by Monroe, Lila
I return to the kitchen to make it happen.
Humming, I crouch down to make a choice from the well-stocked wine fridge that’s built into the island. “Viv and Colin, you sure do have great taste in wine.” Expensive taste—but she did say I was free to enjoy, so . . .
I find a bottle of rosé, and stand up again—
And scream.
Because holy shit, there is a naked man on the other side of the kitchen island. Tall, and tanned, and pretty damn muscular, except I’m seeing way more of those muscles than I should be right now!
“What are you doing?” I yell, covering my eyes with one hand, and raising the wine bottle above my head like a weapon with the other. “How did you get in?”
“How did I get in? You’re the one trespassing in my kitchen!”
“It’s not yours!” I protest. My eyes travel back up to his face . . . And then I stop. Because the strange naked man isn’t just any man.
It’s a man I know. Well, sort of.
It’s Not-Kyle from last night. The guy who pretended to be my date and turned out to be a duplicitous asshole.
And he’s now standing almost-naked in my gorgeous new kitchen.
“You!” I exclaim.
His eyes widen, recognizing me. “You!” he replies, just as accusing.
What the actual fuck?
3
Eve
“What are you? Some kind of stalker?” I demand, my arm starting to shake under the weight of the wine bottle, but no way I’m putting it down.
“Me, a stalker?” he snorts, coming around the island toward me. OK, so he’s not totally naked, just from the waist up.
Pity, I think, as I take in the muscled pecs, and abs that are so perfectly defined that my fingers itch to run over the ridges. Don’t even get me started on that happy trail and where it’s going underneath a pair of Hawaiian-print board shorts.
I force myself to focus and realize he’s right in front of me. In my bubble.
I whirl the wine bottle a little. “Don’t come any closer!”
He glances up, amused. Then, like I am no sort of threat, he easily plucks the bottle from my hand. “We can find a better use for this, don’t you think?”
I back up a step. He smells so good that the sensory overload is fuzzing up my brain. “What are you doing here? Are you following me or something?”
His right eyebrow lifts. “I could ask you the same.”
“I’m supposed to be here. I’m pet-sitting.” I point down at the pugs who are watching us like we’re playing a tennis match. With a ball made of liver snaps.
He folds his arms, making those biceps bulge. I swear, if this guy kidnaps me, I’m going to end up with some serious Stockholm syndrome.
“Oh,” he says, sighing. “You’re the girl Viv hired.”
“I’m not a girl,” I scowl.
“Fine. Independent, mature woman,” he smirks. “She said she found someone to clean up their shit. I’m crashing in the pool house, while my place is having some work done.”
“Sure,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him suspiciously. “How convenient that you meet me and then show up at the mansion I’m staying at.” I reach for my phone. “I’m calling the cops.”
That should get him moving.
It doesn’t.
Then I notice I’ve missed a text from Viv.
Oopsie! Forgot! FYI Noah staying in pool hse for wk or so.
“You’re Noah?” I ask.
“Guilty as charged,” he replies, looking smug.
“Oh.” I exhale in a whoosh. Suddenly my luxurious solo stay-cation doesn’t seem so solo.
Noah sidesteps me and opens the fridge, pulling out a stash of snacks. “Since you’re here alone in your pajamas, I take it bicycle boy didn’t turn out to be your soulmate?”
“No thanks to you!” I take down a wineglass and start aggressively opening drawers looking for a corkscrew.
“What do you mean, ‘thanks to me,’ ” he says, opening a drawer in the island and pulling out exactly what I’m looking for.
I huff. “You. You ruined my date!”
Noah’s eyebrow goes up again. “If I was able to ruin it, then it wasn’t meant to be. Doesn’t that follow your,” he does air quotes, “soulmate logic?”
Damn. Amazing biceps and half a brain. “Ugh,” I say without heat.
He grins as he starts opening the wine, using—you guessed it—those biceps.
