by Elodie Colt
I throw a last look into the mirror. That stupid band-aid has been itching like twenty bug bites, so I ripped it off. My neck looks as if a tiger slashed a claw down on me, but at least the skin is starting to fuse, showing a jagged stripe of red.
I exit my room and lock it just as Jillian hurries up the stairs—panting, sweaty, and in a full yoga-workout-outfit. I stop in my tracks, losing my train of thought for a moment.
Why are you about to leave again? Half-naked girl in front of you, in case you became blind overnight.
“Hi.” Her dimpled smile jerks me back to the present, the one where I’m about to share dinner with her neighbor. Smelling trouble here, just for the record.
I nod to her condom-tight pants and the bandanna wrapped around her two oranges. “Did you just hit the gym?”
The answer is obvious, but better than the shit I almost blurted, something along the lines of, ‘I have five minutes to spare. Your room or mine?’
“Yeah.” She scrutinizes my wrinkled shirt. “You’re going somewhere?”
Unfortunately. “Yes. Your neighbor, Samantha, invited me over.”
She blinks, nostrils flaring. “Sam invited you over? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
And trouble is already knocking on my door, it seems. I just shrug, not dignifying her with an answer. Last time I checked, I was still a free man in this country.
Schooling her expression, she plasters a smile on her mouth that looks about as natural as her mother’s surgically enhanced face. “Well, have fun.”
And with that, she brushes past me to flee to her room, leaving the rubbery scent of yoga mattress and a green tinge of jealousy behind.
I stand in front of the neighbor’s door, smirking. Five names are listed next to the bell in addition to a drawing of a periwinkle, and the curly headline Florida Flowers on top. Cute.
Someone answers the door, but it’s not the girl I expected to see.
“Hi, you must be Matthew,” the blonde greets me with a sweet smile, munching on a white plastic stick from a lollipop. Pretty, that one. A bit too beach-chick for my taste, though. “I’m Skyla, Sam’s roomie. Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
I trail after her into the house and almost stumble over a surfboard on the floor as we follow the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen. However, my anticipation simmers down to annoyance the minute I notice three more females lounged out around the dining table.
Well, shit. Samantha busted my balls. What I took as a dinner for two will become an emasculating girls’ night full of giggles, embarrassing questions, and who-owns-more-shoes arguments. Jesus, the estrogen level is already stifling.
My eyes latch onto Samantha buzzing around in front of the stove, an apron wrapped around her hips. She throws me a timid smile. “Hi. Dinner will be ready in a few. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Sure am.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t stay.” She waves a hand to her cheerleading crew. Thank fuck.
“Gee, thanks,” one of them mutters.
“Quick introductions,” Samantha starts, pointing to the bleach-blonde girl sucking on her lollipop. “You already met Skyla… And her surfboard.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Totally my fault,” Skyla admits with her hands in the air.
“Kendra.” Samantha motions to a girl with mahogany locks, earrings the size of a gold bar, and glittery eyeshadow. She winks at me as if trying to deliver a secret message. The matchmaker, apparently. Note: steer clear of that one.
“Ruby,” she goes on. A girl with straight, dark brown hair stretches out a hand for me to shake. I remember her. She’s the one who tried to settle the fight between the bunch of them yesterday. And, other than Samantha, the only one who looks plain and halfway sane.
Her lips curl into a smile. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
“And Leo,” Samantha says, finishing the introductions. My gaze flickers over to a girl slouching in a chair, her feet propped on the table, gangsta-style. Keeping her expression insultingly indifferent, she lifts a tattooed arm to give me the peace sign.
Samantha turns her attention back to the stove, prompting me to say, “You skipped one here.”
She spins around again, scanning the people in the room as if counting if she missed one. “Who?”
“You.”
She blinks at me before it dawns on her that we haven’t introduced ourselves yet. Christina told me her name, and I guess mine isn’t a secret anymore, either, but fuck, we already had to draw an intimacy line and haven’t even shaken hands yet.
