I grin. “Yeah, she is and she's really smart, too. Her name is Cookie.”
Her cute button nose wrinkles. “Like a chocolate chip cookie?”
I nod my head. “Sometimes Cookie even makes chocolate chips of her own.”
Violet's brow furrows, and I can tell she's trying to process my joke.
“That means she poops,” I add. “And they look like chocolate chips.”
“Eww.” Violet pulls her hand away, but Cookie's having none of it. She presses her head against the tiny hand, demanding pets.
“I'm just teasing, Violet.” I touch her arm to see how cold she is. “Are you lost?”
She shakes her head slowly.
“Do you know where you live?”
Her head bobs.
“Where?” I ask.
Violet points over her shoulder.
“Ah! That makes sense.” She must have snuck out. “You moved in yesterday,” I offer, and get another nod. “Let's get you back home. Your parents will be worried sick.”
“VIOLET!”
The bellow from next door makes all three of us jump. I glance up to find my new neighbor standing in his driveway, his head whipping back and forth, panicked tension in his frame.
“She's here,” I call out, standing and waving when his gaze turns my way. He runs over, clad only in shorts.
Well… Good morning to me.
“Thank god.” He rushes onto the porch and kneels in front of the little girl. “Violet, you can't leave the house like that. You nearly gave me a heart attack, sweetpea.”
There's something so annoyingly familiar about this guy, and I can't quite figure it out. I eye the pads of muscle on his chest and shoulders, which are very impressive, and notice the series of scars on his right shoulder. Some still look fresh and painful.
“Cookie and I found her sitting here as we were leaving for work. I was about to bring her back over,” I add.
An odd gurgling sound emerges from Violet, and she buries her face in Cookie's fur. My corgi gives an answering whine and wraps herself even tighter around the little girl.
I snicker. “I'm afraid it'll be tough separating these two.” I hold my hand out. “I'm Heather Winslow, your neighbor.”
His head tilts my way and he stands, taking my hand. “I know who you are, Heather.” The curve of his mouth has an amused lift to it. “But I'm guessing you don't remember me.”
I narrow my gaze as I stare into his heavily-lashed dark eyes. This guy is extremely attractive up close, with wavy brown hairthat's still wet from a shower, a square jaw that any sculptor would die to recreate, and a tall, muscular build that makes my five-eight, curvy frame feel feminine.
There’s no way I’d forget this guy. And yet, I just can't place him. I'd swear on a stack of bibles that I'd never met him.
He tugs on my hand, laughing softly. “Logan Maddox. You were my math, English, and history tutor, Heather. And the only reason I graduated.”
“Oh my god!” My jaw hits the floor as the realization sinks in. My high school crush—the guy I'd idolized in my teen years before he disappeared—is back in town and lives next door, and instead of the boy I once adored, here stood a man. A very virile, well-built, half-naked man who apparently decided shirts were optional for morning child-retrieval missions.
Not that I'm complaining. The man's torso could've been a sculptor's study in muscle definition. I force my gaze to stay on his face, though my eyes really want to drift lower across the defined planes of his chest and stomach.
“Logan. Of course, I remember you.” I tug on the hand he hasn't released yet, and his grip tightens, holding me in place.
“It was a pleasant surprise to find you living next door to my grandfather's old house.” He leans in slightly. “This whole area used to be a jungle when I was a kid.”
