Page 12 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

Instead, I drip water onto my entryway tiles and stare as she keeps her back to me like she’ll combust if she faces my bare chest again. An odd, warm feeling moves in my chest, like a lazy cat stretching in the sun.

She’s cute when she’s flustered.

“I wanted to bake a pie and bring it over,” she says, still keeping her back to me, “to apologize.”

“I see.”

“About the tree.”

“I got that.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and that siren voice wraps around my body like silk. “Is your… Is your grandmother home?”

My eyes, which had drifted down to the intriguing curve of her ass hidden behind the fluttering fabric of her sundress, snap up to the back of her head. “My grandmother?”

“She lives here, right?”

“What?”

“The…” She glances over her shoulder and succeeds in meeting my eye for about half a second before her gaze drifts all the way back down to my towel. She squeezes her eyes shut and turns her head to face forward again. “The garden is so nice, I assumed it belonged to a…a…a little old lady.”

“A little old lady.”

She was so imperious yesterday, sitting on the throne of the paramedic’s stretcher. The evil part of my brain enjoys being the cause of her stammers. The not-so-evil part of my brain wonders if I judged her too harshly. I lean my forearm against the doorframe and wait for her to turn around again.

It takes a few seconds, but she does. She faces me, her chest rising and falling with every deep breath. Her gaze darts from my towel to my abs to my shoulders and up to the arm leaning against the door, over my wet hair, and finally lands on my face.

“Jesus,” she whispers and squeezes her eyes shut again.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my lips as I see my neighbor standing on my porch, holding a pie with her eyes closed.

“Please accept the pie,” she says in a low, husky tone. “Unless you’re allergic to nuts, in which case I can make you something else.”

“I’m not allergic to nuts,” I tell her.

“Oh. Good.” Her eyes are still closed. Her voice is hot. She might not know how to drive, and she might be the reason my magnolia tree gets a fungal infection and dies, but the woman has a great voice. My cock agrees, twitching from behind its terrycloth prison. With every second we spend together, the embers of my anger grow cool and gray.

The woman was in a car accident because her van is a piece of crap that likely hasn’t been roadworthy in a decade. She’s probably just as upset about the tree as I am. Once again, I let my emotions get the best of me. Instead of being empathetic, I judged her.

Now she’s here, blushing furiously, and I discover my lips want to twitch. “Did you bake a pie for my imaginary grandmother?”

The woman doesn’t open her eyes as she thrusts the pie toward me. “Yes. But you can have it instead.”

“That’s nice of you.”

The pie trembles slightly as she holds it extended. “Take it.”

“Why are your eyes closed?”

“Because you’re naked.”

“I’m wearing a towel.”

“You’re naked under the towel.” Her brows are dark slashes, and they lower over her scrunched-up eyes. Her mouth, which was so lush and pink yesterday, is pursed into a thin line. She waves the pie in my general direction. “Take it. Please.”

“I’m not sure I should. If I take it, you’ll think I accept your apology.”

Her eyes fly open. Pale green irises stare up at me. “You don’t? Accept my apology?”

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