Читать книгу Boys Next Door - Sommer Marsden - Страница 8

‘Ah, Mrs McGee!’ Blake Andrews was a tall, handsome man with grey hair and dark-brown eyes. So dark they were almost black.

‘Ms,’ I corrected, shaking the hand he offered.

He gestured to a seat and smiled. ‘Sorry. I guess I’m old school. I “Mrs” everyone no matter how young. My wife gives me serous flak for it too.’

I laughed, my hands still trembling from being trapped in the elevator – and, oh yeah, having spontaneous stranger sex – before my arrival. ‘No worries.’

‘I just need your driver’s license so I can write down the info before I turn over the key. After you’ve taken possession, you can go visit the lawyers down the road, at your convenience, I’m sure you’re tired …’ he said, writing something down. ‘But he will give you the information about the allowance that’s attached to the property.’

Allowance. I suddenly felt ten years old. Though I was grateful beyond words that my father had thought ahead. To smooth out this part of my life for me should I come to take advantage of the opportunity.

‘Great. Do you have his –’

‘His card is attached to the paperwork I’ll give you.’ He took my offered license and started to copy the info.

More writing and I studied the realtor’s small office. Mr Andrews, one other desk with a name plaque that read Anthony Travatoni. There was a receptionist at the front of the room and a younger man who was filing and copying.

‘Do you sell a lot of houses in Tower Terrace?’ I asked, nosy as hell.

He glanced at me. ‘Not many. There aren’t many to sell. We’re a very small community in Terrace proper. But surrounding areas up to twenty miles around, we sell.’

I nodded. ‘I was just curious. It seems such a sleepy little town …’ I caught myself and tried to backpedal. ‘I mean … I don’t mean …’

He held up a hand. ‘Oh, I know you’re coming from the city. We probably are a Podunk town to you. But we like it here. We have the fall festival coming up. You should go. And I do know, and I might be wrong to say – you might have employment set up – but I do know that the dog salon is hiring.’

I choked on a laugh and managed to keep it down. My first reaction was a dog salon! But this was a new life, a new outlook. A ‘hot sex in the elevator’ kind of existence: full of risks, both large and small.

‘Really? That’s great? Where is it? I am looking for work, Mr Andrews, thanks for asking.’

He nodded once, finished filling out the last line on the paper, and handed back my license. ‘Down the road. Donna’s Dog Salon. Right past the diner, you can’t miss it. She’s a booming business, believe it or not. Everyone here seems to have a dog.’

Maybe I needed a dog, I thought.

‘Great,’ I said again. My gut was full of anticipation that bordered on anxiety. I was going to do this, this new life, little town deal. All of it.

‘And your dad mentioned you act …’

He clipped a bunch of papers together and fished a metal box out of his bottom desk drawer. Inside were stacks of keys labelled with paper tags.

Uh-oh. ‘Did he?’ I kept my voice level.

‘He did. You know we have a local community theatre. I think this winter’s performance is … I want to say A Christmas Carol but don’t quote me on that. The wife says I don’t pay enough attention.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ I said, though I had no intention of doing that.

‘You do that.’ Mr Andrews rose and handed me a set of keys and an envelope of papers. ‘You’re all set. My card is in there. If you need anything or have any questions, call me and I’ll try and help you as much as I can.’

Now my nerves kicked in big time. This was it. I owned a house. I was twenty-eight. I was starting a new life. It would hopefully soar and I’d find a direction and maybe eventually love and …

I swallowed hard.

‘Are you okay, Mrs – sorry, Ms McGee?’

I nodded. ‘Fine,’ I sighed.

‘If you need some water or –’

‘No, I’m fine. I just had a moment,’ I laughed.

I left him with a promise to check out the dog salon and the community theatre. I planned on only keeping one of those promises.

Driving only halfway down the block, the bakery started calling my name. More of a sinister sultry wooing sound, if you must know. I hadn’t eaten since getting on the road and something flaky, sugary and warm sounded perfect.

‘Post-stranger sex snack,’ I chuckled and pulled into one of the street’s angled parking spots. Right in front of the bakery. Score!

Vogel’s was small. Really small. Like a closet with two small tables up front and Venetian blinds in the front window.

I pushed in and a tiny bell overhead jingled merrily. The man behind the counter looked up at me. Black hair, grey eyes, lean face, lanky body. I felt a tremor in my belly and wondered if moving to a new place had set off all my sex hormones, and being attracted to almost every man I came across was a side effect.

‘Hi,’ he said.

I waved. ‘Hi, I need sugar.’ When I said it, my stomach rumbled.