“You’re right, sorry.” Thrusting out her chin, she walks over to me and stretches out her hand. “Samantha Kent, but please, call me Sam.”
I let a few seconds pass, prolonging eye contact just to fill the air with some tension, before I allow my lips to break into a slow smile and take her hand in mine. “Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Matthew Mallory.”
Okay, I’ve laid it on extra thick with a distinctly seductive purr, but I let my ego gloat. Everyone goes silent. I could blow up a hot-air balloon with the breath of five girls stolen at once.
Kendra is the first to break the spell with an ominous look around the room and a clap of her hands. “Alright, let’s clear out, ladies.”
Sam drops my hand as if I stung her, waiting for the others to file out. Somehow, Leo doesn’t seem to get the message and continues to scribble on a sketchpad. Kendra frowns when she doesn’t follow and tugs at her arm.
“Huh?” Leo snaps out of her reverie, eyes ping-ponging between the girls until the penny drops. “Oh, privacy for the lovebirds, right.” She darts to her feet and clears out last, leaving Sam to slap a hand on her forehead.
“You have a full house,” I remark.
“I do.” She moves back to the stove. “Day and night…”
I scratch my beard. None of them resemble Sam in the slightest, least of all the one who tried to replace her skin with ink. “Any of them your siblings?”
“No. Ruby and Skyla are sisters, but other than that, just a random bunch of crazy girls.”
“How did you end up with them?”
“My parents moved to Kenya years ago. I couldn’t afford the house by myself, so I ended up with the four of them.” She delivers her speech as if rehearsed. Guess she had to clear up the situation a couple of times in the past. Also, her averted gaze tells me the subject is a soft spot. “Anything to drink? A beer, perhaps?”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “You offering me alcohol? You’re sure the nuns in your monastery will approve?”
Smirking, she walks to the fridge and retrieves a beer can. I repeat, can, not bottle. One of the many downsides of a female household. “Do me a favor and call an ambulance should I require a trip to the hospital tonight.” She presses the can into my hand.
I pop open the lid with almost shaky fingers, trying not to look like a dehydrated man when I set the can to my lips. I haven’t touched my cognac since I tended to her hand today, just to avoid another derogatory look that somehow ruffled my feathers.
“I just need to finish dessert,” she says.
I edge a few steps closer. She starts slicing oranges but is clearly struggling with her bandaged hand.
“Let me.” I take the knife from her.
She watches me for a moment as I cut slices off the orange with such speed, the blade blurs. “Wow, are you a professional cook?”
I snort. “Hardly, but I know a thing or two about oranges.”
“Yeah? How come? Hang on!” She gasps, her brown eyes adopting the size of melons. “Matthew Mallory? From Mallory Fruit Farms in Tampa?”
I set the knife aside and grab a dish towel from the counter to wipe my hands. “Yeah. You know the farm?”
A cute grin seeps through her lips as she takes a package of oranges from the fridge, lifting it up to my eyes. Mallory Fruit Farms laughs back at me from the label.
“Your Valencias are the best!” she gushes.
“Haven’t bought any other oranges since I tasted yours for the first time.”
Something warm and fuzzy tingles in my chest, and I can’t help the smile on my face. “You’re right, they are the best. You won’t find any better ones on this continent. And thank you for supporting my business.” Even if the effort is futile.
I watch with my mouth watering as she fills two plates with steak, carrots, and roasted bacon, but then something else pushes the saliva from my gums as Sam unties her apron and places it on a hook.
A blue top with a plunging V-neckline draws my gaze before it changes direction to the white, skinny jeans hugging her tiny ass.
“Blue suits you,” I say with a nod to her top, just to have an excuse to stare at the deep fold in the middle. I want to dip my tongue in there and every other body part of mine that can anatomically fit into the gap.
She pushes a strand behind her ear, a sweet blush rising on her cheeks. “Thanks. That’s my favorite color. It’s—”
“Sapphire,” I end the sentence for her with a smirk.
