Their eyes met, and something arced between them, a connection that was both terrifying and thrilling. Her lips parted slightly, as if she were about to ask a question he wasn’t ready to answer.
He should have been the one to look away. He was the one who had sworn off this kind of connection. But he couldn’t. He was caught, trapped in her gaze like a moth in amber, until she blinked, breaking the spell.
A delicate flush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks in the pale light, and she took a step backwards. He should have just let her go. Instead, he nodded. Just once. An acknowledgment of the moment they had shared.
He set the guitar aside carefully, then rose and crossed to the lamp. His hand hovered over the switch for a long moment before he turned off the light.
Go to bed,he told himself. But he didn’t leave. He remained hidden in the shadows, watching her.
Her hand came up to touch her wet cheek and something dark and possessive stirred in his chest. He wanted to go to her, to lick those tears from her face and find out if she tasted as sweet as she smelled, but he forced himself to remain still, watching as she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own house. The room felt empty without her gaze, and he finally retreated to his bedroom.
Sleep came eventually, but it brought no peace.
In his dreams, Sara stood in his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his old band t-shirts. The fabric barely reached her thighs, and when she stretched to reach something on a high shelf, he caught a glimpse of soft curves that made his mouth water. Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her shoulders, and when she turned to face him, she wasn’t crying.
She was smiling.
“I made you breakfast,” she said. “Sit down.”
He sat, powerless to do anything else.
She set a plate in front of him—pancakes shaped like bunnies, because apparently his subconscious had a sense of humor—and then slid onto his lap as if she belonged there, all soft curves and fragrant skin. Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers playing with the fur at his nape.
“Ben,” she murmured against his ear. “Why won’t you let me in?”
He woke with a start, heart pounding, a dull ache in his groin. He lay in the darkness for a long moment, trying to get the dream out of his head.
This has to stop.
It was the only rational thought he could form. He had worked too hard to build this quiet, predictable life, and he wasn’t going to let one curvy human with a kind smile and a talent for baking destroy it.
The clock read 5:47 AM. Too early to be awake, too late to hope for more sleep. He lay in bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to will away the lingering effects of the dream.
It didn’t work.
Finally, he dragged himself out of bed and into a cold shower, letting the icy water punish him for his weakness. By the time he emerged, the first pale light of dawn was creeping through his windows.
He made coffee on autopilot, his ears straining for sounds from next door despite himself. The creak of floorboards. The click of a light switch. The soft padding of feet on hardwood.
Nothing.
She’s probably still asleep,he thought.Normal people don’t wake up at the crack of dawn because they can’t stop thinking about their neighbor.
He drank his coffee standing at the kitchen window, watching her cottage. No lights came on. No curtains twitched. The morning stretched on, quiet and unremarkable, and she didn’t appear.
Good,he told himself firmly.I don’t want her to show up. I don’t want her bringing me food and smiling at me and making me feel things I have no business feeling.
By 7:30, he’d cleaned his entire kitchen, reorganized his spice cabinet, and checked his email three times. She still hadn’t come.
I’m not disappointed,he insisted as he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.This is exactly what I wanted. Space. Distance. Professional neighborly cordiality.
He pulled open the front door and nearly stepped on the box sitting on his welcome mat. It was a small cardboard container,tied with a cheerful red ribbon. A notecard was tucked beneath the bow, his name written in looping feminine script.
He stared at it for a long moment, his ears twitching.
Don’t pick it up. Just leave it there. Let the squirrels have it.
He picked it up.
