Back in the Burbs

by Flynn, Avery

  Honestly, it’s not okay. I’m done with my club soda and more than ready to get out of here before my soulful contractor gives me a list of all the reasons he’s not interested in me. I mean, I’m not interested in him, either—the abject and total lack of chemistry is something that can’t be fixed.

  But that doesn’t mean I need to sit here and listen as he gives me a list of all the things that are wrong with me according to him. I don’t know why guys do that—why they feel the need to list our faults like they’re doing us a favor—but most of them do. And frankly, I already spent way too much of the last few years feeling bad about myself. The last thing I need now that I’m finally getting my life and self-esteem back together is for someone to try to tear it all down again, no matter how well-meaning.

  “We’re in different places right now,” he says with a soft smile.

  I know it’s meant to take the sting from the words. It isn’t his fault they didn’t sting in the first place.

  “That’s no one’s fault,” he continues. “It just is. Your plate is really full, and it seems like you don’t exactly have time to date. I don’t want you to have to feel like I’m one more ball for you to juggle.”

  Wow. I can’t help but be grudgingly impressed. Maybe I misjudged him. He seems self-aware and kind and not very egotistical at all. I feel a little guilty, honestly, considering I was so certain that he was one of those guys who was basically decent but who also—

  “Plus. I know what I want in life,” he says. “And frankly, the last week has shown me that you really don’t.”

  And there it is. My grip tightens around my glass, and I try my best to keep the fuck-you off my face. Looks like he isn’t so different after all. Even worse, even knowing everything I do, his words sting—not because they aren’t true but because they are. I don’t know what I want out of life right now. Not just because of the divorce but because of everything else that has come at me so fast over the last few weeks.

  My mom. My sister. Karl and Sasha’s baby. My dad. My new job. Nick— I cut off that last thought before it goes any further. Nick isn’t just my boss and my neighbor and the guy who is going to help me get a fair settlement from my divorce. I mean, maybe he’s gotten to be a friend, too, but he doesn’t really belong on the list of things in my life that are in flux. I mean, we’ve only known each other a short time. There’s nothing there to be in flux.

  And now that that thought is up there in the front of my brain, there’s no time like the present to move this whole thing along.

  “Well, thanks for dinner the other night, Mikey. And the club soda—” I hold up my empty glass. “It was really nice getting to talk with you.”

  I start to get up, but he reaches out and snags my hand before I can do much more than grab my purse. “Hold on, Mallory. Please. I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended.” And it’s true. I’m not offended. What I am is a little embarrassed that I let my life get to this point and a lot ready to figure out what comes next. “I do have a lot on my plate. And I am in the middle of a contentious divorce, so you’re right. I don’t have a lot of energy left for other things. Which I actually think is okay—just like I think it’s okay that I don’t know what I want from my life at the moment. For the last decade, I’ve thought—expected—my life to end up one way. And now I’m finding out it’s going to go in a whole different direction. I think it’s okay—no, I think it’s better than okay—for me to take a little time and figure out what that direction is.”

  And whoa. That was a mouthful. Even more, it was a brain full—and something I had no intention of ever saying to Mikey or anyone else. But now that I’ve said it, now that it’s out there in the universe, I don’t feel bad about doing so. In fact, I’m proud of myself. Proud of myself for speaking my mind and even more proud of myself for taking ownership of my shit.

  “I’m really not offended,” I reiterate when Mikey continues to look a little like a deer caught in the headlights. “And I’m not angry. I’m just telling you where I’m coming from—which I feel like I already did when we met for lunch.”

  He inclines his head. “You did. I just…”

  “Thought you could fix everything?” I tease with a grin.

  He nods, shifting on his barstool. “Maybe something like that. I am a contractor, after all.” His grin fades. “Speaking of which, I ordered the dumpster, and it’ll be there in three days. I hope this whole thing doesn’t change us working together.”

  “No, of course not.” I stand up and grab my purse from the hook under the bar. “You’re a good guy, and the references I called all said you’re a great contractor.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I would love to help you bring that house back to its original glory.” He pauses and drums his fingers on the table as if he’s trying to figure out how to say something.

  I’m about to tell him to just spit it out—no need to be delicate at this point—when he finally looks back up at me.

  “I know you’re having a rough time, so I can cut my bid by twenty-five percent to try and give you a break,” he says. “It’ll be tight getting everything we need to do it at that price, but I think if we’re creative—”

  “No.” I shake my head emphatically. “I really appreciate you wanting to help me. I do. And it’ll take me a little while to get the money together, but I will get it together. And I’ll pay full price just like any other customer you took out on a couple of dates. Well, except the Angela discount—I’m totally taking that.”

  He looks embarrassed. “Mallory—”

  “I’m teasing about the dating part.” I reach over and squeeze his hand. “But I really do need to go now. I’ve got a house full of people, and I’m afraid they’ll run amok if I leave them alone too long.”

  He laughs, as I intended him to. “Like I said. A lot on your plate.”