The evening wears on with funny chatter. Sam is easy to talk to, endearing and conventional in that sweet-girl-next-door way, but also delightfully debonair. Bonus points: Her cooking skills are amazing. I dare say her steak rivals Sofia’s. And the Basil panna cotta with caramelized oranges as dessert gives me an oral orgasm.
“So, Sam…” I push my squeaky-clean plate away. “What do you do all day other than arranging spice glasses and talking to your plants?”
She follows my gaze to the neatly aligned glasses above the stove before she swings her head back to me with a cheeky smile, playing with the ring in her ear. Yes, I’ve been watching you, girl, with special attention at your delectable curves.
“I’m an auth… editor,” she prompts as if correcting herself in the middle of the sentence. More color streaks her cheeks. What train of thought put it there, I wonder? “I work from home.”
The way she’s chewing on the inside of her cheek signals that this wasn’t the career path she painted for her shiny future.
Leaning back in my chair, I empty my beer. Sam’s is still more than half full, the sloshing in her can signals, in addition to the patronizing look she’s aiming at me. Sorry sweetheart, I’m a lost cause.
“What do you edit?”
“Fiction novels.”
“Something tells me you’re not talking about hard-core psycho thrillers.”
Smirking, she stands from her chair to get herself a glass of water. I don’t even try to mask my heated gaze clinging to her figure as she ambles back to resume her seat. Not as if you don’t want me to undress you conspicuously, or you would have opted for a turtleneck. Right, sweetheart?
“Soft-core, then,” I say, forcing myself back to our subject. “Fantasy? History?”
She’s flicking her earring more erratically now, the smile on her face wavering. With a slow-building smirk, I shift my weight to lean forward on my elbows. “The girlie stuff, then.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, yes. I’m mainly working on Romance books.”
I chuckle. “And you didn’t say so right away because you prefer the dirty over the cheesy kind, right?”
“I’m working on all kinds my clients send me,” is her defensive reply before she sets her beer to her lips.
The high-class dirty kind, then. The sort of literature Sofia stores in one of the kitchen drawers. I wish I could sneak into her room and check out those books to find out how dirty they are exactly (Sam’s, not Sofia’s).
I huff a laugh, adjusting my position as my jeans start to squeeze my groin. “Girl, you’re quite desperate, aren’t you? And alarmingly unsatisfied, considering you need guidance from some fucking know-it-all sex therapist in a magazine to tell you how to ride your hand. Hey, my offer still stands. I’m happy to give you some tips in practice.”
Beet-red, she glowers at me. I can tell by the way her gaze rolls over the red cut running down my ear, she’s debating whether or not to place another slap there. Go for it, come on, my look challenges her. Give me a reason to retaliate with a smack on your peachy ass.
A mischievous glint twinkles in her gorgeous eyes, before she gives me her eloquent comeback in the form of a strikingly shocking, “Thanks, but I’m happy to let my vibrator keep his job. He’s very persevering, always eager to please me, and knows exactly where my G-spot is.”
I’m only half listening to everything that follows the V-word, my brain hitting play on a very juicy, very naughty flip book. And doesn’t she know it as she leans forward on her elbows, too, licking her lips in that I’m-naughtier-than-you-think kind of way.
Her orange-beer breath wafts up my nose as we stare each other down, almost lips-to-lips now. I’m drowning in the brown pools peeking at me from an inch-thick line of lashes. The only thing keeping me from hurling myself at her is that damn glass table between us.
“Girl, give me a chance and I’ll find your G-spot in no time,” I drawl, my voice all strained now. “And if you’re in for a challenge, I’ll work on it through the entire night, way after the battery of your stupid toy has run low.”
But she’s snapped some shield of god-damn willpower in front of the libido part of her brain, seemingly immune to my dirty words as she sends me a nice-try wink.
She leans back in her chair to sip leisurely on her beer. “I’ve got the feeling you’re way more desperate to get laid than me.”