I should get down a glass for him. I mean, it’s not actually my wine. But I’m still pissed at him about his deception at the bar so I don’t. He’s obviously a player and now I’m stuck with him for however long he’s here. So much for my month of solitude in paradise!
He pours wine into my glass. “Thanks,” I mutter begrudgingly, but before I can take a drink, he lifts the glass from my hand and brings it to his lips.
“Hey!” I protest, but he just smiles.
“I’m sorry, weren’t you getting that for me?”
I glare. I’m about to snatch the glass back from him, but that amused smirk on his face tells me it’s exactly what he wants me to do. So, instead I grab the whole bottle and start toward the stairs.
“I’m here to do a job,” I tell him over my shoulder. “Stay in the pool house and out of my way!”
I head upstairs to my new room, and settle in for the night. I wish I could say it’s the first time I’ve lain in bed drinking wine straight from the bottle while watching sappy rom-coms by myself. But that ship sailed, oh, about a million nights ago.
At least this time, I’m in a McMansion without slobby, horny roommates, and I have an adorable pup snuggled into each side of me.
Not to mention that it’s damn fine wine.
Everything is relaxing and nice, until . . . thumping bass music starts coming from the direction of the pool house.
I slam the French doors shut, but the drum and bass still echoes. I groan. “Maybe this is a frat house after all,” I sigh to Hans and Leia, who snuggle harder into me.
Turning up the TV, I take another swig, drowning out the noise and my irritation.
It’s going to be a long week.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up in the unfamiliar room in a panic. For a moment, I have no idea where I am. This definitely isn’t my crappy twin bed with the hand-me-down mattress, and I’m not the type to hook up with a guy and fall asleep at his place . . .
Am I?
If I am, I seriously scored—this bed is huge and is so comfy. It’s the epitome of luxury. I look over at the nightstand and see the empty wine bottle.
Then something cold and wet presses against on my cheek.
Then that something snuffles in my ear and I instantly remember.
“Leia!” I laugh. Then Hans gets in on it and I’m being love-attacked by two snorting bundles of puggy goodness.
“Alright, I get it. Time to get up!”
The two dogs and I jump down from the bed and head downstairs to the kitchen. I cautiously enter and look around. No sign of Not-Kyle—I mean Noah—thank God.
I open the back door for the pups and once they scrabble outside to do their morning business, I turn toward the counter for mine: coffee.
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “One of those.” I’m faced by a giant, professional, and very intimidating coffee-slash-espresso machine. It’s not a single pod number, or even a high-end version of a regular brewer—one of those I could figure out. No. This is one of those spaceship things they use at the kind of café where they put designs in your oat-milk cappuccino foam and you feel pressured into tipping double what the (already overpriced) cappuccino is worth. I’m pretty sure you need to go to barista school to figure how to use it. Needless to say, this machine is way above my pay grade.
Maybe I’ll grab a coffee out. I text Zoey. Where’s your truck today?
She tells me and I nearly squeal with joy—a park close enough that I can walk the dogs over. But first, I need something in my stomach to sop
up the remnants of that wine. I open the fully stocked fridge and peruse the shelves. It’s all name-brand stuff—no generic cheapo stuff here. It seems like a little thing, but it’s a luxury I never allow myself out of necessity. I’m the broke one scrounging dollar-store bargains, but for the next month I am brand-name all the way, baby!
“Viv, you are my new very favorite person. Mwah!” I blow her a virtual kiss.
I’m practically giddy as I take out all the fixin’s: cheese, mushrooms, spinach, and, of course, more cheese. Zoey may be the official chef of the group, but I’ve been known to flip a mean omelet. And I’m actually excited to cook. I haven’t so much as turned on a burner at frat central since realizing that I’d have to clean someone else’s mess off the stove before I could. Also, no amount of labelling with thick black Sharpie ensures food doesn’t get stolen in that house.
Seriously, what was I thinking living there?
That the rent is just about covered by my smorgasbord of part-time gigs. But right now, I’m considering selling my soul to someone to keep living in the lifestyle to which I’m planning to get accustomed.
