“You Rue’s niece?” he asks.
“Great niece. Yes.”
“Ah.” His stare washes over me, head to toe, dripping slow. His shoulders rise and fall as his eyes narrow. “Delilah, right?”
My fingertips reach toward my collarbone, instinctively looking to toy with a necklace that isn’t there.
“How’d you know my name?” I ask.
“Rue told me,” he says, brows lifted, as if the answer should be obvious.
I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh at the kinds of things I can imagine came from that seventy-five-year-old woman’s filter-less lips.
“Well, then I’m sure she told you I’m staying here for the summer while she sells her house,” I say. “So -”
“Oh, is that why you’re here?” His full lips jut, as he slides his hands in his pockets. “She didn’t tell me that part. Just told me to stay the hell away from you.”
That sounds exactly like Rue.
“She told me no niece of hers would be caught dead associating with a filthy football player.” He winks.
“Have to hand it to Rue, she calls it like she sees it.” My strong front is dissolving at warp speed. I need to get back on track. “Anyway, if you could maybe just steer the party inside, I’d appreciate it.”
He stands, staring, making this moment more awkward than it needs to be.
“Ok…ay.” I nod and eye the doorway. Luckily the masses have relocated, and I can see the front door from here. I take a step, and another, eyes fixed on the doorknob. I can almost feel the metal in my palm.
“Wait.”
I turn to see Zane following me, and I stop to face him when I reach the foyer.
“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he says.
“Um, excuse me?” I tilt my head.
“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he states with more conviction than the first time.
“Yeah. I heard you. Why not?”
“Because you’re too young to be the fucking Fun Police,” he says. “And I’d be doing you a disservice if I immediately obeyed you, because then you might actually think you’re the center of the universe.”
I see red for a moment, gulping in air and composing my thoughts. “I do not think I’m the center of the universe, and I certainly don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little bit of human decency. You live in a neighborhood. With neighbors. It’s the middle of the week and people are sleeping. You can’t just turn your backyard into a brothel-slash-club and then get offended when someone politely asks you to keep it down a notch.”
Zane offers an incredulous half-smirk and steps closer. The top of my head fits snugly beneath his chin, but I won’t let his size intimidate little old me.
Oh, no, no no.
I can go rounds with this meathead if I have to.
“First of all, this isn’t a brothel. This is a stoplight party,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact.
“Aren’t you a little old to be having a stoplight party?” I interrupt. “Or are you part of some kind of grown man fraternity?”
He ignores me. “Second, a little house music does not constitute a club, and third, you didn’t politely ask me to take it down a notch. You requested that I relocate my entire party, and you pretty much demanded it.”
“That’s your interpretation of things,” I say. I’m well aware that each and every word leaving my mouth is not doing me any favors, but I refuse to stand here and let this Abercrombie athlete leave me with my tail tucked.
“Was there anything else you needed, Delilah? I have guests to attend to, so . . .”
My fists ball at my sides. He’s lucky I’m not a violent person, because a firm smack across his chiseled chin would feel really good about now.
It’s glaringly obvious he’s not going to cave to my request, so I suppose my business here is done.
Reaching for the door knob, I jerk the door open, gifting him a dirty look, and slam it behind me. I didn’t think it was too much to ask for a little common courtesy. A little human decency. And if he thinks I was demanding it, he’s delusional.
I was right.
Zane de la Cruz is a giant asshole.
Chapter 39
Zane
Coach Roberts truly believed that if I moved to a gated community in a suburb of Gainesville where the average resident is sixty-seven, it might calm me down. He thought it would break me of my “wild ways.”
Instead, I’m a tiger pacing his cage, anxious to get out, to not be tied down, bossed around, and told what to do.
My neighbors to the east are Clarice and Don Chapman. Retired transplants from Big Sky, Montana. Mid-sixties. Clarice likes to lay out by her pool in modest, floral bathing suit, slathered in SPF 50 as she bitches at Don for not clipping the hedges the right way. When they cruise down the street together in their little green golf cart, they smile and wave, but I’ve heard the things they say about me.
The lots here are huge, but they’re all landscaped to death. Voices carry. Out windows. Through hedges. Down retaining walls. Over fences.
I know what they think of me – especially that sassy ol’ Rue Rosewood next door. She’s seventy-five going on twenty-five. She’s got a hell of a lot of opinions, and she’s not afraid to make sure everyone within a five-mile radius of Vista Palms knows them.
But I kind of have a soft spot for her. She reminds me of my abuela, Magdalena, the grandmother who raised me since I was nine. We lost her a couple years ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. Or the crazy things coming out of her mouth half the time.
