“I’m kidding,” I say. “But you do look like a schoolmarm and an Amish pastor had a baby.”
“You’re an asshole.” She hides her face with her book.
“You know, you really fit right in here,” I say. “You hate noise. And parties. And fun. You go to bed at a decent hour. And you wear funeral-appropriate swimwear. You can’t be much older than, what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? But you’re basically retired. Please tell me you had at least one rebellious year of college, otherwise I’m going to be really fucking disappointed in you.”
Delilah releases an annoyed sigh, still hiding behind a book thicker than most poolside reads should be. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a small textbook. I move toward her, bending to read the title.
“When Marriages Fail?” I read the title aloud. “What the hell are you reading?”
She slams the book into her lap, lips tight. “I’m in grad school.”
“Studying . . . marriage?” I wrinkle my nose.
“I’m getting my MSW,” she says. “I’m going to be a licensed social worker, and I’d like to go into marriage and family counseling.”
“Okay,” I say. “But you’re on summer break, right? Shouldn’t you be reading Nora Roberts or something?”
“Impressive.” She shields her eyes. “I’m shocked you can actually name an author. Now, quick, name some more.”
I rake my teeth against my lower lip, biting back a smirk and knowing damn well I’ll get shit for this. “Danielle Steele. Jackie Collins.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
“Good.” Because I’m not exactly in the mood to explain that when I came to live with my grandmother at nine, I was illiterate. She taught me to read, and I quickly advanced to chapter books, but all she had lying around were trashy romance hardbacks. I inhaled them all over the course of one summer. No regrets. “Wasn’t going to tell you anyway.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be right now?” She straightens the beach blanket beneath her so it covers the slats in the chair. “You play football, right? Don’t you practice in the summer?”
“Camp doesn’t start until the end of July.”
“So you just . . . hang around and do whatever?”
“I work out. I stay in shape. I keep busy enough.” I yank the towel off my shoulder and drape it around my neck to block the beating sun. “Shouldn’t you be doing stuff for Rue and not lounging at the pool like some slacker who thinks she’s on summer vacation?”
She rolls her eyes. “Rue’s at a Bunco luncheon right now. We’re meeting with her real estate agent tomorrow. Trust me, I’ll be plenty busy this summer. You won’t be seeing much of me.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
Her gaze lowers, landing on the wet bulge of my board shorts. She can pretend she hates me all she wants, but that just told me everything I need to know. Beneath that uptight veneer is a whole other layer of Delilah.
Too bad for her, this is my summer of celibacy.
And fuck. Too bad for me too.
“Damn,” I say with a sarcastic gleam in my eye. “I was really looking forward to being babysat by the girl next door all summer. Now who’s going to monitor my schedule and make sure my parties aren’t too loud?”
She mumbles under her breath, swinging her legs over the chair and gathering her belongings into her arms.
“You leaving now?” My left brow lifts. “Jesus, Delilah, are you really that uptight? I thought we were playing around. Giving each other shit.”
Her arms are overflowing with towels and books and sunglasses and suntan lotion as she balances a straw hat on her head. Loose dark tendrils frame her face as our eyes lock.
“I’m not uptight.” She hoists her armful a bit higher. “I didn’t sleep last night, I’m exhausted from traveling, and I have a to-do list a mile long this week. Is it too much to ask that you refrain from calling me a schoolmarm and make fun of what I’m reading when I’m trying to relax by the pool?”
“Stay.” I point to her chair. “I’m on my way out anyway.”
She freezes, watching me, unsure of her next move.
“But just so you know, gorgeous, you probably shouldn’t dish it out if you can’t take it,” I add one last dig because I can’t help myself, and I’m dying to squeeze a hint of a smile out of her before I take off.
“Oh, I can take it.”
“Clearly you can’t. Look at you. Sulking. Stomping off with an armful of shit because I teased you about your fucking 1850s swimsuit.”