How much would one soul go for, fresh and sparkling new?
I’ve just slid my perfectly executed omelet onto my plate and turned to the fridge for a glass of juice when I hear, “Mmmm. I thought I smelled something delicious.”
I whirl just in time to see a shirtless Noah taking a huge bite of my food. MY FOOD!
“Excuse me!” I say, appalled. “Boundaries! This is not a frat house!”
His eyebrows go way up as he lazily chews, the right corner of his mouth kicking up with amusement.
“Easy, there Eve,” he drawls. “You’re growling at me like a wolf who’s just lost her haunch of deer.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Wolf . . . with a . . . what?” I ask, confused. But in my defense, how am I supposed to think with that grin and naked chest in front of me?
Because it turns out I had not imagined that chest, those abs, and—God help me—those biceps yesterday. I’d thought the wine had amplified the hotness, but no. To quote a favorite Seinfeld episode: they’re real, and they’re spec-tac-ular.
I turn away to catch my breath, putting the carton of OJ away in the fridge.
“Hey, can I get some of that juice?” Noah asks.
I huff, but I guess I should be gracious, so I grab the carton again. But when I turn back around, he’s eaten more of my breakfast.
“Hey!” I cry, though it’s hard to seem very serious when I’m laughing. But come on, the nerve! The worst part? I fell for it. Shame, Eve, you should have seen that scam coming a mile off.
“What?” he asks, all innocence. “I thought you made this for me.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “You may as well finish it,” I say, pointing at the plate that’s already nearly empty.
At least he has the decency to look mildly sheepish about it as he shovels the last bit into that smiling mouth.
Just then, my phone rings. I glance down at it where it lies on the counter: Trish.
I stifle a groan and ignore it, letting it go to voicemail. I turn back to the fridge to get everything back out to make another omelet. I’m just whisking the eggs when my phone rings again. Her again. I ignore it a second time. I’m in no mood, especially since I’m not alone.
“Don’t you answer your phone?” Noah asks.
“Don’t you own a shirt?” I counter.
His lifts his eyebrows. I do the same, and we stare at each other. It feels like a challenge of sorts, one I’m not going to back down from.
Even when he makes his right pec jump distractingly. Oh so distractingly.
The tiny quirk of his lips tells me he’s noticed that I’ve noticed.
My lips quiver but there is no way I am backing down.
Finally, he drags his eyes from mine and turns away. “Suit yourself. Thanks for breakfast . . . Maybe use a little more salt next time.” He puts his plate in the dishwasher and leaves out the back door before I can protest.
But I add a little extra salt this time. And yes, annoyingly, it’s delicious.
Dammit.
I finish breakfast and wash up, then grab the pups and make the trek out to the park where Zoey’s brunch truck is parked for the day. One of the perks of having a bestie who’s an amazing chef? I get to cut the line, every time.
“Americano for Evie, cappuccino for Gemma,” she says as she hands us our drinks and sits between us on the wooden bench.
“You’re the best,” Gemma beams.
I wrap my hands around the cup and take a sip. “Mmmm. My favorite.”
“And by that, you mean free?” Zoey teases.
I laugh and nod. “Maybe.”
“So, tell us about this pet-sitting gig,” Gemma says. “Is it a nice place?”
“Nice doesn’t begin to describe it.” I whip out my phone and show them pics of the mansion. They gasp.
“Are you serious?” Zoey cries. “Look at that La Cornue.”
“The what?”
“The stove,” she says, practically drooling. Gemma laughs.
“Never mind the stove, look at that pool. It’s crying out for someone to enjoy it . . .”
“And do you have any ideas who?” I tease.
“Um, yes!”
We hear masculine yells. Our three sets of eyes are drawn to the basketball court. Both of my best friends goggle. I can hardly blame them, since the view is fiiiine. But they’ve got even more reason to gawk: two of those fine specimens running up and down the court are their boyfriends.
