“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“How? You’re a—” she peers down at the girls quickly before flinging a sternyou-know-what-I’m-trying-to-saylook.
I can’t tell her the real reason I can afford this place. I shrug and hope she doesn’t ask for more of an explanation. “What are you doing here?”
She sighs, but before she can answer, the taller of the two little girls hands me a plastic container.
“We’re your neighbors! My name is Delta. We live across the street.”
My mind flashes back to all the times Professor Wilde mentioned her daughters in class. God, they’re the spitting image of her—the same freckles, the same nose, the same eyes. And that hair... same vibrant shade, but the smaller one, maybe six-ish, has curls. Delta, maybe nine, looks like she cut her own bangs, and they’re now awkwardly growing out.
She points to the little blue house with white shutters and a detached garage next door, maybe a rugby field’s length away. All the houses after hers are clustered together, and none of them has a yard bigger than a quarter acre.
My property dominates this end of the road. I can’t even see my nearest neighbors on the other side of my corner lot, their house hidden by hills and thick trees.
“Hi Delta. My name is Jonah.” I tip the container and examine it. “Did you make me cookies?”
“They’re no-bakes. That means you don’t put them in the oven. You scoop them onto the counter, but you can’t eat them right away because they’re too hot. We ate four from your batch, but we can make more—”
“That’s enough, sweetie,” Renée says, gently gripping herdaughter’s shoulder.
“I love no-bakes. Thank you. And what’s your name?” I ask the smaller girl. “Did you help make these?”
She hides behind her mother in response.
“This is Lo. Short for Loretta,” Renée says in an uneven, borderline reluctant way.
“Well, I’m gonna eat every single one of these.”
“Do you wanna come over and see my new bike?” Delta asks.
“Heck yeah.”
“No,” Renée cuts in harshly. “We’re not gonna—he’s—no,” she stutters, as if she has too many thoughts and can’t decide which one to say, if at all. Which, same?
I can’t believe she’s standing right here—that she’s my new neighbor. The idea of a hot and heavy second round between us clicks into place like a slot machine hitting triple sevens.
Oh yeah. That’s happening.
If this isn’t the universe practically screaming that my former professor and I should roll around in the sheets, then I don’t know what is.
“You know,” I say with a smirk, “we should probably exchange numbers. Since we’re neighbors and all.”So I can text you dirty little things that’ll make you squirm, I think to myself.
“I don’t think so.”
Classic Renée Wilde. Denying my advances and making me hornier because of it.But the dial to my sexy professor craving has been turned up since our spicy private room in the club. Iknowwhat we’re capable of together.
And I will be having seconds.
“Who’s this?” Joaquín asks, walking up to join us.
“My new neighbors. Look, cookies!”
“Hi, I’m Joaquín.”
“Hi. We were just leaving,” Renéesays, turning her girls away before heading toward the street. “It was nice meeting you both.”
