Page 3 of Never Kiss Your Neighbors

After I grab a loaf of our usual bread, I’m tempted to browse the store’s bagels, but I tell myself to wait until my next trip. My bosses, who happen to be my friend Ana’s romantic partners, told me that my hours are flexible, but I try to keep as close to regular office hours as I can, except for the times when I’m taking care of Jessie.

Saving the milk for last, I collect my other items first. When I reach the other end of the store, I realize I never saw the jam and jelly section, so I go on a hunt for it, and eventually find it all the way back near where I started, in the same aisle as the bread. I’m still learning my way around the stores in this town, but I’m sure I won’t make this mistake again.

Jessie likes strawberry jelly a lot, and I’m standing in front of the shelves full of various brands, wondering if she’d put up a fuss over a low-sugar variety, when a broad forearm appears beside me, reaching for a jar at the same time a masculine voice says, “Excuse me.”

I take a step back to give the man room, and am only intending to give a quick glance to see who’s invading my personal space, but one glance is not enough.

Whoa, he’s gorgeous.

First of all, he’s tall. And dark. And undeniably handsome.

I must be staring, because once he has his selection in hand, he takes a step back and looks at me in return.

The eyes taking me in are like rich dark chocolate, but maybe I’m only thinking that because I passed through the candy aisle on my way over here. His lips are full and soft-looking, and are probably more delectable than any of the jellies and jams.

“Did you know ancient Romans had recipes for jam?” he says.

I squint at him, trying to make sense of his words, while I try even harder not to look at the bare expanse of his chest that’s exposed by his decidedly low-buttoned light blue shirt.

All of his skin is a beautiful warm olive color, and his chest—oops, I’m looking again—is smooth, though I suspect that if I were to touch it, it would be hard as granite.

Those forearms that led the way look strong too, under their fine covering of rich dark brown, almost-black hair that matches the thick, wavy hair on his head.

And did I mention his cheekbones? They’re sharp enough for a game of Fruit Ninja back in the produce department.

“The Romans made jam,” he says, his beautiful eyes dropping to the label of the jar he’s holding. “Though probably not raspberry chipotle.” He holds the jar out so I can see it. “This is really good in barbecue sauce, by the way.”

I don’t know if it’s what he’s saying, or the way he looks, but I can’t quite seem to join the conversation.

“Can I help you reach anything?”

The shelves are indeed stacked high, but I hadn’t even looked beyond eye level, and it doesn’t matter, because I’m still tongue-tied.

“What flavor are you looking for?” he asks.

After a silent but harsh admonishment toget myself together,I answer, “Strawberry … preferably reduced sugar.”

“Brand?”

He has somehow turned into my own personal shopper, though he’d be much better suited as a model, or maybe some kind of athlete whose sport demanded physical perfection.

After quickly scanning the rows of jars, he slides one off the shelf and hands it to me. While I study the ingredients, he selects a couple more, and soon he’s holding two jars in each of his big hands, one of them being his raspberry chipotle.

“Oh … I don’t need …” As I fumble to explain that my jelly selection isn’t this serious, I realize that I’m ridiculously out of practice when it comes to talking to attractive men. I didn’t know it was a skill that faded away without regular use.

“So many options,” he says, just before he tosses one of the jars into the air. Then he tosses another. And before I know it, he’s juggling all four jars.

From personal shopper to circus clown. What in the world is happening right now?

CHAPTER3

STELLA

“What are you doing?” The mom in me wants to tell this handsome but extremelystrangestranger to put the jars downimmediately,because he’s about to make a huge mess right here in aisle nine.

The rational adult in me says I have no business telling a grown adult what to do or not to do if he isn’t hurting anyone—but why is he behaving like this?

The man may be stunningly good looking, but he is very odd.

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