Page 16 of Third Time Lucky

I’m trying to analyze his behavior as I leave the balcony and walk into the kitchen in a daze. After a phone call like the one he had, I’d be asking for a beer or something stronger. I’d want to distract myself with a bromantic procedural or shout at some dragons, aka therapeutic gaming.

I definitely wouldn’t be sharing precious bottles of orange-flavored joy with the odd duck next door. I’d be pissed at that guy and wondering why he was listening in on my calls with food on his chin and a pipe in his pants. Who did he think he was, anyway?

What was I talking about?

Oh right. Why is he talking to me?

Maybe he’s lonely.

Maybe he’s more work than you need right now,I correct myself as I wipe my chin, which I’m relieved to report is sauce-free. He’s going through some kind of family drama, and I’m supposed to be avoiding stressful things.

I snag one of the small juggling balls I left on the counter, and the suede beneath my fingers instantly soothes me. What I should do is hand over the drink as an apology for eavesdropping, make my excuses and get back to work. I have things to do before tomorrow and he’s too…too.

That makes sense.

Excuse me for being unclear. I’m busy being mad at a universe that would give me a neighbor who managed to awaken my libido from its hundred-year hibernation, and sings to his child voluntarily, but is still straight.

Unfair as it is, the facts don’t lie.

Not only am I lusting after him, but he has a daughter. Unless he’s mated to one of those miracles of erotic gay fiction—the male werewolf who can carry a baby to term—his daughter has to have a mother.

Ipso Facto Hetero.

Why did I ever let myself read that?

JD dared me to, and I hate him for it. I mean, I love gay romance, I’m into the idea of werewolves and I’m a fan of the miracle of birth. All of those facts are separately true. But knowing gay werewolf pregnancy is a thing that’s out there is nearly tied with Jordan Peele movies on the list of Scary Shit I’ll Never Get Out of My Head.

Tangent aside, I’m standing firm on my idea to end this meet-cute posthaste. I drop the ball, take a bottle in each hand and ready my excuses as I head outside.

“Here you—Oh fuck.”

I nearly run into his chest and make a noise that sounds embarrassingly like a squeak when I realize he’s hopped both railings along with the two-foot gap between our balconies and is a lot closer than I expected.

He hopped over. To my balcony.

And he’s smiling like that wasn’t weird or a bad idea at all.

“I thought this might make it easier to take that drink.” He peers down at my face and his smile wavers, laying his hand lightly on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t expecting—I’m fine.” I’m also flustered as I hold out the bottle. He’s a big guy and I don’t know him, but I do know how much damage a body like his could do.

You’re not afraid of him.

I’m not. In fact, for someone I’m this attracted to, I’m oddly at ease around him. Maybe it’s because I heard his phone call. Disappointed mothers are an instant equalizer.

I glance at the wrought iron he had to clear to get here and manage a whistle. “Nice jump.”

“It’s the railing that’s the tricky part. One wrong move and I could have been kabobbed somewhere unfortunate.”

While sharing that disturbing visual, he peers over my shoulder and into my apartment. His eyes widen at the mountain I’ve only made a dent in.

“The personal tour might have to wait until next year,” I say dryly. “Maybe I’ll be finished by then.”

He bites his lip and looks down at me. “I need to apologize again, don’t I? I interrupted you and came over without asking. I’ve been curious about this place for weeks, though. I almost bought it, but now I’ve got a real estate agent hunting for houses with big porches and backyard swings.”

Don’t leave. I can make my bedroom available for nightly visits. And I love swings.

My plans to cut the night short have melted away, along with most of my brain cells. I’m blaming him. He fills up the space in and around me without trying. It’s more than his size, though that is substantial. More than his approachable smile or the way he moves. Everything about him, from his eyes to his scent, reminds me of summer. He’s standing there in a snug t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms, making me long for things I know I can’t have. It’s throwing me.

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