Without a downward glance, the guy strode to his car and sped off.
The woman next door is nothing to me, Boone repeated as he nosed the vehicle into the confines of his garage. It was time to hit the sack and get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow was Friday and his construction crew was always antsy on Fridays. He had to be on his toes to keep them on their toes.
Exiting the truck, he focused on the door leading from the garage into the house. But instead of the fireproof rectangle that he’d installed himself, he saw those legs, those high heels, that coffee-dark hair swinging against her shoulders.
The neighbor.
Gemma.
She was nothing to him.
Then his feet moved, but not in the intended direction. He found himself on the walkway to her front porch, where he bent to examine the fallen planter. Simple enough. What looked like an old-fashioned bushel basket, constructed of raw, weathered slats of wood, held dirt and a healthy flowering geranium. He righted the planter, only to notice its stand had been damaged, one of the short legs having broken free.
Maybe it had suffered a previous injury and only needed that careless bump from the asshole to damage the thing.
More than maybe it was none of Boone’s business.
The woman either.
Still, he bent over.
On a sigh, he collected the stand and the loosened leg and headed to his garage. A nail or two, some wood glue, a few hours in a vice, that should fix it.
In the morning he’d walk it back to her porch and forget about the thing altogether.
And her.
Gemma.
Chapter 2
Gemma Marquette halted on the sidewalk between her house and her neighbor’s, her attention snared by the sight of the massive thing parked in his driveway. It was a behemoth of a truck, huge, black, with a shiny toolbox in the back and a sturdy-looking metal rack that hovered over the bed and stretched halfway across the roof of the extended cab.
Though its finish gleamed in the morning sunlight as if newly waxed, the wheel wells were splashed with a recent-looking spray of reddish mud, making clear it was a working man’s vehicle. This was no statement of ego or something of size to make up for a lack in another—ah-hem—area, but a utilitarian means of transporting a man and the things he needed to do his job.
Her hands tightened on the flower-sprigged platter that she’d piled high with homemade brownies and covered with plastic wrap, her gaze still on the big truck. She’d never dated anyone who drove one, and she couldn’t imagine how she could climb into this without compromising her modesty—at least in the dress she wore today, though it wasn’t a mini by any means. Of a blue-and-white striped cotton fabric, it had short sleeves and a skirt that flowed from box pleats beneath her breasts to fall just above her knees. Even so, the hemline would rise to a dangerous midthigh if she had to lift her leg high enough to boost herself into the passenger seat.
Or maybe the man who drove the vehicle would put his big hands around her waist and lift her inside.
The idea made her breath catch. Those hands were what had fascinated her, even in the darkness last night. She’d been peeking around the edge of the living room curtains, watching as Ethan gave up on her and drove off, only to glimpse another figure striding along her walk. Behind her locked and alarm-protected door, she’d been more curious than disquieted as the shadow man had bent low and his wide palms and long fingers lifted the broken pieces of the plant stand and carted them away, disappearing into the night.
The question of who he was and what he meant to do had been answered in the pearl-gray light of early morning. Muffled noise or perhaps her own sharp instincts had sent her from the kitchen to the living room in a return to her curtain-peeping position. The man had been back, the stand in one piece now, and he’d set it on her porch and placed the geranium bucket atop it. Those hands. Deft, sure.
Huge.
The previous night’s hours hadn’t been peaceful, there’d been the plant-stand snatcher to think about, as well as Ethan and his unwelcome, after-normal-visiting-hours visit. Though she wasn’t afraid of her ex-boyfriend, she was a little concerned he’d never accept that they were over.
Refusing his engagement ring hadn’t sent the clear message she’d expected.
But with the return of her plant stand—with the return of the stranger—that worry had moved off, especially as she’d watched the big man, still little more than a shadow in the dawn, make his way from her porch to the house next door. Apparently, where he lived. A few minutes later, the garage door had slid open and she’d seen the plant-stand snatcher, now plant-stand repairer, pull out and drive off down the street.
He’s my neighbor, she’d thought. And on the heels of that decided it was only neighborly to thank him for his kindness by whipping up some brownies from the box of mix in her cupboard. She’d intended to merely leave them on the doorstep of 4475 Dune Street, with a little note expressing the gratitude of the resident at 4473, but now it appeared he’d returned home. Hmm. Maybe time to rethink my plan. She hadn’t wished to actually encounter the man.
Swinging around, she found herself face-to-chest with a sweaty T-shirt. And a male person wearing it, a runner, with a lean build nothing like that of her studly neighbor if she was any judge of shadowy outlines. “Excuse me,” she said, jolting back. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” The guy glanced down, most of his features obscured by a ball cap and sunglasses. But he smiled as the lenses aimed at the plate in her hand. “Are you handing out treats?”
She sent a look over her shoulder at the neighbor’s place. “I’m new to the block and—”
“And I’m from the area, too,” the man said. “A couple of streets over.”
“Well.” Gemma nodded toward the bungalow she lived in, the smallest floor plan in the development, only two bedrooms and two baths but with a generous living area. “I’ve only been here a week—”
“And you want to meet others in the community,” the runner supplied, grinning. “I’m Sam.”
