I know her.
I know her really well, but my brain is operating on oh my god, the paparazzi found me and I cannot place this woman, and if she has one of those spy cameras in one of her buttonholes, my picture will be on every gossip tabloid in six hours and my mother will be horrified that I didn’t comb my hair today.
She stumbles to a stop and lifts her hands, wincing as she seems to favor one leg over the other. “Sarah. I’m so sorry. I tried to stop him. He thought you’d appreciate the apology in person more than over Twitter.”
She winces again, and I know this woman.
I do.
“Who are you?”
She blinks once, then relaxes. “I’m Ellie. Your neighbor?”
My neighbor.
Shit shit shit.
I look down at the sack of potatoes with ridiculously long arms and ridiculously long legs splayed out on my small patio.
Then back up at her.
“You let the underwear ape in my yard,” I say.
Her lips part, and a slow grin starts across her pretty features. My mother would adore her, because without makeup, she’s pretty, but with makeup—and the haircut, and the clothes that fit right, and the style sense—she’s really effing gorgeous.
“The underwear ape,” she says, nodding slowly. “Yes. I like that. Beck’s my brother. Also known as the idiot who doesn’t know how to use a direct message. He’s very sorry. He thought he was congratulating me on getting engaged. In his own, special, brotherly way.”
He groans on the ground. “Fuck, Ellie, I told you no titty twisters.”
She’s smiling wider. “I told him I’d call you first, to make sure you weren’t going to…well, I said call the cops, but I think this might be better.”
“You have an evil side,” I say.
“I grew up with him,” she replies, as though that explains it.
I look down at him again.
He’s long. Broad shoulders. Looks lankier in person than on that billboard over I-56 that I pass a few times a week, but that could be the baggy sweatshirt. His hat’s askew—Fireballs, nice—and a dark shock of hair is poking out from under the brim. His blue eyes are slightly crossed over his crooked sunglasses, but seem to be coming back into focus as he blinks lazily at me. “You shocked me,” he says.
“Didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
And that’s really all I have to say about that, so I turn around and walk back into my house.
As far as I’m concerned, we’re done here.
Three
Beck
First rule of apologizing: Make sure she knows you’re coming.
Holy fuck, that was a ride.
And those eyes.
All four of them.
Whoa.
You believe in love at first sight? I always have.
Except I don’t know if this is love, or if it’s just the side effect of a jillion volts to the chest.
“You piss yourself?” Wyatt asks with a grin as soon as Tucker, his kid, dashes to his room to get a toy to show me. My childhood best friend is lounging in the wide doorway between the living room and dining room, listening to Ellie tell the watered-down version of events next door while I hold an ice pack to the pain that’s quickly leaving my head, my legs propped over the armrest of the couch.
“Came fucking close,” I admit, and fine, I’m still shaking a little.
My sister and my best friend share one of those couple looks, and they both bust a gut laughing.
I’d be pissed, but let’s be honest. One, it was probably inevitable that I’d get tasered for something eventually, and B, at least now I know what it feels like. And bullet point four, I ruined the surprise part of Ellie’s surprise engagement party since she didn’t know I was coming home until Wyatt told her so they could rush to my aid over my tweet-tastrophe, so I owe them a few laughs at my expense.
Even if it’s by getting myself tasered.
Not something I’d planned to add to my bucket list, but this’ll be a story for the ages once my chest quits twitching.
Though if it really is love, my life is about to get fucking complicated.
Probably not love, I decide.
Probably just the volts to the ol’ ticker. Wonder if getting tasered in the butt would have the same effect.
Unlikely, I decide. I should definitely get tasered in the ass next time if there has to be a next time. Which there hopefully won’t be.
“I told you to let me call her first.” Ellie plops onto the couch next to my head and ruffles my hair. “Sarah’s…jumpy.”
“Rare breed,” Wyatt agrees wryly. Dude’s a military guy, one of my best friends growing up. Could’ve joined us in Bro Code, but he was all fuck that, I’mma go save the world. “And probably not susceptible to your unique charms.”
Sarah—aka @must_love_bees, aka the woman I accidentally epically insulted online when I thought I was sending Ellie a funny private message in response to her posting her engagement rings, aka the woman who tweeted back This desperate attempt to steal my 51 fans won’t work, @BeckettRyder. 49 are scientists & not fooled by your six-pack, which was honestly hilarious, especially since she has over ten thousand followers—has four eyes in my memory. Four big, dark brown eyes, with big irises that seem to dominate her features and swallow her pupils. Straight nose—both of them. Pillowy lips. And all that wild, curly brown hair.
She’s like Medusa crossed with a Peter Pan mermaid. Half scary as hell, half adorable.
“Uncle Beck! Check it out! I have an underwear doll!”
“Levi is so dead to me for giving him that,” Ellie announces as Tucker shoves a Ken doll in my face.
Except it’s not a Ken doll.
It’s a Beck Ryder doll.
“That’s the studliest underwear doll I’ve ever seen,” I tell him. “You’re one lucky little dude.”
“His lips are funny,” Tucker says. He’s Wyatt’s son from his first marriage and near total clone of my buddy, except the kid got his mom’s brown eyes instead of Wyatt’s blue-gray-whatever they are eyes. Tucker tries to screw his lips up in a smoldery duck-lip configuration, and he gets damn close, which is wrong on an eight-year-old.
Ellie chokes on a laugh, but I hold out a fist for a bump. “You keep making that face, all the ladies are gonna fall all over you before you’re ten.”
Wyatt gives me the don’t tempt me to give you a wedgie glare, but I shoot him back a you’re welcome smirk.
Because Tucker’s recoiling in horror. “Eww! I don’t want the ladies! They’re old.”
“It’s what some of us are stuck with, man,” I tell him solemnly, though it’s been months—or longer—since I’ve actually had a lady.
Or any other form of companionship beyond my hand.
It’s what happens when you want sex to mean something after dating one too many women who want to say they slept with a superstar, bagged an underwear model, or got knocked up by a billionaire.
That last one’s the one that really did me in.
Twice.
And they were both lying.
“I am never growing up.” Tucker snatches his doll back and races to Wyatt. “Can I have a cookie?”