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SHARING IS CARING
SKYLAR
I’m nosy by nature.
If a couple decides to whisper their grievances across a diner table, I’m going to lean back in my booth and eavesdrop.
If someone’s reading next to me on a plane, I’m going to peek at their screen to see if the hero’s about to evade an assassin, rocket to Mars, or buy a chocolate shop as a gift for his heroine. I’ll take the latter, thank you very much.
And when I spot my brother’s cat in the mudroom with her unblinking green eyes locked on the corner of the yard, I need to know what has caught Cleo’s attention at the same time every morning this week.
I can’t leave well enough alone.
As my coffee works its magic, I peer through the open window leading to the luxurious catio—an enclosed patio for cats—trying to get a read on her target.
But I can’t tell what it is from inside my home. Hopping onto the mudroom cubbies, I adjust my fuzzypajama bottoms covered in illustrations of martini glasses and a threadbare T-shirt that says,Everything is Fine Herein a font of flames. I poke my head out, taking another drink from my steaming mug, coffee tendrils wafting into the warm October air.
“Sharing is caring,” I tell the feline, but the regal tuxedo is perched on the highest shelf of the catio maze my brother built in his townhome—before he took off for an assignment in Europe six weeks ago and I moved in—and she’s pointedly ignoring me.
After I set my coffee cup at the end of the first cat shelf—like I’d leave my coffee behind—I roll up the cuffs of my pajama pants.
I hoist one leg over the windowsill, brace myself, and haul my ass out. Why didn’t I venture here sooner? This catio is state of the art, with screened walls keeping the kitty safe and an obstacle course of shelves giving her premium vantage points.
The catio is about fourteen feet long and ten feet wide, so I’ve got some distance to cover. Have I mentioned that each shelf along the catio only has about three feet of headroom?
I take a fortifying sip of coffee, then do my best John McClane impression, crawling through the catio like I’m sneaking through heating vents to save Christmas.
I wiggle forward like a caffeine-addicted snake, and finally—finally—I reach Cleo.
Oh.Hello there, hot neighbor.
My eyes pop. My pulse spikes. Hell, my coffee cup sweats.
Cleo is a naughty girl. She’s been staringfor a weekat an absolutely strapping specimen on the back porch ofthe house next door. I’ve never seen him before though. Is he a guest? Or does he live there? And if he lives there, why didn’t my brother tell me?
I jerk my gaze away from the vision of well-muscled glory and turn an accusatory stare to my companion. “You were holding out on me,” I whisper, betrayal laced through every word. “Where is the leaning in, girl? I’m seriously disappointed.”
Cleo lifts her haughty chin like she obviously doesn’t care. Well, she doesn’t. The greedy little thing has been keeping the hottie all to herself.
But not anymore.
I sit next to her, take another sip of coffee, and settle in to check out my next-door neighbor properly—or improperly, as the case may be—as he does porch yoga.
Shirtless.
This is the pick-me-up I needed. Earlier this week, I’d lost out on a project I busted my butt to land. The client went with a big corporate design firm instead of little old solo me. This bit of good fortune is the karmic jump-start I need this morning before I get into the badass business-babe zone to meet another potential client this afternoon.
I swing my gaze back to the man. Should I get my binoculars? I have a mini pair inside—well, they’re opera glasses, technically. I found them on an epic thrifting treasure hunt a few months ago. You never know when you might need them. For birds, obviously. I spotted a red-winged blackbird in the yard just last week, and I’m seriously thinking about taking up birdwatching.
But I don’t know how long the show will last, so I stay put. My gaze roams over the well-built man with all those muscles on display. He’s only wearing compression shorts.They’re bright yellow. I don’t love the fashion choice, but given the free view, I can set that aside.
He stands tall, his sturdy arms raised to the sky like he’s trying to touch it.
I swear I can make out everymuscle. The biceps, the triceps, themake-my-jaw-drop-ceps.
His hair flops over his forehead with just the right amount of devil-may-care messiness that begs you to run your fingers through it. Are those golden strands woven through his brown hair, or is it just the October sun haloing this Greek god? If I were the sun, I’d shine on him too.
