Page 8 of Sheltered By Love

Rather than get in his way, I stand beside the door and try not to notice the way his muscles flex with every motion.

By the time I’ve ducked back into the house and grabbed him a drink, he’s finishing up, and he doesn’t look happy about it.

He switches the mower off and shakes his head when I offer him my thanks and a can of lemonade.

Feeling more than awkward he’s now sweaty and is assessing the alarm unit at the front door, I ask the obvious question.

“When are the new tenants moving in?”

His eyes narrow. “I am the new tenant. I’ll be living here.”

The ground rocks beneath me. “You. Live. What?”

As he looks at the hedge at the front of the house, he lifts the edge of his t-shirt to wipe his forehead making it impossible not to see abdominals so toned, that they look like they’ve been sculptured.

If he were anyone other than my landlord, having a hunky jerk live next door wouldn’t have been quite so awkward.

But he is my landlord, and he’s as good-looking as he is rude.

“You work from home,” he says.

I have no idea why that’s relevant, and I’m still trying to deal with him living next door to me and what that will mean. “I do.”

His eyes drift back to me. “You must notice the routines of people on the street then?”

It’s such an odd thing to say, I’m not sure if it’s some kind of test. “Um, I guess. It’s hard not to. My office upstairs looks right out onto the street face.”

I can’t exactly tell him I spend half of my time gazing out the window daydreaming and since moving here or that I find the routines of the street soothing.

He doesn’t acknowledge my response, just gestures to the alarm. “I’ll be back in twenty to get rid of that piece of crap. I have to turn the electricity off.”

Without another word, he grabs his mower and with no attempt to be polite, pushes it back through the gate.

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