Home > Lots Of Naughty & A Little Nice(2)

Lots Of Naughty & A Little Nice(2)
Author: Leigh Lennon

The neighborhood feels as quaint and homey as the colonial I’m unable to tear my gaze from. It’s not like any other house in the neighborhood. I finally pull my stare from the house in order to park in the small detached garage that is set to the side in the back. I have plans to build memories here for us both. After the past couple of years, my sister deserves it.

Pushing up and out of my Corvette in my pencil skirt and three-inch Jimmy Choos, I’m halfway still in the car, attempting to grab not only the grocery bags but also my purse, the files from closing, and my phone. I could make more trips, and I should, but in my jumbled mind, emotional in my ability to provide a home—one my sister and I can build memories together—I’ve concocted this vision of what walking over the threshold to my house for the first time will look like. And somehow, it doesn’t include two trips back out to the garage.

“Excuse me, miss.” Before I’m able to swing my body around to the unfamiliar voice—not to mention him sneaking up and scaring the hell out of me—I slip on my heel and drop the bag housing my red wine.

“Ah, poop.” In slow motion, I stare at the red bottle of heaven as it crashes on the concrete floor of my new garage, splashing up and hitting my prized possession—my car.

My eyes veer up to the very tall man responsible for my spilled wine and my almost heart attack. My breath hitches as I take in his thick-rimmed glasses, blue azure eyes, and dark wavy hair with some early gray sitting right below his ears. He’s at least six feet, five inches tall. His face is ashen, and he falls to his knees immediately to grab the bag of groceries that had fallen with the wine. As my body reacts to him, my brain registers who he is.

“It’s you,” I say with no malice in my words because I’d be lying if I hadn’t thought of him after our first run-in.

As though it takes a while for his own brain to register who I am, he pulls back, too. “It’s you,” he repeats in a similar tone.

“Well, now that we’ve figured that out, you scared the hell out of me,” I tease because, at this point, this whole interaction is something you’d see on a Hallmark movie.

“Yeah, I’m so very sorry, miss.” He picks up the bag of steaks, onions, and potatoes in his large arms, his black slacks wet from the wine spill spreading through my garage. “Do you have a broom? I’ll clean up all the glass for you.”

I normally would have a witty and snotty comment, but I don’t. Something stills in my heart as he mutters to himself, and all I can make out from him is expressing how stupid he is. I’m still scared, my heart beating out of my chest. “I don’t have anything here yet because I don’t officially move in until tomorrow.”

He stands, shifting the food to one arm, his free hand raking through the mop of dark hair on top of his head. I extend my hands to him, reaching for my food, and he’s in my space. I turn my head to his, the blue of his eyes catching my attention.

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” With his declaration, my roving eyes catch the strong cheekbones and pouty lips a woman would kill for, and my compassion for him increases. From the way his eyes don’t meet mine, I’d bet he’s not a very social person. Not to mention, most people know not to sneak up on someone like he has.

He continues to chastise himself. “I’m such a klutz on most days, but now it appears I’m causing others to do the same thing, simply through osmosis.” He points at the broken bottle of wine. Normally the statement, anything with the word osmosis in it, would be funny, but he’s as serious as they come. And this in and of itself makes him funny. Oh, and have I mentioned sexy as sin?

What can I say? I’ll simply forgive him because he’s gotten my attention when very few men do these days? I never have a problem expressing what’s on my mind. But tonight, the handsome stranger has me tongue-tied. “It was a simple accident. No reason to beat yourself up over it.”

He doesn’t make eye contact with me, but his voice cracks in response. “By the way, I’m Rowan Peterson, and thanks so much. I’m your new neighbor.” He points at the Tudor-style house to the right of mine. “I’ve come over to chat with you about our Christmas celebration.”

Did I hear him right? He’s come over to talk about Christmas decorations with me during the week I’m moving into my house. “Um, what?” I have to clarify what he’s explained to me because I may just lose it, and very soon. But in his defense, I’ve forgotten Thanksgiving was yesterday, and we’re officially in the holiday season.

“I’m the president of the homeowners’ association. And we’re known for our Christmas luminarias for miles. Every house participates. I have to order them by tomorrow, to ensure they’re here by the third week in December, for our lighting festival.”

I back away from his space, in the hopes I can regain some composure, but even with room between us, I’m unable to keep my building emotions at bay. “Are you telling me you snuck over here and are responsible for my shattered bottle of wine and almost gave me a cardiac arrest over Christmas luminarias?” I let a little cackle leave my lips because joking is my love language.

His mouth falls open, and he reaches for his parted lips. “Um, yeah, because like I said…”

I lift my hand up to stop him. “Okay, Rowan Peterson, meter maid of parking, president of the homeowners’ association, and obsessor of luminarias. Sure, I’m a part of this neighborhood now, and hell, I wouldn’t dream of being the only house without them.” I give him a little once-over, and his cheeks redden.

“I’m really sorry,” he says yet again. I’ve embarrassed him. My words were meant to lighten the mood between us, not to create more awkwardness.

“Nah, Rowan, no problem. You’re just lucky you’re cute, or I may have gotten really mad.” I leave the glass where it is and make a note to have my sister stop by the store to get a broom. “Just let me know how much I owe you for the lights, and I’ll write you a check. And thanks for the welcome to the neighborhood, neighbor.”

Am I flirting? I think I am, and Rowan Peterson may very well be the needed distraction my heart desires right now. And this time, I’m not pissed as hell at him. Yeah, I could get used to Rowan Peterson sneaking up on me again—for sure.

 

 

“Ave? Yo, Ave?” It’s my sister’s loud mouth calling for me as she slams the door behind her.

“I’m in the kitchen, Whit!” I holler from the back room, where I’m looking out at the beautiful backyard while sitting on the kitchen counter because I forgot to grab my portable beach chairs to have something to sit on.

She’s trudging through the house in what has to be her combat boots. My sister and I have conflicting styles. She thinks mine is snobby, high-end, and aloof, and she’s not wrong. I think her style is gaudy, loud, and lacks flair, and I’m not wrong either. But it doesn’t matter because, at the end of the day, I’d do anything for Whitney, who is thirteen years my junior.

She rounds the corner, carrying a new broom in her hand. “You weren’t kidding, sis. There’s glass all around your precious Corvette. I’ll run out there and clean it up after supper.” She doesn’t give me a chance to speak because she continues without taking a breath, leaning over the kitchen sink, looking out the window into the backyard. “And who the hell is the hottie in your garage with a broom, sweeping up all the broken glass?”

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