Damn straight, which is why I won’t let you off the hook so quickly. “I’m horny, you’re horny”—I make a show of exploring her curves with my sultry gaze—“I’m hot, you’re hot… Give me one good reason why this shouldn’t be happening.”
She pauses with her beer hovering in front of her lips before she jerks her head in the direction of the neighbor’s house.
“I haven’t slept with Jillian yet,” I grumble before I realize my mistake.
Sam points her beer can at me. “Yet.”
I open my mouth, close to telling her that I will keep my hands off Jillian if that’s what it takes to let me roll her between the sheets, but then stop short. As far as I remember, I had other intentions when I ran into Jillian earlier. Sam and I have known each other for a day. Years too soon to make any commitments.
With a frustrated huff, I plump back against the backrest. “You two best buddies, or what?”
A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, but it dissipates as quickly as it came. “Hardly, but that’s a line I don’t want to cross. Not now when my head is not really in the game, you know? My garden is a demolition zone, my car is a wreck, and my bank account is plummeting faster than an imploding skyscraper.”
My frustration fades, softening my features. “I take it the insurance won’t cover the damage?”
“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ and stands to clean the table. I follow suit, helping her with the plates. “Not one penny. The tree was already moldering.”
“Has the insurance guy already made himself comfortable on that inflatable cushion?”
She blinks at me before it dawns on her that I’m referring to her phone call in the thrift shop and breaks out into a loud laugh. Warmth radiates through my chest at the sight. “No, but I think he peed his pants a little. I could practically hear the sweat dribbling from his forehead when he called me to share the news.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
She blows out her breath. “No idea. Skyla has to pay for my windshield, but I don’t know how long it will take her to scrape up the money. In the meantime, I’m going to try and get rid of that stupid tree…”
A beat of silence follows as she rinses the plates while I dry the dishes, but a furtive glance at her reveals her doleful expression. This shit is eating her up.
“That tree is monstrous,” I point out. “It would take you ages. And some hella chainsaw skills to cut that trunk into pieces.”
“You’ve got a better idea? I can’t afford to hire anyone.” She pushes the next rinsed plate into my hands. “
The girls will help me out. Should be doable.”
“No offense, but these”—I squeeze her tiny biceps—“are not up to the task, and your Spice Girls don’t look as if they won the Hot Saw Lumberjack Competition, either. I can help you if you want.”
She casts me a guarded glance, as if surprised my mouth has produced something nice and not lewd for once. “That’s very kind of you, but as I said, I can’t afford to hire anyone.”
“There are other ways of payment.” I wriggle my eyebrows at her.
“Oh, great, then that’s settled. Kendra is the perfect candidate. You can nail her three times per day if you want. In fact, those were her exact words when she saw you with your shirt off yesterday.”
This time, it’s my turn to burst into laughter before I say in a more serene tone, “Seriously, let me help. I have the necessary tools, and there’s a shit ton of unused material in Christina’s cellar that we can use for patching up your porch. You can repay me with another dinner.”
She gapes at me. “For real? I mean, what about Christina? You work for her. She won’t be happy about this. I’d be stealing her thunder.”
“Woman’s got enough thunder to power a substation, so I don’t see the problem.”
She snorts but then hisses all of a sudden, dropping the glass in her hand. I quickly catch it before it bursts into pieces in the sink. She flexes the fingers on her bandaged hand.
“Take it easy. The cut is too fresh,” I say and finish the dishes.
She sends me a thankful smile before she wipes the table clean with her uninjured hand. Her behind draws my attention again. I growl inwardly. She’s doing that wiggle on purpose, I’m sure of it.
“You were right, by the way,” I say in an innocent tone, waiting for her full attention as I fold the towel.
“About what?”
“I am amazed by what you can do with one hand. Makes me wonder what you can do with both.”
She turns around to face me, cracking a smile, but it’s just a mask to conceal what her eyes can’t hide. The desire. The lust. The need to feel my lips on hers. The need to feel something else of me in something else of her. She wants me as much as I want her, but her inhibitions are blocking the carnal connection.