“Uh, Gemma,” she said, and wondered how she could gracefully extricate herself from the conversation. She had no interest in making the acquaintance of anyone, actually—especially a man. After Ethan, she’d promised herself to take a break from that gender altogether. Indefinitely. “I really need to go…”
“Without sharing one of those delicious brownies?” Sam smiled again, with boyish appeal. “That’s no way to make new friends.”
Despite his easy-going charm, she didn’t want to encourage him, not with that vow she’d taken. Tightening her hold on the plate, she cast a fleeting glance at her neighbor’s place. “Actually, these are meant for someone else.”
Sam looked over her shoulder, his smile fading. “Hell,” he muttered. “You’ve been here only a week and Boone has already made a play?”
What? No. Boone? “There’s no play,” she hastened to say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Odd.” The other man was shaking his head now. “Boone never—”
“I never what?” Behind Gemma’s back, a deep voice sounded from the direction of the house next door.
“Made a move this quick,” Sam called out, with a rueful grin. “So I’ll be on my way, then.” And with the tap of two fingers to the brim of his cap, he skirted Gemma to continue on his run.
Leaving her, the brownies, and this awkward moment with the man she’d never met.
Reluctant to appear foolish by scurrying away, Gemma hauled in a deep breath. On another, she turned and faced the neighbor. Oh.
Her heart lurched in her chest. A tide of heat rushed up from her toes.
Oh, wow. Like his hands and his truck, the man was big. It was hard to guess just how tall, because he stood on his front porch, but as he came down the two steps to the walkway, his height didn’t seem to diminish. The whole of him only seemed larger to her as he filled her vision—mussed black-as-black hair, shoulders as wide as the horizon, lean hips
, sturdy thighs in worn jeans. On his feet, battered black work boots that looked as if they might be a pair borrowed from Paul Bunyan.
She shifted her gaze, allowing herself a look at his face—she’d avoided it the first time, a little nervous at the expression she might find there—only to see his features were as hard as if they’d been hewn from granite. His dark eyes fixed on her but offered no hint regarding what he thought of finding Gemma lingering at the bottom of the path leading to his front door.
“Um…hi,” she said, releasing her double death grip on the brownies to sketch a small greeting with her right hand. Now a surge of heat rolled down her neck to her toes. Sheesh. Maybe she was allergic to all the testosterone required to keep a man of that size upright and moving.
He paused near the door to his truck’s driver’s side, one black brow winging upward, the curve of it as aggressive-looking as the rest of him.
Instead of retreating at the intimidating gesture, she edged herself and her jittery insides forward, one step, then two. It seemed as if there was no other choice, because something deep within her was drawn to the man and his overt, unignorable masculinity. As she moved, the hemline of her dress brushed her legs and just that simple stroke propelled a wealth of goose bumps racing along the inside of her thighs. Her belly quivered.
“I…” She broke off to lick her dry lips, noticing the way his gaze shifted to her mouth. His eyes were so dark that from this distance she couldn’t discern his pupils, making the irises black pools that she imagined swallowing her up. Wow, she thought again, overwhelmed and bemused by her intense physical response to all things Next-Door Neighbor.
Boone, she remembered.
“I’m Gemma Marquette,” she offered. “Gemma.”
He nodded, as if unsurprised. Did he already know her name? “I live there.” She waved in the direction of her bungalow. His was styled similarly, the lines clean, a modern Craftsman, though she could tell his floor plan was nearly twice the size. It would have to be, to contain that impressive assembly of muscle and bone.
She found herself taking another step forward, any woman would, she assured herself, when in the presence of all that animal magnetism.
Without a twitch, he watched her approach, no shift in the hardened expression on his face, no warm light entering the darkness of his eyes. If anything, she supposed he exuded…wariness, which was strange, because how could Gemma Marquette make a man like the Big Bad Wolf be concerned in any way?
His attitude didn’t seem to deter her, however, even though he could hardly be less inviting. The testosterone, she thought again. Or some pheromone he threw off like a lure.
Once a few feet away from the man, she halted. Her gaze drifted from his inscrutable eyes, to the dark grit on his face that outlined his ruddy lips. She noted the thick, strong column of his throat and then the hint of dark hair showing at the open neck of his worn work shirt.
Ethan waxed his chest, which she’d never thought much about, but now she couldn’t tear her focus away from the virile sight revealed between the edges of cotton fabric that stretched across the neighbor’s wide shoulders and down his torso. Had she ever run her fingers through a man’s soft-crisp strands? Her hands gave a little jerk, almost causing her to drop the platter, which brought her mind back to the present and the thank-you gift she’d prepared.
Okay, Gemma. Hand over the platter and hurry back to your place before drool slides over your chin.
“Here,” she said, shoving the brownies in his direction. “I…I saw that you repaired my plant stand. So, thank you.”
His head bent and he stared at her offering. His mouth curved in a deep frown. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
Gemma glanced down, catching sight of the pinkish-purple two-inch line on the inside of her wrist. “Oh, I burned it getting the pan out of the oven. It’s nothing.” But her stomach trembled anyway, because now his brows came together too, his displeasure evident.
