Page 5 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
Lyla smiles at him, and I instantly feel a rise in my chest.
“Thank you, Mr?”
“Oh, you can just call me by my given name… Ronaldo Guissepe Moretti.”
Lyla cocks her head to the side.
“Ronnie,” I say. “His name’s just Ronnie.”
“Or that,” Ronnie offers tossing a hand in my direction.
“Well, Ronnie. If you can guarantee some quiet, I’ll bring something nice later.”
Ronnie grins extra wide, and I would really like to slap it right off his face.
“Deal,” he says with a thumbs up.
She glances my way one more time, then turns, walking back to her house, and the sway of her hips is going to haunt me all afternoon. “Maybe I’ll bring some coffee that’s strong enough to wipe the scowl off Damien’s face.”
Ronnie laughs at that, just as she disappears inside. “Yeah, you’re in trouble, man.”
I go turn back to my porch. “Shut up and hand me the drill.”
Ronnie doesn’t hand me the drill right away. He’s still grinning like he just watched me step on a rake.
“You didn’t tell me your neighbor looked likethat” he says, finally passing the tool over.
I take it without looking at him. “Didn’t think it was relevant information.”
“Oh, it’s relevant. She’s got that… I don’t know,energy. Like she’s already planning your funeral, but you’d still thank her for the smile.”
I level the bit into the wood, not rising to the bait. “You’re talking too much again.”
He chuckles. “Come on, man. You can’t tell me you don’t see it. The way she was looking at you—”
“She was looking at you,” I cut in.
“That’s because I was friendly.”
“No. You were nosy.”
“Same thing,” he says easily. “Anyway, if I lived across the street from her, I’d be looking for excuses to borrow sugar. Or coffee. Or whatever else she’s willing to pour.”
The drill bites into the board, the whine loud enough to shut him up for a few seconds. I keep my eyes on my work, watching the screws sink flush into the wood, pretending I’m not picturing Lyla walking back into her house, dark hair catching on her jacket zipper, mouth tilted in that almost-smile she used to throw at me when she was trying to win an argument.
It’s been years since I’ve been this close to her. Years since I’ve heard her voice in person, instead of late-night playing on the speaker of my laptop as she says the words,
“Thanks for joining us. I’m Lyla Hart, and you’re listening to The Hart-line Podcast.”
So yeah, I’ve listened. Once or twice. Maybe more. Enough to know she’s good at what she does, and that every word is sharpened by the way she feels things down to the bone.
It’s the same way she fights. And the same way she used to look at me before the night everything changed.
Ronnie breaks the silence again. “Is she single?”
I put the drill down, meet his eyes flat. “Don’t.”
His grin fades just enough for him to nod, hands up in mock surrender. “Alright. Message received. Don’t hit on the hot neighbor. Got it.”