She drops her belongings on the empty lounger. “And here we go again.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not funny. It’s rude.”
“You’re being too sensitive, gorgeous. Just chill the fuck out.”
“Stop calling me gorgeous every time you back yourself into a corner,” she spouts. “It’s not going to work on me, and it’s rude to assume all women want to be addressed in accordance with their perceived looks.”
“Rude is pounding on someone’s door at two AM and treating them like a fucking teenager, demanding they close up shop so you can get your precious beauty rest.”
“Are we seriously going back to that?” She releases something that sounds like a groan and a growl and a moan, collecting her things all over again. “I’m sorry I didn’t say please or thank you or kiss your ass. I’m sure you’re not used to women having a conversation with you that doesn’t involve lip biting and hair twirling and winking and giggling. I’m probably the only woman on the face of the earth who can stand in front of you and not throw herself your way, and maybe you don’t know how to handle me because of that. I don’t know. . .”
Her rant continues, but I cut her off.
“You’re implying that all the women I talk to are vapid, horny bimbos.” I scratch the side of my head, watching her flit about. “See, now that’s an insult. You’re not even teasing. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”
“Enough.” She ends the conversation with a single palm in the air and a tone in her voice sharp enough to slice through the thick Florida humidity on this balmy afternoon.
Letting her hand fall, our eyes lock and her lips part, as if she’s seconds from saying something. But instead, she slides her feet into conservative black flip-flops and turns to leave.
I kind of feel bad.
Kind of.
She needs to loosen up a bit and not act like a ninety-year-old twenty-something. A little verbal sparring might be good for her. Might get her out of her wound-up little shell a bit.
Glancing around, I notice many of the lounge chairs have begun to fill in, and to my left, the Gossipping Gabbies of Laguna Palms are all tuned to me, lips flat and sunglasses masking disapproving glares.
I give them a nod as I walk past to retrieve my things.
“That’s not the way to a young lady’s heart, Zane,” Ethel French says with a tsk-tsk in her tone.
I stop, addressing Ethel and her crew of gossip aficionados. “Not trying to get to her heart.”
“Sure you’re not.” Her lips dance into a coy grin. “We see the way you look at her.”
I laugh. “You’re making something out of nothing.”
“She’s a beautiful woman. You’re a handsome man.” Ethel shrugs. “We’ve been around long enough to know when a boy is sweet on a girl. It’s elementary really. When a young man is callous to a young lady, it’s really because he likes her. And often times the reverse is true.”
“That’s a cute little theory, but believe me, not the case here.” I give them a tiny salute and continue on my way.
Not the case. At all.
Plus, Rue would have my balls if I so much as thought about going near her niece. She said so herself while brandishing a pair of garden shears as we were chit-chatting over the fence a couple weeks ago. And if there’s anything I’ve learned about Rue since I moved here, it’s that her threats are never empty.
I can fuck with the HOA all I wa
nt, but going near her great niece probably wouldn’t be in my best interest.
Then again, when have I ever met a rule that couldn’t be bent in my favor . . . just a little?
Chapter 3
Delilah
“What time is Taylor coming again?” I ask Aunt Rue Friday morning. The woman’s on her fourth cup of coffee already, dusting off china in the cabinet with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex tucked beneath her left arm. “I did the windows yesterday, remember?”
“Oh, sugar, the Windex is for the mirrored backing behind the china.” Her lips are slicked in ruby red, and she scratches her forehead just beneath the white golf visor that rarely leaves her head. It’s almost a part of her now.
“I don’t think she’s going to inspect every square inch of your house, Aunt Rue. It’s not like dusty shelves are going to knock a couple grand off your asking price. We have plenty of time for deep cleaning. I’ll dedicate my entire weekend to it.”
“He.”
“Pardon?”
“Taylor’s a he.”
“Oh. Okay. Anyway, he’s not going to inspect your china cabinet. Trust me. What time will he be here?”
