I like conversation.
I jog up the stairs to my room and strip out of my leggings and sports bra and then get in the shower.
Enough hot neighbor talk. I have a date waiting for me, and I have a good feeling about this one.
CHAPTER TWO
SIMON
“Dad!”
I pull my gaze from the house next door, grab my computer and water, and head inside.
“Yeah?” I holler back to my ten-year-old son, Grey, who clearly can’t be bothered to just walk outside to get me.
“We need to leave soon,” he says, poking his head out of the kitchen, which is straight back from the front door at the back of the house. The living room is to the left, and the stairs that lead upstairs are to my right. Most of the houses in our neighborhood have the same layout. It’s how I know that Greer, one of my sister’s best friends who lives next door, has a house that mirrors mine. I also know this because it was on the market for so long that I toured it once to get ideas for the books I write.
I jog up the stairs to strip off my clothes to get ready. I’d been so into a zone this morning that as soon as I woke up and worked out, I’d gone right to the front porch to get some work done.
Steamy romantic suspense is my specialty, and something about having a house that wouldn’t sell right next door to me sparked ideas for an entire six-book series. I went crazy with ideas and pitched them to my agent, who got me a signed deal within a few weeks. It helps that I’ve had bestsellers before and that I have a good relationship with all the publishing houses I’ve signed with. I’ve never missed a deadline, and as long as I’m in control, I won’t ever.
It does, however, stress me out that I was so into a zone with the whole mystery house series that I agreed to closer deadlines when I signed the contract. Two months later, with four books of the series still left to write, the house was sold and that spark for the mysteriousness has dulled. Despite having a writing high this morning, that dull mood is not a good vibe for me right now.
Part of me thinks that if I could just get inside Greer’s house and walk around alone, maybe that inspiration would come back. Like, maybe somehow, I could spin the type of person who moved into the house into the story. It would be nothing like Greer because her personality doesn’t scream suspenseful. Her personality is more romcom. That’s not my area.
With my fingers at the waist of my sweats, I start to tug them down, then movement out of my bedroom window catches my eyes.
Greer.
In a towel.
Until Greer moved in, I had no idea how much I’d see the woman whose bedroom window is right across from mine.
Right now, our houses aren’t nearly far enough apart.
Her white towel is tied in a knot in front and her hair is up in a messy bun on top of her head as she opens drawer after drawer on her dresser, clearly undecided on what to wear.
Something more than skintight leggings and a crop top or sports bra, I hope.
I swear my mind and body can just sense when she’s near, and as soon as that feeling hits me, I have no control over the way my eyes find her no matter what I’m doing.
It’s why I’ll never comment on the way I catch her checking me out. Like earlier. I’m not sure she’s aware that she does this often when she’s around me. But then again, I watch her like some weirdo every day when she rides her bike home, so I guess we’ve sort of called a silent truce of how we will never mention it to the other.
I let out a laugh as I step into the cold water.
Fucking hell.
Grey.
That kid takes half hour-long hot showers anytime I’m outside writing. I know he does.
Love the kid to death, but that’s just unacceptable.
I wash quickly, wrap a towel around my waist, and head to my room to pick out clothes. Again, my eyes drift to the window.
There was only one other woman in my life who has ever stolen my attention the way Greer does.
Grey’s mom. Blair.
