Page 81 of The Neighbor Wager

She looks at me funny, like she’s not sure why I’m changing the topic, but again, she doesn’t press. “Maybe. But I don’t see how you’re going to fix it.”

I do. I see, in vivid Technicolor, a thousand scenarios. Deanna and I in the back seat of her Tesla, her teal minidress pushed to her waist, her arms wrapped around me. Deanna laughing as we hurry back home.

Deanna splayed over her bed in some fancy silk chemise.

Deanna inmyroom, inmybed, in nothing but her boots.

The room here, at Grandma’s house.

Then the one in New York.

I see her there. All over the apartment. On the leather couch, reading a book. Sitting on the windowsill, staring at the city as she brainstorms. Taking a business call in the kitchen.

Naked in the shower.

Naked in every inch of the place.

“Unless you’re going to hire someone,” she says. “A professional.”

“When was it the best?” I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t dive into these waters, but I can’t linger on the other topic, either. “With who?”

“No. I’m not telling you that one.”

“That’s not our deal.”

“Our deal is love, not sex. But if you want info, you have to give info. Your best. Ever.”

That’s the thing.

I don’t have a best, either. Most of my sex is good. Very good. But it never feels like the movies, like an erotic romance, like a love song.

Physically, it satisfies.

Emotionally, not so much.

Because I’ve never been in love. Because my heart has always been devoted to Lexi.

Only, right now, my body argues for me.

It would feel different with Deanna.

It would feel fucking fantastic.

She leans closer.

My heartbeat picks up.

My blood rushes south.

My brain knows she’s not about to whisperlet’s dive into the ocean, take off our swimsuits, and fuck right there on the beach,but my body is far too tuned in to the proximity.

She smells good, like oranges and sunshine. No. Not sunshine. Sunscreen. All this time in New York, and I’m still a California boy, deep down. Still turned on by the scents of sunscreen and chlorine.

“Do we need to talk somewhere more private?” She nods to a mom reading a paperback while her young daughter plays on an iPad.

“The waves are loud.” The words barely form on my tongue. I don’t want to move. I want to stay close to her. And I want to drag her to the car and dive between her legs.

“Too many people,” I say.

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