She pulls back the sleeve of her pastel peach tracksuit and glances at her watch. “Any damn minute, that’s when.”
Slipping my arm around her bony shoulders, I rest my palms on her hands to keep her still for a moment. She’s lived in this house in Laguna Palms for over twenty years. This house is her life. But it’s too much for her these days, and she’s opting to downsize to a modest-sized, ground-level luxury condo as to not risk breaking a hip on one of her slick wooden staircases. I shudder at the thought of having to forcibly relocate Rue to an assisted-living facility.
“Everything’s going to work out,” I say. “And you’re going to love that condo in Palm Springs. This house has served you well, but now it’s time to move on.”
“You’ll still visit me every summer, right?”
“Always.”
I pull away just in time to hear the doorbell ring.
“I’ll get it,” I call out, running my palms along my sides and brushing my hair from my shoulders. Yanking on the front door, I step back, preparing to usher in Aunt Rue’s real estate agent.
But instead, I’m looking at a vision of tawny, taut muscles, dark tattoos, and a deliciously wicked half-smirk that could only belong to Zane de la Cruz.
Quickly stepping outside, I pull the door closed behind me and whisper, “What are you doing here?”
His smirk fades as our eyes lock, and he presents a bouquet of daffodils from behind his back.
“Flowers?” I slip a hand on my hip. “Are you crazy?”
“Just wanted to apologize for the other day at the pool.” He extends the bouquet my way, and I take the pretties. “I think yellow means sorry or some shit like that.”
I resist the urge to inform him that yellow roses mean I’m sorry. Daffodils symbolize new beginnings. I can thank my mother, Bliss, for that knowledge. That woman knows the proper flower for any occasion.
“Thank you.” I glance over his shoulder, watching the driveway for the Realtor.
“Anyway, I know we got off on the wrong foot.” His hand hooks the back of his neck as our eyes meet, and his mouth widens in a way that makes my heart skip a beat without permission. “I’m not always an ass. Only when I want to be.”
“Delilah?” Aunt Rue’s muffled voice filters through the front door. “Who’s out there?”
“You have to go,” I say before turning back to the door to answer her. “Just a minute, Rue.”
Aunt Rue has made it perfectly clear on numerous occasions that she does not care for the “filthy football player next door,” claiming he has a filthy mind and a filthy mouth.
Only as much as she talks about him, I’m beginning to have my doubts. I’d almost say she’s borderline obsessed with him, and having officially seen that disgustingly handsome mug of his and noted his penchant for doing things his own way, I can fully appreciate where she’s coming from.
The gentle hum of tires on pavement steals my attention toward the driveway, where a black Bentley comes to a soft stop and a man with sandy blond hair dressed in a gray suit grabs a briefcase from his backseat. The car door shuts with a high-quality click before he heads for the sidewalk.
“You have to go,” I tell Zane again. Glancing toward Taylor, I acknowledge him with a wave and friendly smile.
Zane hops down from the front steps, cutting through Rue’s manicured lawn to get back to his place. She’d kill him. She’d literally kill him if she saw.
“Hi, I’m Delilah. Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand when Taylor reaches the front stoop. “I’m Rue’s great niece, and I’ll be assisting with the selling and moving and all that that entails.”
“Wonderful to meet you, Delilah,” he says, holding my hand in both of his. His smile is warm, his blue gaze intense. “I’m Taylor Forbes.”
He smells like money.
Literal money. Clean and sharp like copper and starched cotton.
Like he rolled around in a Scrooge McDuck pile of money and then showered beneath a waterfall of hundred-dollar bills.
And he looks exactly like the kind of guy who would be selling million-dollar homes. Pretty, almost. Professionally styled. Too much confidence in his stride.
I size him up the way I do everyone else; an old habit of mine. He seems like the kind of man who would never settle for perfection, and even then, I can imagine that sometimes perfection isn’t quite up to his standards.
