Lockdown Love

by Brisa Starr

  “I can handle my own luggage, thank you very much,” she quips and grabs for the suitcase handle. But I don’t let go, and our hands briefly touch. She stops, her breath hitches in her chest, and she quickly looks at me, then lets go.

  What was that?

  She felt it, too. Something. I don’t know what.

  “No, please, allow me. I would never hear the end of it from my little sister if I didn’t help you with your luggage.”

  She steps back and turns to grab her purse and backpack from the backseat of the car. She tells the driver thanks, and I reflect on the electricity, or whatever you call what just happened between us, that I felt when her hand grazed mine.

  But my thoughts are interrupted as she walks back over to me carrying her backpack and purse. Fuck, I’m in awe of her beauty.

  “I see you didn’t expect my being here, but it’s only for two weeks.” It’s time for the charm. “Unless you can convince me to stay longer.” I wink.

  “Ha,” she barks roughly. “Not likely.” She grabs her phone from her brown leather satchel purse that’s slung across her chest and starts swiping across the screen a few times. “I’m trying to see if your sister emailed me and I missed it.”

  A few seconds pass while she’s searching her email, and I get a good look at her. She has slim, elegant fingers, and her hair is long, wavy, and it cascades around her small shoulders, falling to the top of her perky breasts. Her fitted, green T-shirt — wow, it shows off her curves, and my cock wakes up. I look back at her left hand — no ring? That’s good. I suck air in between my teeth and inadvertently make a noise.

  She looks up and catches me staring at her. She ignores it. “Oh. Here it is. Your sister’s email landed in my junk folder.”

  She opens the email and reads it, giving me another chance to ogle her, but then she frowns. Shit.

  “Hmmm. Yes. She did email me and warned that you would be here.”

  “Warned?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  “She mentioned that I’m to take the master bedroom, and that you’ll be on your best behavior. What the heck does ‘best behavior’ mean?” She squints her eyes at me.

  I shrug. “What can I say? Little sister bullshit.”

  She shifts her weight and looks me straight on, her green eyes filled with determination. “Look,” she continues, “I’m not here to play. Was it... Landon?” I confirm my name with a nod and she continues. “This isn’t a vacation for me. I have a lot of work to do, so if you would please just give me space while I’m here, I’d appreciate it.”

  Fuck. She’s not happy.

  But I am.

  I’m intrigued, and I find myself wanting to know everything about her. I keep the conversation going, Dale Carnegie style. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a freelance writer for various health magazines and websites, which I can do from anywhere. A laptop-lifestyle has its perks. So I’ll be working for my clients while I’m here,” she replies, a bit flatly.

  “That’s cool.”

  Then her face lights up. “But the real reason I decided to rent the room for a month is because I wanted a change of scenery while I work on a book I’m writing.”

  “Oh yes, Sadie mentioned that.”

  Then, the light in her face disappears, and she adds, “I didn’t come here to be distracted.”

  “Distracted? How would I distract you?”

  She cocks her head to the side, and she’s about to say something that I don’t think I want to hear, so I change the question. “A book? That’s interesting. What about?” Then I can’t help myself. “Is it a steamy romance novel? You know, one with a cover where the dude has chiseled abs and a square jaw?” Her lips want to twitch into a smile, and I see I’ve lightened the mood, so I go a step further, “Cuz if so, I could help with the research.”

  She looks at me like I have two heads.

  OK, maybe too far.

  To put her at ease, I hold my hands up again, “I’m just kidding.” I don’t want to run her off thinking I’m deranged. Sadie would kill me. We need good reviews from guests to make this rental idea work. I’d be disappointed if she ran off, too.

  “For real though, what’s your book about?”

  She stares at me, as if assessing something. I wish I knew what. She finally replies and suddenly seems a little shy, “I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested.”

  If she only knew. I’d be interested in anything she has to say.

  “Try me,” I offer. “After all, it looks like we’re gonna be together for a couple of weeks.”