  “A lot a lot,” I agree and push in my stool, tossing him a smile before I walk out of the cute wine bar with a great guy in it, knowing neither was for me.

  I climb back into Jimi, feeling pretty good about myself, Mikey, and the future construction on Aunt Maggie’s—no, on my—house.

  I’m actually glad he ended it, because I was never actually interested in him—something I should have told him from the very beginning. I knew there was no chemistry, but I wanted there to be. I wanted to fall for a nice guy who was just a nice guy. Uncomplicated, loves his mother, does what he says he’ll do when he says he’ll do it. Simple.

  But apparently, I don’t like simple. Or, to be more specific, my libido doesn’t like simple. In fact, my libido appears to only be attracted to guys who have an asshole streak in them. Guys who don’t say what they mean, who always have more than one agenda going on, who can’t be trusted to keep the deals they made, because they think they know better.

  It is annoying as hell.

  By the time I make the turn onto my street and then swing Jimi into my driveway, I have myself all worked up again about men who think they know everything. Then I catch sight of my perfectly mowed grass and the top of my head feels like it’s going to come off.

  Yeah, the guys who really rev up my ovaries are more than annoying. They are positively infuriating.

  I’m sick to death of Nick doing things without consulting me. From running his mouth off at Karl to getting me signed up with Gina as my lawyer to befriending my sister and my mom to mowing my grass. He did it all without consulting me and I am done. Just. Done.

  I get out of the car in a huff, slamming Jimi Hendrix’s door hard enough to rock it back on its wheels. I start to march across the street, then decide—before I do—to do the one thing that will make Mr. HOA Rules Should Be Laws’ head spin.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  My outrage propels me up the driveway and even gives me the strength to wrestle with the warped garage door. Because the last time I was in
here, I’m positive I spotted— Yep, there they are. Right behind the stacks of empty picture frames. Two dozen lawn flamingoes.

  Hot damn.

  It takes me three trips and fifteen minutes, but I finally get them arranged on my freshly mowed lawn in the shape of a penis. Then I march across the street to Nick’s house.

  He answers about three seconds after I ring his doorbell for the fifth time. Not that there is a lot of time in between the rings, but still. I’m annoyed as hell when he finally pulls open the front door.

  “Mallory?” He looks confused—and also more adorable than I can take in his checkered pajama bottoms and black V-neck T-shirt, with his damp hair falling over his forehead. “What are you doing here?”

  “Were you sleeping?” I ask incredulously, though I have no room to criticize anyone about their sleeping habits. “It’s three o’clock.”

  “I just got out of the shower, actually.” He glances over my shoulder, and a look of shock flits across his face. Followed by an adorable smirk. “Nice flamingoes.”

  It’s not the reaction I was counting on. “Nice?” I all but screech.

  He shrugs. “Maggie used to make funny pictures with them, too. I always liked seeing what she dreamed up next. Maggie would have been proud of your artistry.” He grins and steps back. “Come on in.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not coming in. You’re not going to soften me up with your plants.” I poke him gently in the chest for emphasis. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, mister!”

  That ridiculous eyebrow of his goes up as he looks from my face to my finger, then back again. “A bone to pick with me?” he repeats, and when he says it in that ridiculously sexy voice of his, it sounds both absurd and hot as fuck.

  Which only infuriates me more. “Oh, don’t you play innocent with me. You know exactly what I mean. And now my contractor has gone and dumped me because my hormones can’t behave and it is. All. Your. Fault.” I poke him again for good measure.

  “Am I supposed to have any idea what you’re talking about?” He cocks his head to the side as he stands there, filling up the entire doorframe. “Though I’m taking this diatribe to mean you and the contractor won’t be seeing any more of each other?”

  “What I am talking about is that I have had three very nice dates with a very nice man and my ovaries—and the rest of me, for that matter—couldn’t give a shit. Apparently, there is something wrong with me, and I’m only attracted to guys like you!”

  Oh, shit. The second the words are out, it’s like a bucket of cold water was dumped on my head. Anger fades, reason returns, and I want nothing more than to turn and crawl back to my house to nurse the utter humiliation of this day in peace.

  I mean, Nick has shown almost no interest in me—a few sizzling looks don’t count, considering he’s been shoving me out the door at Mikey every chance he gets—and here I am, standing on his doorstep, all but screaming that I have the hots for him. It’s beyond embarrassing.

  But Nick doesn’t look like he cares about my embarrassment as he steps over the threshold and gets right in my face. “Guys like me? What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” I wave a hand up and down to encompass his gorgeous physique and even more gorgeous face.

  “Yeah, actually, I do know what you mean, and I’m not exactly impressed. You think I’m just like your ex, right? An asshole who has an agenda every time he does anything.”

  The ice-cold annoyance in his voice sets off a similar annoyance in me.

  “Are you saying you don’t have an agenda?” I shoot back at him.

  Now both brows are up and he looks an awful lot like an enraged ancient god about to smite the inconsequential people—and by inconsequential people, I mean me. Too bad I’m too worked up to care right now.

