The cat yawned.
“And he’s probably straight. The thing about his friend Chandra reading romance novels? Classic straight guy energy. Plus, he’s from LA. He’s probably got a girlfriend who does Pilates and drinks green juice and has never cried over a man in her life.”
I poured myself another bourbon, my hands trembling.
“I’m here to work on my terrible novel and figure out how to put my life back together. Not to develop a crush on some beautiful stranger who asked me for wood in a way that made me think very inappropriate thoughts.”
The cat’s expression clearly communicated what it thought of my protests.
I sat down on the couch, and the cat immediately climbed onto my lap, still purring. I ran my hand through its fur andstared into the fire, trying very hard not to replay every moment of that interaction. The way Samuel had smiled. The sound of his laugh. His icy hands. That dimple.
“Besides,” I continued, because apparently I was having a full conversation with a cat now, “I’m a disaster. I look like hell. I’ve been crying. My ex destroyed my ability to trust anyone, and I definitely shouldn’t be projecting my desperate need for affection onto the first attractive man I—”
I stopped.
Wait.
I sat up straighter, disturbing the cat, who gave me an annoyed look.
“Holy shit,” I drawled. “I’m single.”
The cat’s ears swiveled toward me.
“I’m actually single. For the first time in three years. And yes, my heart is broken, and yes, Ollie is a lying piece of shit, but...” I felt something shift in my chest, like a door opening that I hadn’t known was locked. “I’m single. And there’s an insanely attractive man next door who just asked me for wood while blushing and who has a dimple and seems genuinely nice.”
The cat meowed, as if to sayFinally, you’re getting it.
“I mean, it’s just a month. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
Chapter Five
Samuel
Iwoke up with morning wood so hard it deserved its own zip code.
This wasn’t unusual—I was thirty-one and healthy, despite what seven years of craft services food had tried to do to my body. What was unusual was the immediate, vivid image that filled my mind the moment I opened my eyes: Farley, standing in his doorway in those sweatpants with the hole in the knee, looking rumpled and vulnerable and annoyingly attractive.
I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes, but that didn’t help. My brain was already replaying the entire interaction. The way his cheeks had flushed when I’d asked for wood. The sharpness in his dark eyes suggested he didn’t miss much. His dry humor. The fact that he’d been crying before I showed up, which should have been a red flag the size of California but instead just made me want to—
My hand moved south before I could stop it, wrapping around myself through my boxer briefs.
“This is a terrible idea,” I muttered to the empty bedroom.
But my body disagreed. Enthusiastically.
I squeezed, and the image of Farley sharpened. He was hot in an understated, geeky way that was basically catnip for me. Darkhair that needed a trim. Sharp features. That slightly rumpled academic energy that suggested he was smarter than everyone in the room and knew it. The complete opposite of the polished, gym-obsessed LA types I usually ended up with—not that I’d been with anyone in over a year, but still.
And the best part? The absolute best part?
He didn’t know who I was.
I’d seen the flicker of recognition in his eyes when he’d said I looked familiar, but it had passed.
He didn’t know about Dr. Brock Blaze or Midnight At Magnolia General or the tabloid bullshit or any of it. He just saw me. Samuel. A guy from LA who was incompetent at mountain survival and desperate for wood.
It was the single most arousing thing that had happened to me in years.
I gave myself another experimental squeeze, and yeah, this was definitely happening. But not here. Not now. I had things to do today. Like, go to Shifflett’s and buy actual supplies so I didn’t have to keep getting wood from my hot neighbor.
