Chapter One
Level-Ten Hot
“Holy shit,” I whisper while squatting down beside my large front window. I’m peeking through the blinds, doing my best not to be discovered perving on my new neighbor who’s level-ten hot. And right now, he’s shirtless and a little wet due to the fact he’s hosing down his big truck. “Oh yeah, scrub that truck. Do it harder.” I giggle at myself because Lord knows Henry Miller isn’t going to laugh. Cats donotfind humor inanything.
I lean closer to the window, and my hot breath hits the glass and starts to steam up my little corner view of Mr. Sexy. I know his name, thanks to the mailman accidentally delivering his mail to my box a couple of weeks ago, but the nickname is perfect for him. With a sigh, I say his name. “Sam Griffin.” God, isn’t that rugged sounding? I pause, knowing I shouldn’t say shit like this, but what the hell? Henry Miller won’t tell. “Colette Griffin.” Wow. I like the sound of that. It’s much better than the one I was born with—Munsel. Ugh, no matter how you say it, it sounds depressing. Go ahead, say “Munsel” aloud.
See?
A griffin is a mythological beast, and let me tell you, Sam fits that to a T, because the man is b-i-g, and I’m not talking about dad-bod big. Peeking out again, I raise my thumb and move it from side to side and up again like artists do to see if I can estimate his size. I look ridiculous, but luckily it’s just me and Henry Miller, and he doesn’t give a rat’s ass if I act like a dork.
I’d guess him to be six three or four, so a foot taller than me. His legs are long and muscular, and his shoulders… God, his shoulders make me swoon. I know some women like a guy’s butt, but I’m a shoulder girl all the way. I could just picture myself hanging on to those as he….
Oops, never mind.
On top of all that yumminess is a face that could launch a thousand orgasms. Square jaw that’s always got a little scruff like he wakes up, shaves, andbam, it grows back.Thank you, testosterone.As for the rest of his face, I can only say that from a distance, he’s handsome. I wish I could tell you about his eye color or how soft his lips would be, but I can’t. I haven’t actually met him in person.
Why not just go introduce myself to him? Well, because level-ten hot doesn’t mix with level-five meh—andthat’safter I’ve showered, done my hair, and put on makeup. Since I’ve done none of those things, it means I’m currently level-three scary.
Anyhoo, he moved in about a month ago. I wasn’t here when the truck arrived to set him up in the home attached to mine. I live in a duplex. I only rent, but I like renting. I mean, if something goes wrong, I just call the management company, and two or three weeks later, it’s fixed, pretty much, which is good because I don’t have a handy bone in my body.
Outside, I see Sam use some kind of soft cloth to buff his truck to a glossy shine. “I’d like to shine his…” I mumble to myself. Then I crack up because sometimes my dirty thoughts … well, they’d make a sailor blush.
The way his back muscles flex and contract are making me dizzy. I need to pull away from this and get back to work. “Shit’s not going to edit itself.” And Mama needs a new vibrator, apparently.
I plop back on my butt and crawl the short distance into my small living room. Once I make it to the coffee table, I use that to help push me up and walk the five steps it takes to get it back to my desk.
My little place is perfect for me. It’s one bedroom, one bath, with a living room big enough for a loveseat (side note—no love has ever been made there), chair, and tiny television stand for my even smaller TV. There’s what I call a dining nook off the kitchen that I’ve set up as my office. It’s an ideal spot for easy coffee refills and access to life-sustaining snacks. But the best part is the sliding doors that lead to my deck—my little slice of heaven. It’s small, only about eight-by-eight feet, which means I’ve got room enough for a chaise lounge and a tiny side table.
Three steps down from the deck leads to a decent-sized grassy area I share with Sam’s side of the house. It’s big enough for Henry Miller to roll around in when the sun is out, like it is today. It’s finally nice enough outside for me to leave the slider open so the slight breeze can come through the screen door.
Yeah, I like my little place. And now with the new neighbor, Ilovemy place. Granted, it’s not as big as the place next door. I saw it a time or two when the last neighbor lived there. That place is set up in a similar manner as mine, but it’s much bigger. Even the deck is twice the size.
I sigh, imagining what Sam’s place is like. Probably super manly with black furniture and gray walls. I just need to figure out a way to introduce myself to him, but I suck at meeting guys. I’ve always wanted one of those meet cutes I read about all the time.
Chapter Two
Henry Miller
After the excitement of my afternoon watching my neighbor wash his vehicle and editing a sexy romance novel, I decide to take advantage of the evening by sitting out on my deck with a glass of wine. I love it. Watching the birds and squirrels scamper around my yard is always entertaining. This evening is no exception.
Sadly, Henry Miller hates the critters. When he sees a bird flutter over to my little birdfeeder that I’ve got suspended from my smallish tree, he hunkers down in the grass, getting as low as he can so he can slither closer like a soldier trench crawling. In the past, he’s nearly caught a slow-witted bird, but I do my best to shoo them away before Mr. Miller gets his paws on the poor creatures.
As for the squirrels, well, that’s another story entirely. They taunt poor Henry Miller. No amount of hunkering or slithering is going to surprise a squirrel. Instead, they sit on the tree limbs and say all kinds of rude things to my cat. Okay, I can’t speak squirrel, but I recognize the tone, and it’snotnice. Honestly, I wish I had the chutzpah of the squirrel that’s currently reading Henry the riot act. I swear to you, she—and I know it’s got to be a female squirrel—has her little paws on her waist and her head is bobbing back and forth. If I could speak squirrel, I’d imagine her saying something like, “Look here, asshole cat. You think you’re going to come up here intomyhouse and eatme? Well, fuck you. That ain’t happening.” At the last minute, she practically spits, “Pussy!” I giggle at my thoughts. I’m crazy, I know. Probably due to the fact I spend way too much time alone.
I decide I need to capture the essence of the squirrel. I pick up my pencil and the tablet I keep with me for notes, ideas, reminders—things of that nature. I hold the small pad in my hand and draw the sassy little rodent. I’m not the best at drawing. Case in point, by the time I’m done, it’s hard to tell what I attempted to sketch. I mean,Iknow what it was, but if you saw it, you might ask, “Is that a cat, Colette?”
I’d shake my head.
Perhaps you take another stab at it. “A rat?”
“Nope.” I’d titter at the absurdity. “It’s a squirrel. See?” I’d point at the thing I drew at its little feet. “That’s a nut.”
I take a long swig of my wine and sigh.
I come by it naturally, but I don’t want to get into that right now.
The wine has gone to my head. I decide it’s time to step inside and cook myself something to soak up the booze. Standing up, I nearly topple over but catch myself on the arm of my chaise lounge. After pushing open the screen, I turn back to call Henry Miller, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Shit.”
