by Liora Blake
“The Sullivans are on the end here. Patty’s mom lives with them, but she doesn’t get out much since her stroke. They keep to themselves for the most part. But you’ll see them spending plenty of time outside, keeping after their landscaping.” Gwen sent a pointed look at the Sullivans’ boxwood hedges, with edges so perfectly squared that Anya would have sworn they were fake. “Retired CPAs,” Gwen added, as if that explained the hedges completely.
Jack scoffed quietly. “He trims his hedges with a pair of manicure scissors. Who does that?”
“Jack,” Gwen quietly chided. She nudged her chin toward the next house, a two-story that was finished in bright coral-colored stucco.
“The Kang family lives there. Jeffrey still works; he does environmental compliance for a big copper mining outfit. Melanie retired from a nursing career last year. Their grandson is here this summer while his parents do some private contractor work overseas, so she’s a full-time grandma until the end of August. He’s a handful and is always on the move. Try to keep an eye out for him when you drive in and out of the neighborhood. Kevin has been known to ride his bike into the street without looking.”
Jack tucked the stack of mail under one arm. “Look for a kid dressed like Elsa from Frozen but wearing a Spider-Man mask. Occasionally he’ll stand in the front yard and belt out a pop song like he’s auditioning for some TV talent show. You can’t miss him. He’s an adorable high-speed blur of bright colors and chaos.”
Anya laughed. Kevin sounded like her kind of people. Gwen gestured to the other side of the street, back toward the entrance to the cul-de-sac.
“Camilla and Susan Pelle live across the street from the Sullivans. Susan is a chef and Camilla does contract negotiation over at Raytheon.”
“Missiles,” Jack offered, entirely awed at Camilla’s work based on the wistful look on his face. Then his expression tensed, and he turned his attention to the next house.
“The Hintons,” he sighed.
Gwen grimaced and lowered her voice a notch. “They’re wonderful people. Generous and patient. So nice.”
Jack muttered “too nice” under his breath. Gwen’s attention fixed on a big pickup truck backed into the driveway, its wheels and tires caked in a thick layer of red mud. A large oil spot under the front end of the truck stained the otherwise pristine driveway. Anya didn’t know much about real estate, but if she had to venture a guess, the price of a house in this neighborhood probably nudged seven figures—so the truck, the mud, and the oil stain all looked out of place given the upper-class vibes.
“Their nephew is staying with them. He’s . . .” She paused, struggling to find the words she wanted. “Trying to find his way.”
Jack snorted. “He’s a putz. He doesn’t need to ‘find his way.’ He needs a job. And a haircut.”
Gwen looked resigned, as if she knew she probably should chastise Jack but couldn’t quite manage to, because she agreed with him.
Just as the three of them made it back to the Greenes’ house, another retiree-aged couple emerged from the house directly across the street from theirs. Gwen immediately gave them a wave and called out across the street with a near shout.
“Ben! Delilah! This is Anya! She’s the house sitter we told you about!” Gwen grasped Anya by the shoulders, jostling her around a bit, just in case they might not be sure who she was talking about.
When the couple started their way, Gwen dropped her voice to a stage whisper.
“The Maxwells. He’s retired Air Force, she’s a homemaker. They’re practically the perfect neighbors. Nice but not nosy, helpful without being overbearing. Their son is staying with them right now, but it’s nothing like what the Hintons are dealing with. Jericho does nothing but work.”
The Maxwells were as matched a pair as Jack and Gwen were, although shorter and more conservative-looking. Mrs. Maxwell was dressed colorfully, in a bright pink short-sleeved top adorned with sequined butterflies, white pedal pushers, and shiny purple Sketchers.
Mr. Maxwell looked as if his military days still influenced his clothing choices: pressed khaki pants, a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of no-nonsense tennis shoes. His neatly clipped crew cut reminded Anya of the Sullivans’ box hedges. Standing ramrod straight with his shoulders pulled back and his hands clasped together at the small of his back, he had a commanding air that inspired Anya to stand a little straighter in his presence. When he extended a hand, Anya braced herself for a firm handshake that was bound to leave her fingers aching.
