Page 5 of The Neighbor's Son

“Hey,” I say, voice sounding gritty and hardly audible from lack of use. I clear my throat and try again. “Hey.”

She snaps her head up and meets my gaze. Her blue eyes, though clouded with pain, are brilliant and bright. I find myself marveling at how they glitter with the reflecting lights.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft. “Happy birthday.”

Her cheeks turn red, and she cuts her eyes away from me. I reach up and awkwardly rub at the back of my neck. This seemed easier in my head. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say to her.

“Thanks for coming,” I blurt out, lamely.

“Of course.”

Okay, this sucks. I’m the worst conversationalist. She probably wants me to go the fuck away.

And yet…I can’t move.

“You look beautiful.”

You look beautiful?

Am I just blurting out random thoughts now?

What the actual fuck?

Her head jerks back up and she frowns at me. “What?”

She’s going to make me say it again.

Fuck.

“I, uh, said you look beautiful.” My skin is hot, and I feel like a moron. “Is that okay for me to say that?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and all it does is make her breasts smash together, highlighting the cleavage. Like an idiot, I lick my lips. And thank God for baggy jeans because I’m pretty sure my cock is filling with blood right now, growing uncomfortably hard.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I just, thought maybe I misunderstood.”

Not sure how she can get confused. Surely, she sees herself in the mirror each morning. Probably has people tell her all damn day.

“How was work?” Again, I really, really suck at talking. Kill me now. “Any good cases?”

Thankfully, she brightens at my question. “It’s great. I love helping people. Physical therapy is a great way to hear people’s stories. It’s very intimate, you know?”

All I can do is focus on how her pretty lips move and words come out. How do men survive when she’s their physical therapist? The idea of her dainty hands rubbing all over me is enough to have me stifling a groan.

“Cool,” I mutter.

Cool?

If only my legs would move, and I could run far away from my stupid mouth.

“Yeah.” She tucks a blonde strand of hair behind her ear and looks at me from beneath her thick lashes. “How’s painting going?”

At least she’s throwing me a bone. Literally. I clasp my hands over my crotch, so she doesn’t notice.

“It’s going to need a few coats,” I tell her as I think about Gordon’s old place. “It reeks of smoke. I’m going to have to rip up all the carpet too.”

Is she bored to tears yet?

Why is she lingering when I’m so fucking bad at carrying on a normal conversation?

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