Henry’s a good cat, mostly. He likes going outside, but he only goes when I go, and he comes inside with me. I quickly walk down the steps and scan the yard. “Henry,” I call, loud enough for him to hear, but soft enough it won’t disturb my neighbors. I look up into my little tree and see the squirrel glaring down at me. “What?” I snap.
She doesn’t answer.
Smug bitch.
I spin around in a circle, looking up and down in search of Henry. I stop when my eyes lock onto my neighbor’s deck. My new neighbor. My hot neighbor. Combined, that equals my hot new neighbor. His sliding door is ajar. Not only that, his screen door is open.
“Idiot,” I hiss. No, I’m not talking about Sam. I’m talking about Henry Miller. He’s such an asshole. I take in a lungful of air for courage as I trudge toward Sam’s deck, chanting softly to myself, “Please be gone or out front. Please be gone…” You get the idea.
When the second wooden step up to Sam’s deck squeaks under my feet, I freeze. What the hell is my problem? I should just stomp right up there and knock on the door—make my presence known.
Yes, I should absolutely do that, but I can’t. I’m not in any shape to meet my neighbor. The only thing I did today was shower and dress in my oldest pair of sweats and my most embarrassing tee. It’s the one my sister gave me as a joke. It says in bold print: #1 Cat Mom.
See what I mean?
I tiptoe up the rest of the steps, rushing to the spot next to the glass door like a cop trying to surprise a perp. I lean closer to listen for any sound. Nothing. Taking that as a good sign, I lean my head in further so I can actually look into the house. And there that little fucker sits, on the counter, licking his nonexistent balls like he owns the place. “Henry Miller,” I hiss.
The little bastard doesn’t even look up.
“Henry,” I snap again.
Nothing.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter to myself. I’m going to have to go in there. Looking down, I roll my eyes when I realize I’ve got something on my shirt, right above my left boob. Pulling the shirt up, I examine it more closely. I think it’s salsa from lunch, but I can’t be sure, so I do what any self-respecting person would do. I lick it.
Yep, salsa.
“Can I help you?”
The deep voice startles me so much, I jump practically a foot off the ground. My landing is off-balance. I grab the first thing I can to keep from taking a tumble. It just so happens to be my neighbor’s chest.
Damn, his pecs are firm.
When his hands move up to support me, warmth runs through my entire body. Warmth so hot, it feels like fire.
Okay, it isn’t quite that hot, but itissuper warm. Trust me.
“Oh.” I laugh because crying is out of the question. “I’m sorry. I, uh, think my cat ran into your side of the house.”
“Ah.” He looks back into his home and back down to me. “I wondered who he belonged to.” His eyes move from my face, past my lips, and down to my tee. “Number one cat mom, huh?”
Shoot me now.Thenmy sister. She dies next.
The only good thing about any of this is I now know his eye color. Gray. Steel gray. And they’re surrounded by lashes that are so long, it’s not fair. The rest of the stuff that surrounds his eyes is just as captivating. His nose I’d probably describe as Roman, and his mouth … holy moly, I want that mouth.
“Ha ha.” My laugh is fake. “My sister’s idea of a joke.”
“You must like it. I saw you lick it.”
No.
I do my best to take control of the situation. I point to the spot that’s still moist from my tongue. “Spicy salsa.”
“Mm, I love spicy.”
I just bet he does.
“Well, um, let me just get Henry Miller and get out of your hair.” And, boy, does he have nice hair. It’s longish, but not in a Quiet Riot kind of way. It’s more like Charlie Hunnam fromSons of Anarchy—except Sam’s hair is dark rather than Charlie Hunnam’s dirty blond. It only adds to my neighbor’s next-level hotness.
