleep all day.
I’ve never watched that bachelor show on television, but it can’t possibly be like this. It’s far too popular, so there must be cattiness and drama. These girls, however, are all sweet as pie, polite and considerate, making friends even as they each hope to be the luckiest of the bunch by the end of the evening. They’ll all be let down eventually, and probably I shouldn’t have gotten them excited like this, but I wasn’t thinking about anything but getting Paynter back when I’d logged into my Paypal account and sent the funds to pay for the ad.
The sky is dark and the air is thick with humidity and it’s probably going to rain soon, but I’ve put enough hairspray on my tresses to ensure they don’t frizz. I need a front row seat for this show. And I want him to see me, of course. That’s the most important aspect of this prank. He needs to know exactly with whom he is dealing.
For a moment, I worry he won’t answer the summons, but soon, four of them are rapping their knuckles on wood and the yappy dog across the street is going nuts behind his own door.
And then Paynter is standing there, staring out at the sight of a row of women, all dressed for a date, all watching him with hopeful gleams in their eyes. I drink deliberately slowly while his gaze rises over their heads to catch mine. I am about to burst out laughing, which is so not me, but what the hell? This situation calls for it.
One of the girls must say something, because he shifts his focus to her and then... Wait, why are they walking into his house? Each and every one, thirty-two women in all, are stepping across that threshold like he’s just invited everyone to a party.
That is not how this is supposed to play out. What the hell is going on?
As the last one titters past him, Paynter glances up and catches my eye again. And smirks. And waves. And then the door is closing behind him.
Oh no. No, no, no. He will not win this one. That is not how it works. I scramble to my feet, wine sloshing over the side of my glass as I make my way across his front lawn in my $140 spiked heels and narrow skirt. Why I didn’t take two steps to the right and use the sidewalk, I cannot say. That man makes me do crazy things. Like burst through his front door like I own the place.
Hell, I’ve been in this house so many times when it was for sale, I know it almost better than the one I settled on. Except, wow, that chandelier wasn’t here before. Paynter had that installed? Never in a million years would I have pegged him as quite so pretentious. That thing is even too gaudy for my standards. I cock my head to the side. As long and narrow as it is, it sort of looks like a...
“Hi there. Are you here about the ad, too?” A cheerful redhead greets me like she’s a hostess. “What are you drinking? I’ll get you a refill.” Does she think Paynter wants a maid? Is that why she’s acting like the hired help?
“I doubt he even has wine in the house, let alone the kind I like.”
“You’d be surprised,” the man himself says, walking toward me, looking as rumpled and sexy as he did the night we met, and holding—for the love of God, is that really a Malbec in his hand?
I lift my glass, allow him to top it off. “Are you spying on me? It cannot be coincidence that you have a Malbec waiting.”
He laughs. “Sorry, sweetheart, it really is pure luck. Although I have now noted your preferred choice of beverage, should we ever find ourselves sitting down by the lake, enjoying a sunset and actually getting along.”
“Not on your life.” I love sitting down by the lake, enjoying the sunset. Especially at this time of year, when the weather is cooler and the trees put on a spectacular show of color. I’ll probably never do it again, now that I kno
w I might run into him there.
I sip the wine, grimace because it’s damn good, and say, “So have you picked one yet?”
“Hold that thought,” he says, and makes his way through the throng of women. As he’s a full head taller than anyone else there—except the one who’s animatedly gesturing at her bright orange and pink purse and talking to someone else over by the fridge—I watch him stride toward the deck. Intrigued despite my better judgement, I follow.
“What are you doing?” I demand when I step outside and find him standing in front of a grill. There’s a tray of what looks like bacon-wrapped, stuffed jalapeños sitting next to the grates, while he focuses on pulling some sort of savory-looking tarts off the flames.
“The ad didn’t mention he was a chef, too,” the woman standing beside me says. “Probably a good thing. Guys who cook are sexy. There would’ve been twice as many of us here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Which part?” Paynter asks. He hands a tray of steaming tarts to a woman wearing a black dress with giant cabbage-like flowers everywhere and asks her to take it inside and place it on the counter so his guests can help themselves.
“You cook?” This doesn’t mesh with the image of him I’ve created in my head.
“Gotta eat,” he responds.
Well, certainly. But that is easily accomplished without cooking. I do it every day. There’s this excellent gourmet market on my way home from work that makes fully prepared meals for the busy executive. On Fridays, they make enough to get me through the weekend.
“Who has this sort of stuff just lying around?” I watch as he flips the stuffed jalapeños. My mouth is watering, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t entirely due to the play of muscle that moves across his shoulders while he tends to the task. I take a slug of wine, but all that does is remind me that he now knows it’s my favorite, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