  She bites her lower lip as she considers how much to tell me. “I’m actually writing a book with my Granny’s amazing, homemade herbal remedies for skin and health.” Her shyness dissipating, she glows with pride. “My Granny was a master herbalist in the kitchen.”

  She takes a breath and smiles, as if remembering a sweet memory. I feel this crazy urge to kiss her, when she continues, “Actually, sometimes I thought of her as a witch — a good witch, mind you — brewing amazing concoctions and elixirs. She had a fix for any ailment.” She pauses, thoughtful, and then continues. “Anyway, my Granny had a lot of great recipes, and she taught me everything she knew. So I want to write a book sharing her knowledge with the world.”

  “Herbal remedies? Skin and health? That sounds kind of neat,” I say, admiring her passion. Though, honestly, I think herbal remedies are bullshit. “I’m a doctor, a dermatologist. So I specialize in skin. Let me know if you have any questions... maybe I actually can help.”

  “Thanks,” she snorts. “But I’ve got this. Besides, I highly doubt you’d appreciate my Granny’s recipes, given that you’re an M.D.” She whispers M.D. like it’s a dirty word.

  “Do I detect sarcasm?”

  “Nope, none at all,” she says, feigning innocence.

  I think she’s teasing me, but I sense a bit of tension in her tone, too. Not wanting to start a disagreement where I’d school her on real skin care, I decide to take her into the house and show her around. I can save that conversation for later.

  “Well, roomie,” I joke, “let me give you a tour of the house and show you your room.” I grab her suitcase. “Follow me.”

  I walk to the garage door and insert a key into the wall to open it. My parents’ American flag is waving in the wind on a wood pole sticking out from the wall. Sadie must’ve hung it, knowing I’d like that. As we wait for the garage door to go up, I can’t help but take another peek at her while she’s looking around. Standing this close to her, I get a whiff of her floral perfume, and I’d like to get closer for more. She’s so damn beautiful. A little feisty, too.

  This is going to be an interesting couple of weeks. I may extend my vacation after all.

  2

  Emma

  Well, poop. I didn’t expect this. A roommate? And a hot-as-heck one, too? Ugh. I’m not thrilled about this turn of events. I mean, I knew there could be other roommates if someone rented one of the rooms, but I had secretly hoped I’d be the only one here the whole time. I certainly didn’t consider a situation like this. And, was he flirting? I can’t believe he was flirting with me. He doesn’t even know me!

  I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy it though. And when his hand touched mine as I tried to take my luggage, whoah, I felt something. Not sure what. Maybe it was my imagination. No, there’s no denying the sizzle that went up my spine.

  Wait, Emma. Stop. Don’t even go there.

  Right. I shake my head. I’m here for one reason and one reason only. I flew across the country to hole up in a beautiful place and write a book. I’m not in Arizona to play with some sex god.

  But, dang, look at his arms. I do love big biceps, consider it one of my weaknesses. I take another peek while I follow him to the garage so we can go inside. I think they might bust out of his golf shirt’s sleeves like the Hulk. And those eyes, piercing blue, deep like the ocean, and they were laser-focused on me.

  Maybe I should be nervous.


  Yes, I’m definitely sensing my nerves acting up. I need to mix up one of Granny’s valerian-chamomile tonics. Maybe add a splash of vodka, too. Shit. How am I going to concentrate on writing my book if he’s in the same house?

  Get a grip, Emma.

  Reminding myself that I’m completely off men for now, and especially for this month, I drag my eyes away from him. I focus on the front yard while we wait for the garage door to open. I’m on a mission to write my book. I don’t need distractions. I just need to focus. Besides, the sexier the guy, the bigger the consequences, and this man is clearly consequential. I don’t have time for that right now. I’ll set him straight and let him know to keep his distance.

  As I’m looking around, I notice his neighbor next door, staring at us while sweeping her porch. She’s impossible to miss. Her hair is big, puffed high, and dyed fire-engine red. Even though she must be at least 70 years old, her face has a weird, dreamy expression as she gazes at Landon. She’s wearing an apron over her sensible knee-length skirt.

