“And all this time I thought you weren’t my type,” he said.
“Wait! You thoughtIwasn’tyourtype? No, no, no, my friend. It’syouwho were nevermytype.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “I think we both know that’s not true. Who fell into who’s arms in that very parking lot last February?” He jutted his thumb in the direction of our parked cars.
“Marked it on your calendar, did you? By any chance, did you remember to write down that it was also the day of that freak ice storm, and I slipped?”
“Sure, you slipped.” His voiced dripped with teasing sarcasm. “But was it an accident?” He shrugged. “The jury’s still out on that one.”
If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with wondering just what his “type” actually was, I might have lobbed a decent comeback his way before he suddenly swooped in a little too close for comfort. The way he invaded my personal bubble had all the warning bells in my head going off at once. The man was so close I could smell his shampoo, aftershave, and mouthwash all at once.
This single gal wasn’t sure what to do when enveloped by a delicious man-cloud like that. I put my hand on his chest—his rock-hard chest—and pushed him back. “What are you doing?”
He stepped back and held up a single cactus needle. “I missed one.” One side of his mouth curved into a grin. “I can’t have my neighbors going around with cactus needles stuck in their shoulder bags, now can I?” He turned and led the dog to the courtyard.
“Good luck with your interview.” He called to me without so much as a backward glance.
“What interview?” I was relieved at the steadiness of my voice. It was much easier to sound in control of myself without his eyes burning into me and his scent filling my head.
“From the look of your makeover, I assumed you’re either getting ready to take the real estate exam or you’re gunning for a job at one of the funeral parlors around town.”
My jaw fell open, but honestly, I couldn’t fault him for his commentary on my outfit. I didn’t even recognize myself in these uptight clothes. Though I didn’t know that I’d go so far as to call them funeral-esque.
Drab real estate agent though? Absolutely. That was precisely the look I was going for, and it was a drastic departure from my usual millennial-hippie vibe. But people do strange things for money—even pretend to be people they’re not because who they really are isn’t good enough for certain elderly people in their lives…
But that was a story for another time.
I wish I could say I let loose a fantastically witty comeback as Cash walked his four-legged friend to the courtyard for some fun in the sun. But no. That would be a lie—and if there was one thing I wasn’t, it was a liar.
As it turned out, no intelligible words came out of my mouth. I just stood there ordering myself not to watch his gluteus maximus work the backside of those jeans. I can neither confirm nor deny that I obeyed my command. But I supposed there wasn’t any real harm in enjoying the view, as long as Cash was traveling in the opposite direction from me.
He turned to face me before stepping around the corner of the building. “For what it’s worth, the real you is the better version… even if you act as prickly as your cactus most days.”
Wow. Was that a compliment and a burn in the same sentence? I had to hand it to him, the man was good.
My heart warmed a tinge as he stepped out of sight with his terrifying roommate. Precious few people had ever thought the authentic version of me was appealing. Sometimes I had a hard time believing it myself.
Come to think of it, I’d really only ever had two fans in my life, my mom and dad. They’d been gone so long I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have a cheerleader rooting for me.
But Cash’s words reminded me.
Maybe he wasn’tallbad. Given the chance our relationship might have even improved to frenemy status. But I didn’t have that kind of time.
If my oysters and tweed did their job today, my grandmother would be duly impressed, she’d release my inheritance, and I’d be living my dreams by fall.
And those dreams didn’t include Cash Walker.
CHAPTERTWO
My apartment door closed behind me, effectively shutting Cash andMooseout of my mind. I glanced around the room. Not only was it tidy, but I’d also hidden away everything that made my home look like it belonged to me.
It was weird, but exactly the way it needed to be if I had any chance of impressing my strait-laced grandmother.
My guitars were tucked away in the closet. I’d laid my collection of sun catchers out of sight beneath the pillows on my bed. My giant beanbag chair was hidden in the bathtub. And I’d shoved the tie-dyed throw normally draped over the back of my futon into my tiny space-saver dryer.
That futon though!
I scrunched my nose. Grandmother wouldn’t approve of my furniture. How could I expect her to see me as a serious-minded woman who was going places with nothing but what looked like garbageman hand-me-downs furnishing my apartment?