  Even when his mouth firms into a straight line and he leans forward and down so that we are eye to eye. “Exactly what agenda am I supposed to have, Mallory?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I grumble. “How about the fact that you’ve been judging me and telling me what to do from the first time we met.”

  “I have not—”

  “Oh, yes you have.” I make my voice deeper as I mimic, “Mow your lawn, close your garage, don’t roll over for your ex, fight for a fair settlement, go out with the contractor, fill out these forms, give me a dollar because my partner and I will represent you, go out with the contractor again, take a shower—”

  My voice breaks on the last one because his eyes narrow to slits. And yes, I am more than aware that I am being ridiculous. Because all those things that pissed me off along the way—all those things that made me feel like he was trying to boss me around like Karl used to—actually sound pretty decent when I lay them out in a list like that.

  Maybe not the mow-my-lawn part, but the close-my-garage-because-I-might-get-burgled, let-me-help-you-out-of-this-mess-with-your-ex stuff…that all sounded pretty good. It certainly sounded better in retrospect than how I was taking it earlier today.

  I blink several times as realization dawns. Well, hell. I’m not mad at Nick at all. I’m mad at the universe, but it doesn’t handily live across the street so I can cuss it out.

  I finally want someone again, crave him actually, and he pushed me toward another man. A man who just spent our date telling me exactly why I’m not date material. Apparently, my hormones have been in cold storage for more years than I can count, and my thawing ovaries are not enjoying this party at all.

  And just like that, the fight eases out with my breath, my shoulders hanging low.

  I’m about to be reasonable and apologize when Nick takes another step forward. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

  Um, ouch. Okay, buddy, no apology for you. The muscles tic in his clenched jaw, and I don’t even care if he breaks a molar now. There was no call for that low blow. I know I’m damaged goods right now. No need to rub it in, Mr. Perfect Pants.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” I lift my chin.

  “Go ahead and take it any way you want,” he snarls. “God knows, you will anyway.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  My eyes widen as he takes one last step forward. Now his chest isn’t the only thing that’s close to me as we go toe to toe on the front porch in front of God and all of Huckleberry Hills. His mouth is as well. And even though he’s mad as hell right now, there’s a part of me that recognizes something even more important. Nick is not unaffected by me.

  It’s been a while since I’ve seen real attraction this up close, granted, but it’s hard to miss the signs. His pupils are blown out, his breathing is ragged, and his eyes… His gorgeous eyes are fixed on my lips. I can’t help wondering what would happen if I just leaned forward a little more. What would happen if I just pressed my lips to his?

  He draws in a deep breath and brings his gaze back to mine. “It means that maybe your ovaries know what they’re talking about, and you should listen to them for once.”

  The breathless feeling I always get around him is back—about ten times worse than usual. A confidence I didn’t know I had has me asking, “Oh, and do what exactly?”

  “The same thing I’ve been wanting to do for days now.” He takes one last step and eliminates the small sliver of space I left between our bodies. “The same thing I’ve been thinking about every fucking second of every fucking hour of every fucking day since you moved in across the street from me.”

  “Yeah?” I barely get the word past my suddenly dry throat. “What’s that?”

  “This.”

  His hands come up to cup my face seconds before his lips slam down on mine.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Oh my God is Nick a great kisser. It’s like everything that was building up inside—all the want and the need and the gotta-have—got to the point where it couldn’t be locke
d down any longer, and the relief valve has been well and truly flipped open.

  His hands are on my hips, his mouth is on mine, and I can’t get enough. I’ve never been called greedy in my life, but right now—right now I want everything I can get and more. His mouth nips and licks and sucks at mine, devouring me so completely, I feel dizzy.

  Suddenly, the world tilts, and I chalk it up to his kisses being just that powerful before I realize he’s scooped an arm under my legs and is carrying me inside. His foot slams the door closed behind us and a molecule of wariness pricks along my skin. Not because of Nick, per se, but because the last time I gave my body to a man, he took my soul instead.

  If this is going to continue, and God I hope it does, I need to set some boundaries. I’m not ready for a relationship or anything like that. I just want to have an orgasm that makes me forget my name. That’s reasonable, right?

  “This doesn’t change anything,” I say as I touch every part of him that I can while he carries me into the living room.

  In a heartbeat, my feet are on the floor again, but I still can’t stop touching him.

  He pauses his journey of kissing his way down my neck. “What won’t change?”

  I reach out, grab the hem of his shirt, and slide my hands underneath so I can glide them across the hard ridges of his abs. And God, he feels good. “I don’t need a man to help me with anything but orgasms.”

  Nick pulls back at that. Takes a few steps away. Then we stand there, both breathing heavily—from my words? From the kiss? From both?—staring at each other in the middle of his living room. The only illumination is the soft light coming in from the foyer.

  He crosses his arms over his chest, the move drawing my attention to his biceps straining against the short sleeves of his T-shirt. “You don’t need my help?”

  “No.” I don’t, and he needs to learn that, but maybe now isn’t the best time for the lesson. Not when we could go back to kissing.