He waved me up to the counter and I stepped forward as if approaching royalty. ‘Sugar as far as the eye can see,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’

Now that I was in the store, the smell of richly roasted coffee assaulted me with its heady scent. ‘Yes, please,’ I said as if in mid-orgasm. My face flushed hot and red, I was damn sure by the sunburned feel of it, but I didn’t care. Elephant ears, chocolate croissants, donuts, biscotti, shortbreads. It was all there. Waiting for me.

My stomach rumbled again and he laughed. ‘Here you go.’ The cup was warm and the brief touch of his finger to mine, a bit warmer.

‘Thanks. I’m starved.’

‘When did you eat last?’ he asked, appraising me with a faux disciplinarian air that had me feeling squirmy.

‘Um, six hours ago?’

He tsked and pulled a plain croissant from the bottom shelf. ‘Sit. I’ll make you a nice chicken salad sandwich. Once you’ve eaten food you can have some sugar.’

I gaped at him, mildly confused but also kind of turned on. I was losing my mind. ‘I, um … I don’t have much money on me I think. I might have to stick with the coffee and a don –’

He waved me off and pointed to a table. ‘Sit. On the house. You’re new, right, not just passing through?’

‘Right.’

‘Welcome to town, then. Lunch is on me.’ He leaned on the counter and grinned at me. The grin made him look both handsome and ethereal. I couldn’t help but stare for a beat or two before taking a step back to have a seat.

‘Well, thanks Mr …’ My ass hit the seat but my eyes never left him. I was getting a feeling. A weird déjà vu feeling.

‘Stephen. Stephen Vogel. This is my family’s joint. And you are …’

‘I’m Farrell McGee, I’ve moved into Lady Bug Lane,’ I whispered.

His eyes lit up and he shook his head, chuckling. ‘213’s missing resident.’

There it was. My toes tingled and my nose went chilly and I sighed. ‘How did you know?’

‘I live across the street. Stone house –’

‘To the right from my perspective,’ I finished.

He grinned again and I felt it in my lower half like a tingle and a flash. ‘Yep. That’s me.’

And here we had the third and final little pig.

* * *

‘Much better than just sugar, right?’ He put a plate with a biscotti and a donut on it in front of me.

The chicken salad had been impeccable, the croissant damn near orgasmic. Paired with some chips and a pickle plus water and coffee, I was ready to bust, but I picked up the biscotti and nibbled it.

‘I feel like the suckling pig at the luau,’ I laughed.

‘Nonsense. You’re darn near too thin.’ Stephen took my plate and I handed him my empty coffee cup. Our fingers touched again. An unmistakable zing that only came with attraction sizzled up my arm. I had to focus hard to keep from shaking myself to throw off the sudden charge of energy.

‘That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day,’ I joked.

‘Eat your sweets.’ He turned from me and I watched him walk away. Fine, fine ass moving with measured ease as he walked behind the counter. His chef whites showed off the tan on his forearms from being outside.

And speaking of those forearms, they made me think dirty things. I was a slut for forearms.

‘Did you make these too?’ I cooed, nibbling more flaky buttery biscotti.

‘I made everything,’ he said.

I heard him put my dishes in a small dishwasher. The place was so small that even at a table I could see past the counter into the small kitchen and to his work space. A metal table and two large ovens dominated the back room. Up front, one large stand-up case, then a wall of baskets to the right of the front door. Floor-to-ceiling bins of fresh bread, bagels, rolls and croissants. The place smelled like heaven – where good, clean eating folks went to die, living out eternity gorging on buttery, decadent baked goods.

‘Chicken salad?’ I countered.

‘Yep.’ He came back in, wiping his hands on a towel. ‘Croissant, yep. Biscotti, yep. Coffee, yep.’ He grinned at me and I felt that free-falling feeling in my middle again.

‘The table?’ I tried to keep a straight face.

‘Yep.’

I blinked. ‘Oh –’

‘Kidding, kidding,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you some leftovers tonight. Judging by the looks of you, you have no food in your house.’

‘The looks of me!’

‘Skinny,’ he said again.

‘Not too skinny,’ I countered.

‘Well, you do have a fine ass,’ he said. But then his cheeks coloured brilliantly, as if he wasn’t usually so forward and it felt foreign to him. Which was both sweet and sexy at the same time.

I blinked again – this man put me off balance, and I liked it. ‘Um … thanks?’

He nodded. ‘No problem.’

‘I do have to go. I have to get to my house and actually get inside it.’ I wiggled my keys at him. ‘Now that I have this, I can.’

Stephen Vogel nodded and said, ‘Let me wrap some donuts up for you. Hold you over till dinner.’

Who was I to argue with complimentary ‘welcome-to-the-neighbourhood-I-like-your-ass’ donuts?