I swallow my twinge of jealousy with the next sip of my Americano. I’m happy for them. Really I am, but . . .
“That’s some mighty-fine man-flesh over there,” Zoey sighs happily.
Gemma wolf whistles. “Right?
“Ladies?” I say. “My problem?”
Zoey frowns and tears her eyes away from the court to glance at Gemma. Who explains: “While you were making our drinks, Eve was telling me about the pool boy at the house-sitting gig.
“Pool house guest,” I correct.
“Tomato-tomahto,” Gemma says with a wave of her hand. “Anyway. Get this . . .”
She pauses for dramatic effect while I roll my eyes.
“He’s the guy from the bar. The fake date.”
Zoey grins. “The eco-dick with the straws and the bicycle?”
“No,” I laugh. “That was the actual date. This is the guy that pretended to be him. Captain Cynical.”
My friends look at each other again. Turn back to me.
“Is he hot?” Zoey asks.
“It doesn’t even matter!” I exclaim. “He could be literally anything. A con-man, an axe murderer. Who knows?”
Gemma smirks at Zoey. “He’s totally hot.”
Zoey grins. “No doubt. I’d bet my truck on it.”
I roll my eyes, even as I’m laughing. “You’re terrible, both of you!”
“Look,” Gemma says earnestly. “He was at the bar and then he’s miraculously at your dog-sitting job. I’m pretty sure that qualifies as fate.”
“It qualifies as a stalker,” I mutter.
“I thought you said it was a coincidence,” Gemma points out. “There’s no way he could have known. AKA fate.”
“Also,” Zoey says, “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences. Totally fate.” She smirks.
I roll my eyes, frustrated that they’re throwing my words back at me. “No, it isn’t. It can’t be!”
Zoey snorts so loud that the pugs stir mid-snore and look up at her. “Uh, you are the queen of romance and signs and ‘everything that’s meant to be will be’ and ‘everything happens for a reason,’ ” she says in a teasing voice. “This is your fucking playbook, Evie!”
Gemma nods. “She’s not wrong. Also, that was a pretty great impression of you.”
My friends high-five.
“Not this time,” I say. “Not this guy.”
Zoey glances over her shoulder to whe
re there’s a line-up forming at her truck. “I’d better go help before Nikki freaks out, but I think we need to come scope this guy out.”
“Agreed,” Gemma offers, licking at the foam on the rim of her cup. “You know, to make sure he’s not an axe murderer. While we check out the pool.”
“Yes,” Zoey agrees. “Exactly for that reason. To protect you, Evie.”
Just then, the guys finish their game, giving each other bro-hugs and high fives. When they’re done, Cam and Zach come over to greet us.
Gemma quickly stands up and puts her palm out toward Zach. “Don’t you dare sweat on me, Bigfoot!”
Which of course makes him snarl, grab her, and pull her into him until she’s squealing. Though the way she quickly succumbs, wraps her arms around his neck, and goes in for a scorching kiss tells me she’s not that upset. I look away from them in time to see Zoe and Cam kiss and twine hands as they start toward her truck.
It all makes me feel so . . . fifth-wheely.
I tug gently on the leashes until the dogs snort and wake up. “I’d better get these two home,” I say, though I’m not sure anyone’s listening.
“Byeeeeee!” Gemma calls, tearing her lips away from Zach for a moment.
“See you later!” Zoey adds.
And then they get back to their PDAs, while I head home alone. Well, not exactly alone. I have two adorable dogs for company, and now that I think about it, that pool did look inviting . . .
This fifth wheel’s about to take a dip!
4
Noah
“I feel like I’m looking at mug shots,” my friend Will says as he squints at the laptop between us. We’re in a noisy café, surrounded mostly by digital dudes like us, nursing their cold, bitter coffees in exchange for the free Wi-Fi.
“They’re all pictures of you,” I point out, and then I look at him sideways. “Wait. Something you want to tell me? Are real mug shots of you going to surface that I’m going to have to deal with?”