  I see a sign in her front yard supporting our current president, Fred Teegan. “Looks like your Teegan-loving neighbor is a bit fascinated with you.”

  He must have detected the mild disdain in my voice. “Not a Teegan fan?”

  “Hardly,” I reply dryly.

  “What? How can you not like Teegan?” He wrinkles his eyebrows. “We’ve had the best economy in years.”

  In spite of my annoyance from his comment, I take note of his square jaw and strong nose. His hair is dark brown and looks freshly cut. Buzzed short at the sides with a little height on top. “Hmm, if that’s all you care about.” Then I set him straight, “Besides, he inherited that economy.”

  “Not true. He’s a good businessman, and he did not inherit the economy. He made America great again, no thanks to the prior administration,” he says, a bit too passionately for my taste.

  “Oh great,” I say under my breath, and I step back a bit. “Two weeks with someone on the other side of the aisle. Joy.”

  He heard me. “The sarcasm is dripping now,” he says and gives me a sidelong glance. “That’s alright. I’m always up for a little debate.”

  He senses my increasing annoyance and changes the subject back to the neighbor. “Anyway, that’s Beverly. She was living there before my parents bought this house. She’s nosy as hell, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Really? Nosy how?”

  “She was caught going through my parents’ mail more than once. She even took a package from my parents’ porch into her house, claiming she was just holding it for them.” He looks away from me to her and politely calls out, “Hey, Beverly!” and waves at her.

  While he’s distracted, I take a minute to appreciate his height. He must be 6'1" towering over my 5'5" frame. He’s wearing sporty khaki shorts, and his long legs look strong. I can see the sweep of his quad muscles where they meet his knees.

  Then he turns to me and says, “And she loves gossip. If you want the scoop about anyone on the street, just ask Bev.”

  With the garage door up, we walk inside and I notice the golf cart. It’s bright green with a glittery gold finish, and there are Christmas lights hanging around its roof. Oh my gosh, it’s super cute. I get a kick out of the fact that most of the residents here in Sun City West drive golf carts everywhere. Many don’t even have a car.

  “Landon?” I ask. He stops and turns to face me. “Sadie said I’d be able to use the golf cart while I’m here.”

  “Yeah, she told me,” he answers. “I’ll make sure it’s filled with gas for us. I bugged my parents to get an electric cart, but they weren’t willing to part with ‘Bessie’ — that’s what they called her. You know how people name their boats? Well my folks named their golf cart.” He points toward the dashboard. “The keys should be in it already. We just keep them there.”

  “Ok. Any weird rules I should know about driving it?”

  “Nope. Just obey traffic laws like you’re driving a car.”

  I smile at the thought. So cute! The golf cart, I mean. Not him. The golf cart.

  “Let’s go,” he says. I follow Landon into the house, admiring his sexy ass. Well, I’m not a nun! I visibly shake my head of those less-than-holy thoughts and turn my attention to the house. This will be my home for the next month.

  As we pass through the huge laundry room, complete with spare refrigerator and freezer, I spot a built-in desk area where I might be able to write. I’m already envisioning my time here and feeling excited. Then we enter the kitchen. A huge kitchen. Italian tile floor, and a gigantic island in the center for cooking. Two ovens, two stoves, and a butcher block. No, wait, two butcher blocks.

  The house is filled with color, and I can see the living room from the kitchen because of its open floor plan. There are beautiful windows letting the Arizona sun shine through in both the kitchen and living room, and both rooms have built-in, floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books. There must be at least a thousand.

  I’m staring with my mouth open, and he sees my reaction. “Yeah, it’s a big kitchen. My mom loved to cook.” I see a bit of sadness in his face, but then he perks up. “I do, too. I guess I get it from her.”

  I smile. “It’s spectacular.” I imagine the fun I’ll have in here, mixing tinctures and macerating herbs. The kitchen island is bigger than any I’ve seen before, overly huge but also magnificent. Sadie said I was to help myself with any appliances and gadgets. I look over to a large, tiled counter next to the back wall where I can set up all of my ingredients... perfect.

