Page 8 of Crave Thy Neighbor

Right now, I could kiss the hell out of him.

“Trust me, I have better moves to get you to go home with me than buying you drinks.”

I had no intentions of coming out tonight to find a guy to go home with.

But the more sips of alcohol that burn my throat and the more this man stares at me like I’m the only thing he wants to see, the more my guard slips.

And the more the idea of going home with him doesn’t sound so crazy after all.

2

Nolan

A bar is the last place I wanted to be tonight.

After hanging up my helmet for the day, I wasn’t in the mood for company. Tired from getting up at the ass-crack of dawn, all I wanted was to go home. I had a six-pack of beer and leftover Chinese waiting for me in the fridge. My couch was calling my name, and a new true crime documentary awaited me.

But when your best friend calls and tells you you’re going out…well, you’re fucking going out.

Now that I’m here, I kind of wish I’d spent more time on my appearance, like running a comb through my hair instead of my fingers or shaving the stubble that’s grown in since this morning.

It has everything to do with the girl sitting next to me.

I noticed her the moment I opened the door to Hole in One, a hidden gem this city has no idea it’s missing out on.

She stared out at the crowd with sad eyes, but it wasn’t the melancholy gaze that made her stand out. I mean, fuck, it’s a bar—most people in a bararesad.

Nah.

It was the way that, despite the sadness, she had her shoulders pressed back and sat upon the stool as if it were a throne.

Her thoughts consumed her so much I doubt she noticed she had the attention of several people, including me. Her pouty bottom lip was stuck between her teeth, and her brows pinched together in concentration.

I glanced at her finger—empty—and before I knew it, I was sitting next to her.

She spent at least another thirty seconds watching the crowd while I watched her.

I still don’t know her name, but I do know she might be the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen in person.

Her deep brown hair hangs in waves down her back. My fingers itch to touch it. Just like I’m dying to lean into her and get a better smell of whatever perfume she’s wearing, the one I keep catching a whiff of every time she shifts around.

Which she’s doing right now.

She clears her throat and fits her hands around hertop-shelfwhiskey sour, pushing her shoulders back again, pretending my words did not affect her when they did. Her pink cheeks give her away.

I fight a smirk.

“It’s not my fault,” she informs me, like she’s embarrassed I might think she’s unable to pay her bills.

If that were the case, I’d be the last person to judge her.

I can’t count the number of late notices we received growing up. My dad was a single parent raising a hellion of a kid in a down economy. We struggled, swam our way through debt and notice after notice.

She’ll receive no judgment from me.

Hell, most of us are one bad day away from being on the shit end of a notice like that. It happens, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

“The owner of the building sold the land, and they don’t need to keep the apartments,” she explains. “They have plans to tear everything down and replace it.”

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