Page 5 of Ruthless Love

For the most part, I ignore the Italian marble tile, vaulted ceilings, and 5,800 square feet of my home, which is roughly 5,000 square feet more than I’d prefer.

Out of habit, I live a sparse life of necessity, always ready to head out at a moment’s notice. Half my shit’s still in boxes, even though it’s been months since I moved in, because leaving is always an option. One I consider almost daily.

I call it home, but the name is fleeting. Coop knows it would only take one word to make me ditch it and him faster than a diet at the Cheesecake Factory.

Gaby.

By the time I pull into the garage and head inside, it’s closing in on midnight. I’m sure it’s way too late for a certain someone to be baking. Yet, there she is.

The woman across the street. The one who should be sleeping. Or dating. Or fucking, for that matter. Having more of a life than her steady workload, chardonnay, and midnight bake-offs affords. A homebody wrapped up in wavy blond locks, seductive lips, and whatever recipe has captured her attention at this hour draws me in. Like every time I see her, I stand there and stare.

As she sips from her glass and wipes an errant drop from her lush lower lip, then sucks her finger clean, I wonder why such a gorgeous girl is always alone, never sleeps, and not once has thought to close her kitchen shutters from the prying eyes of nutjobs like me.

The neighborhood is filled with quaint upscale homes that take middle America, flip it on its ass, and pump it full of steroids. The result is a housewife’s paradise known for its contemporary Mediterranean entries, high-end finishes, and three-car garages that no one ever uses to capacity.

The homeowners’ association keeps the lawns and shrubs trimmed, bright yellow-and-purple flowers replanted on six-week cycles, which always makes me feel like I’ve walked into a mashup of Norman Rockwell and the Twilight Zone.

I look down the street, seeing all the other houses are dimly lit. Their garage lights are on timers with any floodlights on motion sensors, but otherwise the line of Park Place and Boardwalk houses remain pitch black as their occupants sleep inside.

But not this house. The one across the street. The one Betty Crocker frequents when she’s not away at work or with her nose buried in a book.

I’d like to think I could take or leave the pastime of studying her, but that would be a lie. She’s too easy to look at. To watch. And if there’s one thing I know, she’s usually awake at this hour. What she’s not usually doing is diving into a late-night bout of compulsive baking.

I don’t know her name. Haven’t bothered to get to know her. But I know she keeps long hours, drives an expensive vintage car that suits both her style and her petite frame, prefers nude lipstick for her angelic pouty lips, and wouldn’t be a one-night fuck in any man’s world.

That last reason keeps me a world away from the girl too good to be mine.

Her hair changes shades every five weeks or so, and I’m always surprised how the deep brunettes and dark auburns suit her as well as the lighter hues. Today, her strands are a cascade of honey that’s shoved to the top of her head like a tousled nest, and the messy bun has my dick’s seal of approval. She’s the total package, managing to make herself sweet and sexy, probably without the slightest inclination in either direction.

The smudges of flour on her cheeks and forehead make me wonder just how much effort she’s put into whatever it is she’s making, a concoction I’m sure she’s taking to work, which she’ll leave for in about five and a half hours.

For whatever reason, her sudden proud smile makes me smile back from the darkness, and I inwardly applaud whatever triumph has managed to make her happy.

Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Googling her. Or taking the guesswork out of the equation and checking the community roster. Let’s face it. Looking her up isn’t exactly rocket science.

But seeing her from this far away satiates and settles me without the pressure of peeling back an onion, only to find disappointment and dissatisfaction in a girl not living up to my fantasies.

Or worse, finding the girl of my dreams has a heart of pure gold that I’ll only end up crushing.

My only option is to keep life simple. Excruciatingly boring but simple, straightforward, and realistic. And in a tired moment like this, I let myself believe the illusion. She’s as sweet as honey, feisty enough to keep me interested, sexual in imaginative and scandalous ways, and while I’m adding to my Christmas wish list, as sharp as a tack to keep me on my toes.

And no denying the woman is sexy as hell. Look at her. She bakes.

Having kneaded the dough to within an inch of its life, she takes a giddy amount of joy plopping it into a pan and covering it with a cloth. Something called proving.

Hey, just because I didn’t google her doesn’t mean finding out what the hell she’s doing is off-limits. She checks the time, and I do the same. It’s now well past midnight.

The other loaves usually take an hour before she moves them to the oven, a ritual I know because I’m used to watching. Observing. Seeing habits. Pinpointing patterns. And narrowing in on enough weaknesses and strengths to know who’s an adversary and who’s a friend.

Her bread-baking skills are a definite strength, striking right to the heart of one of my greatest weaknesses and tempting me with her evil ways. She started late for bread, and no doubt will be up long after I’ve nodded off.

Unable to stifle a yawn, I stretch and head off to bed, but not before taking one last look at a life not meant for me. Softly, I say, “Good night, little baker girl.”

Chapter Three

AUSTIN

It’s barely the crack of dawn, and boredom has already set in. “It’s going to be a long fucking day,” I mutter to myself, now going on week three without a visit from the Five.

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