  He sets my luggage down, and we continue the tour. It gets even better as he shows me the rest of the house. It’s filled with Mexican decorations everywhere, like Day of the Dead ceramics, vases filled with magnificent cloth flowers, and the colors are vibrant, with orange and sunny yellow walls. It’s all so colorful, and I immediately think of how much Granny would’ve loved this house. I instantly feel at home.

  “I love it. It’s fun and playful with the bright colors and all the decorations,” I tell him. “I’m going to have a great time writing here.”

  “Good to hear,” he says. “Mom didn’t leave a wall without something on it. They used to love traveling to Mexico. They’d drive and always come back with the car packed with tons of shit,” he replies.

  “It’s not really my taste,” he adds. “I’m more into contemporary, grays, warehouse-rustic type of style. Not even close to this,” he continues softly. “But that was Mom. And Dad just let her decorate however she wanted. He always said, ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”

  I smile at him. There’s a sadness when he talks about his parents. But I can also sense a deep love and admiration for them. I’m not as close to my mom like that, and my dad left when I was little… I hardly know him. But Granny? My Granny and I were very close. We still are, even though she’s no longer living on earth. She was my everything. There to wipe my tears when my prom date stood me up and there to nurse me through any cold, flu, or stomach bug. My mom was great, too, but she worked two jobs to make ends meet while I was growing up, so I didn’t see her as much.

  We talk more as he shows me around the house, and I learn he’s from Wisconsin. I share that I’m from Michigan, and we discover our mutual distaste for the cold and seasonal dreariness of both of those states. Hence, our equal enthusiasm for being here right now, in sunny Arizona.

  As we make our way back to the kitchen, I’m not sure if I should ask, but I decide to anyway, “When did your parents pass away?”

  “They died in a car accident a year ago,” he says, and I’m surprised by the flatness of his tone. I instantly feel bad for asking, and I’m relieved when he quickly changes the subject and continues the tour. He points out where things are in the kitchen, like silverware and pots and pans, and his mood seems to improve.

  He shows me the coffee and tea area, a separate counter all its own, just for this purpose. I’m in heaven! It’s covered with colorful jars for teas, coffees (including espresso), an
d various kinds of sweeteners — honey, maple syrup, stevia, and brown sugar. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Landon pulls a black and white checkered towel off a machine, and I see... it’s a cappuccino maker!

  “This makes a mean capp’,” he says. “But if that’s not your thing, there’s the regular ol’ coffee maker, too. I say ‘old,’ but it’s a bad-ass.” He points to the fancy-looking red Technivorm coffee maker. He sees the question in my eyes. “It’s a $300 coffee maker, like just a normal coffee maker that brews by the pot, but it brews at the perfect temp for making the perfect cup.”

  I whistle. “Impressive. I didn’t know you could spend 300 bucks for a Mr. Coffee that makes coffee even… coffier.”

  “Noohoho. Not like Mr. Coffee. Prepare to have your mind blown tomorrow morning.” He raises his eyebrows and a cocky smile settles on his lips. He continues, nodding his head, “Looks like Sadie did a good job of stocking the coffee and tea, too.”

  I’m smiling ear to ear at how darling and sweet the coffee nook is — that’s what I’ve dubbed it. “This is awesome. Looks like I’ll be adequately caffeinated for writing.”

  “Cool,” he replies as he grabs my suitcase where he left it earlier. He walks toward a closed door off the kitchen. “Last but not least, here’s the master bedroom, which my sister promised you.” He smirks as he opens the door and steps aside to let me pass.

  “Do I detect a bit of resentment?” I walk into the bedroom.

  “Not at all,” he says as he follows me into the room. He sets my luggage down on the gorgeous dark wood floors, and I check out the room I’ll be sleeping in for the next month. It’s beautiful, with a king size bed positioned in the center of the west wall, flanked by two gorgeous cherrywood nightstands carved with flower designs. I notice there are doors that lead out to a beautiful courtyard complete with patio furniture, including a wrought iron table with a round glass top, a bright cherry-red umbrella to block the sun, and flowers growing all around the perimeter.