There isn’t a speck of dust on his jacket or a strand of hair out of place. His car reflects the sun in the drive, appearing to be freshly waxed and polished.
“Come on in.” I pull my hand from his and reach for the door, feeling him close behind me.
“Aunt Rue, Taylor’s here,” I call out, resting the bouquet of daffodils on a nearby console table.
“In the living room, sugar,” she yells.
Taylor looks around the spacious entry, removing his polished shoes and following me to the next room.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Aunt Rue rises, going to Taylor and cupping his face as if he were a child. “How are you doing? I haven’t spoken to your grandmother since she up and moved to Phoenix, that old traitor. Couldn’t take the humidity here, I suppose. How’s she liking the southwest?”
“She loves it,” he says. “She’s living in Sedona now. I fly out for a visit a few times a year. Beautiful place.”
“She’s good? She’s doing well?” Rue asks.
“She is.” Taylor nods, taking a seat on the sofa across from us.
“I don’t hear from her much anymore, not since Irvin passed.” Rue clutches her chest. At seventy-five, she’s yet to have been married, but she’s reached the point in her life when widowhood is afflicting her friends left and right. “We miss her so. I wish she’d come back and visit. Tell her we miss her, will you?”
“Of course.” Taylor’s ocean-blue gaze moves to mine, and he straightens the knot of his skinny black tie. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Yes.” I clap my hands together and take the spot beside Rue, anxious to get this party started.
“Taylor, you’ve never met my great niece, have you?” Rue places her hand on my knee.
“We met outside,” I say.
“Good, because you two are going to be working very closely together this summer,” Rue says. I detect a smidge of excitement in her tone that implies something else entirely. She’s going to be sorely mistaken when I inform her Taylor isn’t exactly my type. Not even close. I would never. “Delilah will be your main point of contact. If you have a showing, you call her. She’ll get the house in order and relay the message to me. If you want to set up an open house, work with her. I only want to hear from you if there’s an offer. A good offer.”
“Understood.” Taylor is still honed in on me. “Delilah, I’ll need your number.”
I rattle off the ten dig
its, and he sends me a text to confirm.
“So what next?” Rue asks.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look around. Make some notes. Then I’ll head back to the office and run comps. Should have a list price for you in the next day or so. After that, you’ll sign the contract, and we’ll have ourselves a live listing.” The tone of his voice escalates, and he claps two very manicured hands together, rubbing his palms.
He seems way too excited about this, but I suppose that’s a good thing. The man clearly lives and breathes real estate, and that’s exactly the kind of person who should be selling Rue’s McMansion.
“By all means.” Rue rises, waving her arm to invite him to take a look around. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. I’ve got a bonsai that needs trimming. Delilah, would you mind showing Taylor around?”
Rue scampers off, her hips swaying with each quick step. The woman clearly doesn’t know the definition of slow down, and she never has. Ever since striking it rich with some thigh-shaper invention in the eighties, all she’s done is work, work, work and go, go, go. She couldn’t stand still if she tried.
“I guess we’ll start in the foyer and make our way around . . .” I lead Taylor out of the living room, glancing through the dining room window on my way and spotting Zane shooting hoops in his driveway with a couple of other guys.
Guess he’s not the only one incapable of relaxing for a hot minute. Taylor stops beside me, following my gaze.
“Did you know Zane de la Cruz lives next door?” I ask Taylor as I point.
“I did.”
“Do you know him personally?” I ask because they’re the same age and Gainesville isn’t that huge of a city. If it’s anything like Rixton Falls, everyone knows everyone. “Are you friends?”
“I don’t know him personally, no.” Taylor waves me off and struts off like he’s too bothered to continue on with this conversation. “Everyone knows everyone here. I know of him. He knows of me. But personal friends? Hardly.”
His chuckle is stuffy and proper, like he’s entertained by the fact that I would assume they were friends.
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