I never take Rue’s insults to heart, because if she’s anything like Magdalena, they’re all coming from a good place, and somewhere beneath that hardened exterior is a whole lot of harmless fluff.
Rising above the over-chlorinated water of the Vista Palms community pool, I inhale a lungful of air and dive back down, my arms and legs propelling me toward the end. When I reach the wall, I rise, sliding my hand down my face to clear my vision as I steady my breath.
“Seriously?” A woman’s voice fills my water-filled ears.
I shake my head to try and recover my hearing once more, and my eyes focus on a set of pink-manicured toes resting on a lounge chair in front of me.
“Don’t you have your own pool?” she asks, folding her book and sitting it aside.
I move toward the ladder, climbing out. Drenched, I’m caught off guard when she tosses me a towel from the chair beside her.
“My pool is . . . out of commission today.” I opt to leave it at that and not go into detail about the floating blobs of orange vomit left by a mystery guest this morning. “I pay my association dues. I’m allowed to swim here.”
I dry off, half-attempting to comb my hair into place and hoping she doesn’t think I’m doing it for her.
I mean, sure, Delilah’s hot.
She’s beyond hot.
She’s like a mermaid and a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had a baby . . . hot.
Bee stung lips. Hourglass curves. Dark, sultry gaze. Long, dark hair that falls in her face.
But after the season I had last year and almost getting kicked off the team for dropping twelve too many F-bombs on live television and discovering my playboy reputation was beginning to overshadow all the had work I put into my athletic prowess, I made an emergency re-commitment to all things career-oriented.
No girls.
Less booze.
Zero shenanigans.
Coach’s orders.
The party last night was an exception. A couple of players and I decided to throw something together for our buddy, Weston, who’s been down and out since breaking things off with his long-time girlfriend. We gave him strict instructions to show up in head to toe green, and the asshole had the nerve to walk into his stoplight party in fucking yellow.
Yellow!
“Fair enough.” Delilah shrugs, retrieving her book and burying her nose between the pages. Lowering it into her lap a moment la
ter, she shields her eyes from the sun and looks my way. “Anyone ever tell you staring is rude?”
“I’m not staring. I was thinking. You just happened to be blocking my line of sight.”
She flicks a page. “Right.”
God damn it. I have more game than this.
A perfect, shiny bun rests on top of her head. Not so much as a hair out of place. She adjusts her giant sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of her straight-as-an-arrow nose and leans back in the lounger.
Her hourglass figure is covered in a modest, black one-piece.
Bo-ring.
“You should really try to cover up a little more.” I toss my towel over my shoulder and pretend to be disgusted.
She tugs her sunglasses off her face, jaw slacked.
“I mean, really. This is a family establishment and you’re lying around in that?” I point. “I don’t think Myrtle Rickers would appreciate the kind of looks you’re going to draw from Mr. Rickers when they get here in . . .” I glance at the clock hanging on the side of the pool house. “Oh, about fifteen minutes.”
Delilah glances down at her outfit, and I repress a chuckle. I can already tell she’s going to fucking hate me by the time the summer’s over.
Or maybe she already does.
I’m sure I didn’t make the best impression last night, but she left me no choice. If she acts like a toddler, she’s going to get treated like one.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “But you do look like a school marm and an Amish pastor had a baby.”
“You’re an asshole.” She hides her face with her book, refusing to look at me.
“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 dress like you’re going to a pool party funeral. 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 pool-side reads should be. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a small textbook of sorts. 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 another.”
I rake my teeth against my lower lip, biting a smirk and knowing damn well I’ll get shit for this. “Danielle Steele. Jackie Collins.”
“Ha!” Delilah smacks her hand against the lounger. “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?”
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. That I can promise.”
Out of nowhere, her gaze lowers, landing on the wet bulge of my board shorts. She can pretend she hates me all she wants, 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.
END OF PREVIEW
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Other Books By Winter Renshaw
Never Kiss a Stranger (Never Series #1)
Never Is a Promise (Never Series #2)
Never Say Never (Never Series #3)
Arrogant Bastard (Arrogant Series #1)
Arrogant Master (Arrogant Series #2)
Arrogant Playboy (Arrogant Series #3)
Dark Paradise
Vegas Baby
Royal (Rixton Falls #1)
About the Author
Wall Street Journal bestselling author Winter Renshaw recently celebrated her third 29th birthday. By day, she wrangles kids and dogs, and by night, she wrangles words. She loves peonies, lipstick, and balmy summer days. Chips and salsa are her jam, and so is cruising down the highway with the windows down and the air blasting while 80s rock blares from the speakers of her Mom-UV.
She would describe her writing style as sexy, conflicted, and laced with heart. Her heroes are always alpha and her heroines are always smart and independent. HEA guaranteed.
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