“Ben Maxwell. Pleasure to meet you.”
Anya’s brow furrowed at the timbre of his voice. It rankled something in her memory that she wasn’t able to place. She couldn’t dwell on it for long, as his wife introduced herself in a southern accent that Anya found as endearing as Alec’s drawl.
“I’m Delilah. So nice to meet you, dear.” She tucked a stray lock of gray-blond hair behind her ear. “Just let us know if you ever need anything. Feel free to knock on our door whenever. We’re home most days, although I volunteer at the hospital on Tuesdays and Ben drives for the local food bank on Thursdays. But if we’re not there, Jericho may be home. His work schedule is demanding, but when he’s off duty, he’s very available.”
At the mention of her son’s name, meddlesome grins crept across her and Gwen’s faces. Jack rolled his eyes. Ben groaned. Then they both spoke at the same time.
“No, Delilah.”
“Don’t start, Gwen.”
Gwen and Delilah both feigned innocence, but it was too late. Anya knew awkward matchmaking when she saw it.
This Jericho guy had her sympathies, for sure. First off, his name was Jericho, which was one heck of a name to carry around, better suited to superheroes or really old men. Plus, his mom clearly thought that something needed to be done about his “available” status, and pronto. Anya wouldn’t be surprised if he kept up a demanding work schedule in order to avoid his well-intentioned mother’s attempts to auction him off to the nearest eligible female.
Just then, a black SUV turned onto the cul-de-sac, and when Delilah spotted it, her face lit up and she began to wave her hands in the air, working to catch the driver’s attention as the SUV rolled to a stop in the Maxwells’ driveway. Delilah called out to the driver before the car door was even open.
“Jericho! Come say hello to the Greenes! And Anya!”
Anya was pretty sure that poor Jericho was stalling, because it seemed to be taking an unusually long time for him to get out of the car. If he was considering ways to barricade himself in the car and avoid today’s bachelor auction, she wouldn’t fault him for that.
Finally, the car door opened and a man stepped out. His back was to them, wearing a sleeveless workout shirt that revealed portions of his broad shoulders and all of his strong arms. Given all the muscles that rippled across his exposed skin, it seemed that the back of his shirt wasn’t sweaty simply because it was a cloudless ninety-nine-degree day in Tucson. Add in the black jogger pants he had on and the sports drink clutched in his free hand, and Anya would bet on the fact that Jericho knew his way around a gym.
Anya’s gaze traveled over his arms again, covered from shoulder to wrist in tattoos. She stilled for a moment. The tattoos begged for her attention because even at a distance, the ink seemed . . . familiar.
The sort of familiarity that was unavoidable when she’d dragged her nails over a man’s tattoo-covered biceps as he hovered over her, telling her about all the ways he wanted to make her come before the night was out. Or when that same man had later wrapped an arm around her body and hauled her upright, making it so he could thrust into her from behind, just a little bit harder and a little bit deeper.
When the man finally turned around, Anya’s body understood what was happening before her brain did. Heat ran through her in a rush, creating a blush on her cheeks and an ache between her legs.
JT’s eyes took her in, slowly and deliberately. His awareness of her felt exactly as it had in her hotel room: potent, powerful, and heated
. It would take decades for her to forget how desired that look had made her feel.
But there was something else in his expression, too. Disbelief battling with panic.
Anya understood that look.
Because she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry.
7
JT
JT decided that whatever this hallucination was, it was Chris’s fault. It had to be.
Because it was Chris who had been in charge of their team’s punishing workout this afternoon. By the time they’d completed the two hours of conditioning that Chris had apparently designed when he was temporarily insane, JT was on the verge of either passing out or puking. Usually JT relished that wrung-out feeling and the satisfaction that came with pushing his own limits. A killer workout was always a good reminder of how much his body could take when he refused to let his brain convince him to give up.