“What did you do to take care of it?” His hand reached out, as if he might touch her, but then it dropped to his side.
Did he actually…care? Her stomach trembled again as she tried recalling the last time any man had been concerned about some minor hurt she had. She swallowed. “A blast of cold water,” she told him. “It’s really nothing.”
He grunted, sounding unconvinced. And he didn’t move to take the platter.
“Here,” she said again, thrusting it toward him once more.
“No,” he said. “No, thanks.”
No? Who turned down brownies? “Really. I baked them for you.”
“You shouldn’t have,” he said, and he sounded like he actually meant it.
Embarrassment caused the flood of heat rushing over her this time, but her mouth wouldn’t shut up and her feet wouldn’t turn away.
“They’re a special recipe,” she said.
They came from a box, the brand that was on sale at the supermarket, kept on hand for chocolate emergencies. “Organic,” she added, not hesitating to elaborate on her fib.
He didn’t reply.
“Actually,” Gemma said, “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Shared on her deathbed.”
The only thing her grandmother had ever imparted to Gemma was that she should always select the bigger stone for a ring. “Very few will notice the difference,” she’d advised. “So always go for more carats, darling. Quantity over quality.”
Gemma cleared her throat now. “I’m sure you’ll like the brownies.”
“No, thanks,” he said again, then climbed into his truck without another glance at her.
He was going, just like that? He was really leaving her holding the platter?
At that final sign of rejection, her mouth dropped. But there was nothing she could do but watch him drive away and wonder which loss she felt more keenly—that of her dignity or the big man’s hypnotic, pulse-pumping physical presence.
Chapter 3
Gemma noted the Open sign hanging on the front door of her business as she pulled around the back to her usual parking spot. She’d had to hit the bank and the post office before arrival but had held confidence her assistant would do the honors at ten a.m. on the dot. With the platter of treats once more in hand, Gemma let herself into the rear door and set the brownies on the counter in the old tiled kitchen they now used as a break room.
After hanging her purse and jacket on one of the hooks screwed into the wall, she headed for the espresso machine. Steaming latté in hand, she wandered to the small window that looked out onto the main street of downtown Sawyer Beach, which consisted of small shops behind neat storefronts and others, like hers, housed in what had once been homes built in the early 1900s.
Across the street, a florist took up the first floor of a narrow structure almost identical to this one—two stories covered in a freshly painted pink clapboard with a large picture window, the front door and trim in a contrasting electric blue. Gemma’s place was a soft yellow with moss-green accents.
Already she could see tourists—her lifeblood—wandering the sidewalks. The Central California area had several income streams, with nearby colleges and a university, a thriving and popular wine-producing region, and a few tech companies that had forsaken the way-overpriced hubs of Seattle, San Francisco, and LA. It wasn’t cheap to live in Sawyer Beach and its environs by any means, but it supported much less urban sprawl and offered both beachside and rural charm.
Out-of-towners appreciated the allure as well, arriving with smiles and credit cards that made Gemma’s dream of turning the house she’d inherited from her grandmother into a modest, but blossoming business.
One last swallow of her beverage, and she moved into the “showrooms,” which were actually the original living room, dining room, single bedroom, and bathroom. Wares for sale were displayed in each to catch a browser’s eye. Her number-one assistant, May Okashi, flitted about, microfiber duster in hand.
“Hey,” she said, glancing up. “Howz it goin’ this morning, boss lady?”
A memory of Gemma’s earlier embarrassment rose, but she ignored it. The rudeness of the man next door wasn’t going to be even a blip on her screen. “Good,” she said to the other woman, her gaze taking in the twenty-two-year-old. May’s light, golden-brown skin glowed and her chin-length corkscrew curls were as perky as her personality. May hated to be called what she referred to as the “p-word,” but in a denim skirt, brightly flowered leggings, and with an emerald stud winking at the side of one nostril, no one could be blamed for thinking it.
Just the sight of her made Gemma smile. “Anything I need to know?” she asked.
“I miss my girlfriend, I wish my legs were five inches longer, the circumference of my thighs almost that much skinnier, and that last night I hadn’t finished the last book in this series I’ve been totally bingeing.”
“You’re beautiful just as you are, Polly will be back from her visit home very soon, and you’ll find another binge-worthy series, I’m just sure of it.”
May made a face. “You kinda suck at ‘there, there.’”
Gemma winced. “I do, don’t I?”
“Abso yes, and on top of that I can smell something chocolate you brought in the back. I thought we had a pact.”
“Ooops.” Gemma winced again. May had a nose like a bloodhound. “It’s not my fault, I—”
The sound of something heavy hitting the ceiling interrupted. Grateful because it stopped her from confessing why she’d brought contraband into the shop, Gemma glanced overhead. “Nat’s working up there?” she asked, glancing back at her assistant.
“He came in with a hammer and possibly a hangover,” May said. “I think you’ll have a finished apartment on the second floor in approximately seven-and-a-half years.”
“Probably.” Gemma sighed, shoving away the worry that she intended to move upstairs in less than a month. “If you’re good in here, I’ll head to the storeroom and unpack boxes of new merchandise.”
ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1) Page 2