Page 14 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

CHAPTER FIVE

CHLOE

“Thanks for staying late and helping me finish this project, Chloe.”

My boss, James Frost, clamps a hand onto my shoulder and gives it a couple of squeezes. It’s affectionate but not in a do-I-have-to-worry-he’s-hitting-on-me? way. To tell you the truth, I’ve worked for him for nearly a year and I honestly don’t know if he’s straight. He dresses almost better than me in his tailored, body-hugging suits, and he gets his hair trimmed religiously every two weeks at noon on Friday. He’s noticed his temples are starting to gray, and he can’t decide if it’s making him look distinguished or if he needs to add a regular dye appointment to that twice-monthly cut.

My thoughts stray to my wrinkled shirt-wearing, broad chest-baring, kissing king of a neighbor. No question there at all. That man makes me want to climb him, despite my best intentions. James makes me want to sit across from him in an armchair with a roaring fire between us, each absorbed in our own book while we share a bottle of aged brandy.

“Anytime,” I say.

He glances at the Rolex on his wrist and a frown mars his brow. “Damn, that took longer than I expected. I suspect I missed them.” He whips out his phone and taps out what I presume is a text message.

“Hot date?” I can’t help asking.

“My siblings,” he says. He’s watching his phone while he talks. “We were all supposed to get together tonight.” He snorts. “Why the hell did they pick that place?” And then he sighs. “It’s literally on the other side of town. If I go, it’ll be midnight before I get to bed tonight, assuming I get there before they decide to leave. And I have to present this project to the board tomorrow.” I can hear the frustration in his voice as he tries to work out whether he’s going out or staying in.

“Well, that’s my cue. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I don’t want him to ask my opinion, because I would choose going home alone. In fact, my own home is calling, my haven, the place I can be me and not worry that someone might be whispering or thinking about how I look, what I’m wearing, whether I’m successful enough.

Except I can’t even be me there anymore. The thought hits me while I’m driving home. I rub at my chest like the thought is an itch, maybe a tick that’s gotten under my skin. It’s not fair. Just because Paynter lives next door doesn’t mean I should change anything about my routine. I should still be able to spend all day Sunday in my pajamas, not bothering with makeup or even a shower. I should be able to hang my laundry on the clothesline, not to save energy but because I love it when the smell of nature permeates what I wear. Even my undies and bras.

There’s a newer model hybrid SUV parked at the curb in front of Paynter’s house, but his vehicle, that sweet-ass Beamer, is not in the driveway when I pull into my own. Nor are there any lights on in his house, with the very distinct exception of the brass and glass faux gas lantern hanging over his front door. Is he out? On a date?

I don’t care. Wait, I do. He’s out and there’s a full moon in a cloudless sky, clearly illuminating the path to my favorite place to escape: the lake bordering our backyards. I haven’t been down there since he moved in, because I’ve been so paranoid about him seeing a side of me that isn’t the tough-as-nails woman in power. It’s bad enough I forget how to breathe, let alone how not to act wanton every time his lips are anywhere in my vicinity.

I sit in the car and watch for any sign of movement. Nothing. He’s really not home. And I really want to go sit on the dock and enjoy a cocktail, with no one but the frogs and fish to keep me company. There’s a nice breeze, so I won’t even have to worry about swatting mosquitoes. This evening cannot possibly be any more perfect.

And I am taking advantage, now, before it’s too late. My neighbor could return home—possibly not alone—and ruin my evening.

Scrambling out of the car, I hurry into the house, my limp almost entirely gone thanks to icing my ankle every day for the past week and wearing low heels with my power suits. Too bad I can’t get away with wearing sensible shoes every day. I wince because I’m the only one dictating what I put on my feet.

But I want to make partner, and tall women get noticed.

Dropping my briefcase and purse on the bench near the front door, I reach inside the bag and grab an elastic band. I kick off my shoes and pad through the house in bare feet while securing my hair into what I’m certain is an incredibly sloppy ponytail. I can’t wait to put on the pajama bottoms I pretend are yoga pants and my favorite baggy, old-as-dirt U of M sweatshirt. I even replace the bra with a cami before dragging the worn, soft cotton material over my head.

A quick pit stop in the kitchen, where I make myself a vodka tonic—a double—and then grab a pre-made cheese and cracker platter courtesy of my favorite gourmet grocery store. With one more swift glance to ensure Paynter definitely isn’t home, I slide my feet into a pair of flip-flops and I’m heading through the backyard toward the water.

It’s a small, private lake with no public access. The houses butting up to the shore pay significantly higher taxes, but it’s worth it to be able to sink into an Adirondack chair, stare out at the water, and feel like you’re the only person who even exists at the moment.

I’m two steps onto the sand and contemplating taking off my flip-flops when the first explosion hits. The sand underneath my feet flies upward, like a mini volcano, and there’s a loud popping noise that causes me to drop my drink and food and fall to the ground. Is my neighborhood under attack? What the hell is going on?

I try to crab crawl toward the cover of trees when another mini volcano erupts under my hand. Jerking it away, I cross both arms over my chest and roll, leaving explosions in my wake. My God, I really am under attack. What the hell have I done? Did I accidentally cross the mob in one of my more lucrative business deals?

Would the mob plant bombs on my beach?

No. Terrorists. Heaven help me, terrorists are after me and I don’t even have my phone so I can call 9-1-1.

Another explosion slaps sand into my face, and I choke on the dust and granules. I freeze where I am and carefully look around, searching for any sign of my attackers. If I can figure out where they are, hopefully, I can run in the opposite direction.

I see nothing but deep shadows against the clear sky. The beach is almost glowing with the light from the full moon. I notice little craters of sand all around me, and it finally occurs to me that despite the explosions, some of which I am certain made contact with my skin, I am uninjured, save possibly having aggravated the almost healed injury to my ankle.

That’s strange. Although, now that my heart begins to slow, not quite as strange as the idea of someone tossing bombs at me on my beach. A swift glance at Paynter’s house … lights are pouring through the windows, painting designs on the grass.

That son of a bitch. He just about gave me a heart attack with this latest shenanigan.

Gritting my teeth, I stand and hurriedly brush the sand from my clothing while stalking across the beach—setting off one more harmless explosion, which solidifies my suspicion that he deliberately buried some sort of fireworks on my property.

A shadow passes by one of the windows, followed by another. He has company, but that doesn’t stop my forward motion. We’ve had confrontations in front of other people before; why should we break that habit now? I’m so fired up, I need to yell at him, and I’m not waiting for a more convenient time.

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