I blink at him, and then at said dog, with his leg twitching in deep slumber. The only medal he looks like he’s earned is “Outstanding Achievement in Couch Potatoing”.
“Right. Well, unlessBobneeds to relieve himself on more of my plants, I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Those are all the neighborly surprises Bob and I had planned for you today.” Patton pulls on the bill of his cap. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
As if knowing we’re at the end of our conversation, Bob bolts upright with energy I didn’t know he had. Capturing my bra in his mouth, he gives me a droll look before trotting off the patio.
Patton trails after him, but just before he steps off the last stair, he looks over his shoulder at me, the previous humor in his tone completely gone. “Oh, and Nisha?”
“Yes?”
“Get rid of Michael.”
I suppress the need to throw something at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The fucking nerve of this guy. If he thinks he can just show up here and demand I “get rid” of someone seven years after our divorce, he must be certifiable.
“No, I clearly didn’t. I don’t know a Michael. I know aMicah.”
“Sounds like a guy who drinks oat milk and uses rosemary as deodorant. Like I said, get rid of him.”
My mouth drops open.
Before I can even formulate a response, Patton continues down the path, putting distance between us. But then, halfway to the sidewalk, he glances back at me once more.
This time, that hard edge in his jaw softens, and that same smile—the one that has me thinking about kisses under a warm sun and whispers in bed—graces his face.
With a lazy salute, he winks. “See you around, Little Borealis.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I close the door slowly, like if I shut him out, this will all have been something I’d just imagined.
But I know it’s not.
Because he’s here. Living across the street. For possibly a year.
A year of watching him come and go every day. A year of him parading women. Because if the tabloids are to be believed, the man has dated everyone except Siri.
A year where I slowly lose my peace, my sanity, and possibly everything I’ve worked to regain.
And this time, I won’t get to leave first.
six
patton
Being Assholes is Part of Our Charm
“Holy shit, we’re having brunch with Patton Pierce,” blurts a man with shoulder-length dirty blond hair, pulled into a half bun.
He looks a lot like the guy to his left, who has shorter hair but the exact same piercing blue eyes, making me wonder if they’re brothers.
I can’t help but grin at his enthusiasm as we settle into our seats in a private dining room of an upscale restaurant in the Financial District.
Troy goes around the table doing introductions, starting with the guy with the man-bun. “Patton, this is Dean. Dean, try not to spring a boner in the first five minutes.”
“Hey!” Dean raises his hands, eyes wide and offended. “My boners are reserved just for you, Troy. No need to get jealous, my friend.”