Once they finished, he told Chris that he was a twisted motherfucker and advised he would pay for this on Friday when JT planned their workout. Then he left the gym feeling sated and sweaty, looking forward to a cool shower as his reward for surviving Chris’s specific brand of savagery.
But it seemed he hadn’t given the workout its due. Not entirely. Because now he was hallucinating.
That was the only good reason for why he saw Anya standing across the street. Nothing else explained why the woman who he’d shared an incredibly hot one-night stand with would be chatting amiably with the neighbors . . . and his parents.
Admittedly, JT had thought about Anya nonstop in the thirty hours since he’d left her hotel room, which might have something to do with why this particular hallucination had presented itself.
That included the hours when he and the team raided an abandoned downtown warehouse in pursuit of the parole-violating rapist they had been tracking for the last two weeks. A tip on the fugitive’s whereabouts was what had called JT into work at dawn yesterday, forcing him to leave the sweetness that was Anya’s warm, soft body. But stumbling into work while still a little sex-drunk was not the best way to enter a tactical scenario. In fact, it was a recipe for getting your ass handed to you by whatever worthless criminal you were trying to apprehend.
That didn’t happen, thankfully. Instead, they had their target in cuffs by noon and handed him over to the sheriff’s department an hour later. Even so, JT knew he hadn’t kept his head in the game, at least not the way he should have. And certainly not the way his team deserved.
So maybe this was his punishment. Anya was wearing a white lace tank top and a matching skirt, both pieces enhancing her tawny skin so that it looked teasingly touchable, which was just the sort of apparition he’d earned by half-assing it on the job.
He’d already stopped himself from going back to the hotel yesterday afternoon, in hopes that Anya might still be there. But since she had been clear that all she’d wanted was one night, he hadn’t followed through on that impulse. She wasn’t looking for anything beyond what they’d already shared, and even if she was, JT had to admit that he didn’t really have the emotional bandwidth right now to offer her—or anyone—something more.
But now here she was. A mere twenty feet away, looking at JT as if she wasn’t sure if he was a hallucination.
Christ, he needed a drink. Something ice cold and chock-full of caffeine, electrolytes, and a double dose of B12. Basically, he needed a Red Bull cocktailed with a Gatorade, and an IV vitamin drip as a chaser.
Either that or he needed to ignore this figment of his imagination and go inside, strip off his clothes, then get a shower. That way he could see if jerking himself roughly to the memory of Anya wrapped tight and wet around him would help satiate his lingering desire to see her again and quash whatever this delirium was. It was the same approach he’d used last night and this morning, though without any luck. But, hell, maybe this time it would do the trick.
His mom called his way again, and JT recognized that insistent tone from his childhood, the one she used when she meant business. JT groaned and muttered a few cuss words under his breath. If he didn’t get his ass in gear and walk over there, this weird situation might actually get worse. Especially if he ended up getting grounded, right in front of his hot hookup, at thirty-two years old.
This was so screwed up. What had he done to deserve this? He paid his taxes, donated to charity, and generally tried not to be an asshole. You would think that karma might throw him a bone here. But apparently it was too much to ask that he get to enjoy the straightforward pleasure of a one-night stand with an eager and enthusiastic partner without reality butting in and turning the whole thing into a giant clusterfuck. Apparently, that wasn’t going to happen, though. Not when karma had other plans.
Plans that included letting Anya know he was a pathetic loser who currently lived with his parents.
JT’s legs still felt like jelly from the workout, yet he managed to avoid stumbling as he walked across the street. Halfway there he heard his mother start in on what were, unbeknownst to her, pointless introductions.
“Jericho, this is Anya. She’s going to house-sit for the Greenes while they’re away this summer. Anya, this is my son, Jericho.”
