Page 96 of Neighbors With Benefits

Dante nodded like there was no other reasonable answer. “And two: I want complete, unrestricted access to the greenhouse. I can come and go as I please, no matter what time of day it is.”

“As long as you don’t make as much noise as you did this morning, I agree to those terms.”

“I was loud on purpose. I didn’t think you’d sleep all fucking day.” He picked up three lengths of metal. “Grab my toolbox. I’m not doing this alone.”

I followed him around the back side of the greenhouse with his toolbox, feeling silly for how quickly I rushed to obey him. I told myself it was because he was doing me a huge favor by helping repair the greenhouse, and not because I was desperate for his approval.

“This is the part I have to repair first.” Dante pointed up at the corner of the greenhouse where a section had been damaged and was now open and exposed. “Hold the ladder while I measure the gap.”

I did as I was told. As he climbed the ladder, I stole a look up at him. The jeans fit loosely from the knee down, but hugged his ass and thighs nicely. I wondered if he wore boxers or briefs. Or nothing at all.

It’s eight in the morning, Jazz,I told myself.Stop ogling the one neighbor you’re not sleeping with.

“Do you play Pickleball too?” I asked, trying to make conversation and to drag my mind out of the gutter.

Dante barked a laugh. “I play a real sport.”

“Which sport do you consider real?”

“The kind where you hit people. And bleed.”

“You’re a football player,” I said. “I get it.”

He stretched out and grabbed onto a piece of metal frame, shaking it gently. “Not football.”

Hitting. Bleeding. “So you’re a boxer? Or, like, one of those UFC guys who fights in an octagon?”

“I don’t do any martial arts. At least, not recreationally.”

I wondered what that meant, but didn’t want to ask him a third question about it.

“Hand me the tape measure,” he commanded. “No, not that one. The bigger one, Jasmin.”

I took the tool out of the box and stretched up to hand it to him. “You can call me Jazz.”

He snickered. “No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dante said while extending the tape measure, “that’s not a name. It’s a kind of music. A bad kind.”

I should have felt offended, but mostly I was annoyed that I couldn’t think of a quick-witted reply. It was too early in the morning for this kind of banter.

“Jazz isn’t short for Jasmin,” I said. “It’s short for Jasper.”

Dante chuckled. “Of course it is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

He ignored me, then muttered, “Hmm. Thought so.”

“What?”

“This section needs reinforcing as well as repair. We can do this section and the area on the left, but that leaves the open part on the right. Bash didn’t buy enough metal.” He climbed down the ladder, hopping the last two feet. “I can pick it up after work on Monday, though. No problem.”

“Thanks for the help,” I reiterated. “I know you deal with acquisitions and stuff, but what kind of work do you do when you’re in town?”

He turned around and took a step toward me. We were inches apart, our personal space intermingling. “Listen. We don’t have to do this.”

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