Page 15 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

Stalking up onto his deck, I head toward the door leading into his kitchen, forcing my mind away from the memory of the wet and hot kiss we shared only two feet to the right. I am furious with the man right now. I do not want to snog him.

I see Paynter standing inside, holding a lowball glass and laughing, as if he’s sharing a joke with someone I can’t see. Probably talking about how he scared the crap out of me a few minutes ago. Was he hiding in the bushes and made a mad dash to the house after the second hit? Or did he stay and watch me roll around in the sand like a demented scaredy-cat?

Before I reach the door, Paynter glances over and spies me. A wide grin splits his face and for a second, my steps falter as I stare at the sheer beauty of the man.

“Chloe,” he calls out, heading toward the door. “Is that you, sweetheart? Is that my sexy as fuck neighbor?”

Sexy as fuck? Did he just call me sexy as fuck? I’ve never even been called sexy before, let alone with the “as fuck” added to the end. Why the hell does that make me squirm, make my thighs heat, make me wish for…

I can’t finish the thought because I’m distracted by Paynter, who’s lurching toward me. He tugs open the door and stands there, looking at me through the screen. A dark-haired, petite woman steps into view behind him.

Was he out on a date and brought her home? If that’s the case, why is he acting so happy to see me? Is she in on the prank he pulled down at the beach? He’d better not be sharing that frustrating aspect of our relationship with her. Yes, I recognize the insanity of feeling proprietary over something that so gets under my skin, but truthfully, I’m feeling that way about the man himself, too, at the moment, and if there’s anything that gets under my skin, it’s definitely Paynter.

“Who’s that?” the woman asks.

“My neighbor,” Paynter announces, flapping his arm drunkenly. “She’s right here. Standing on my deck.”

“I can see that,” the woman says, laughter in her voice. “Why don’t you invite her in?”

“Why don’t I?” He fumbles with the latch on the screen door. There’s still a wide grin on his face. His eyes are a bit glassy behind his spectacles, and his button-down shirt is untucked and as wrinkled as ever, which should absolutely not be appealing.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” I say as I step into his house and kick off my flip-flops. A small pile of sand lands on the tiles near my feet.

Apparently ignoring my words and my tone, he raises his arms, like he’s about to give me a hug, but then he stops and stares instead. “You aren’t wearing a power suit.”

I look down at my pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. That deflates a little of the wind from my sails. There is nothing to do but to own my dishevelled appearance.

“Nope.”

“And you have sand in your hair.”

I start to run my hand through the strands, but my fingers get caught in the sloppy ponytail. “Yes, I do. And it’s all because of your stupid—”

“Fuck me, you’re even sexier now.”

“What?”

He throws his arms around me and we struggle for a few seconds while I try to keep us both from toppling into any nearby furniture and he attempts to kiss every bit of me he can reach, which is mostly my hair and shoulder. I get a whiff of bourbon when I finally manage to balance us both.

“Are you drunk?” I ask.

“Family tradition,” he announces and then flaps an arm over his shoulder, presumably indicating the woman standing behind him. “We always take each other out and get them drunk on their birthdays.” Another person walks into the room and comes up short when he spots me.

“Chloe,” Paynter’s brother Garrett says. “It is Chloe, right? I should know this. Paynt’s been talking about you all damn night.”

Probably about how he expected me to react to his latest prank.

“I have,” Paynter confirms. “All good things. Really good things. And it’s my birthday,” he abruptly announces. “So you should kiss me.”

“Er…”

“Come on. You know you liked it when we did it before. I know I did. Wanna know what else I want to do with you? Have I told you how good I am with details?”

Laughter bubbles up my throat and escapes while I try to catch his hands, which are determined to grab my ass—no, my boobs. Okay, both. He’s like an innocent, eager teenager trying to shock his principal—minus the zits.

“Oh-h-h, you’re not wearing a bra. How about panties? Are you wearing those?”

I snag his wandering hands and say, “Maybe you should introduce me to your friend.”

---