A wry smirk crossed Anya’s face. JT assumed that some of her expression had to do with hearing his given name. At least his mom hadn’t used his full name. Because Jericho Truman Seamus Roan Maxwell was a fucking mouthful. By the time you got to the end of it, most people had already forgotten the first half. That was what happened when a pregnant southern belle became determined to pay homage to her great-grandfathers by naming her son after all of them. This was also why, to everyone other than his mother, he was just JT.
He waited to see what Anya would do next, searching her face for a clue as to how she wanted to play this situation. Did she want to keep up the charade that they were strangers? Act as if he hadn’t teased his tongue across her nipples until they were so taut and aching that she’d moaned like a porn star for him to fuck her? Or did she plan to blow it all up—right here next to the Greenes’ cutesy mailbox that had stenciled sunflowers painted on it—and tell everyone that no introduction was needed because Anya and her nipples were already well acquainted with JT and his tongue?
JT held his breath until Anya’s smirk eased into a relaxed grin.
“Hi there. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Anya.”
JT exhaled. Thank you, karma—and thank you, Anya. Both were apparently content to leave their fleeting personal history where it belonged.
He returned her greeting just as easily as she had offered hers, and everyone around them seemed none the wiser. After a few more minutes of idle chitchat, JT’s dad persuaded his mother that they needed to get going on their afternoon walk, and the Greenes set off to finish loading up their SUV, claiming they wanted to get on the road before dark.
Once they were alone—or as alone as was ever possible in the suburbs—Anya started to grin like a cute little Cheshire cat. JT immediately wanted to drag her somewhere truly private, lick her luscious body from knees to neck, and then see how quickly they could make each other come.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, lifting a brow, “Jericho.”
He groaned. “My mom is the only one who calls me that. I’d like to keep it that way. Everybody else calls me JT.”
Anya narrowed her eyes, her gaze searching his face as if her bullshit detector was turned on high, and under that quiet scrutiny, JT considered telling her everything—from his full name to all the reasons why he was living with his parents. Her gaze was like a spotlight on everything about his life that he wasn’t proud of, and it felt as if the only way to make it stop would be to own his every failure.
Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting to ease the awkwardness. Anya’s attention settled on his arm, drifting from his wrist up to his bicep. JT felt it like a physical touch, one he was desperate for. It was all he could do to drag his own gaze to the ground, knowing that if he enjoyed the way her eyes had become appreciative, he’
d end up with a hard-on right there in the middle of the street.
Unfortunately, she was wearing a pair of gold sandals with ties that wound up and around her toned calves, and then he couldn’t think of anything but running his hands up the inside of her legs, from her ankles to her thighs. And even if his brain knew better, the less logical parts of him were also considering the possibility that this was the universe’s messy, embarrassing way of giving them another opportunity to be together.
JT entertained that thought until he remembered the reality of what was going on here. He scratched the back of his neck and tipped his head back up.
“I guess one of us should just say it,” he sighed. “This is weird, right?”
Anya laughed softly and then shrugged. JT wished he could muster the same relaxed reaction, but he couldn’t do it, not when he felt like someone had just pulled the curtain back and exposed him as a giant fraud. He waved a hand toward the Greenes’ house.
“So, how did this happen anyway? Do you know the Greenes? Or is fate just a traitorous fucker and this is nothing but a shitty coincidence?”
Anya winced, then her face fell and JT immediately wanted to call his words back. He was working off his defenses right now, reacting to the shame that kept rising up inside him. Even so, he also knew that saying shit like that wasn’t the right way to handle the situation.
“Coincidence,” she said flatly. “Or more like six degrees of separation, I guess. Academics all run in the same circles, and I did my grad work at UAT and then worked at the campus art museum for a few years. Plus, my ex is a professor there. So when I put out word that I needed a place for the summer, it didn’t take long to connect with the Greenes. It worked out for everybody.” She sent him a cool look. “Or maybe not. Because you look like you’re about to burst a blood vessel.”
JT shook his head. “It’s fine.”
