“He always that noisy at the butt-crack of dawn?”
That description of sunrise made Ashley laugh. She nodded, fully aware she hadn’t stopped by just to chat. She wasn’t one of those gregarious, exuberant women, who had to know everything about their neighbors. Introverts were a closed nation unto themselves, convinced they didn’t need most other people. Ashley certainly didn’t. For the last two years, she’d been extremely introverted. She could count the number of friends she had on one hand and still have fingers left. And one of those friends was a bird. But this guy was something else.
“His noisy times are usually sunrise and sunset,” she explained, in awe of the drool-worthy male watching her intently from beneath thick, sooty lashes. “Otherwise he’s quiet. You just moved in?” The oddest question popped into her head. Why did this green-eyed Greek god have black eyelashes when his hair was kissed-by-the-sun blond? How’d that work?
A lazy, crooked smile curled one corner of his mouth. While his top lip was thin, the lower was lush and slippery looking. Wet, as if he’d run his tongue over it before he’d opened his door. She wanted to run her tongue over it.
Say what? Heat slithered up her neck at that salacious thought. Where it came from, she had no idea. It’d been years since she’d had anything positive to say about the opposite sex. Her savior from Friday night didn’t count. She’d decided he hadn’t been that great after he’d deserted her like he had. Besides, she’d been overdosed with adrenaline then, and everyone knew adrenaline made you see and think things that weren’t real. Her sexy, avenging angel was now just some guy, like he’d said he was. He wasn’t a superhero, and he hadn’t even been that good looking. But this man was surely worth looking at. Possibly, even thinking about. Later...
“Nah. Moved in a while ago, but I’ve been back and forth between here and Seattle the last couple weeks,” he replied, licking that lush bottom lip again. “Sorry. Where are my manners? Name’s Tripp McClane.” He stuck a well-muscled arm and hand in her face. “Sure nice to meet you, Ashley Cox. I’ve seen you around. We should grab a cup of coffee sometime.”
One look at those callused fingers and that work-roughened palm, and Ashley’s reason for being there came back to her. There was no way she’d touch this guy. Who knew where that hand and those fingers had been.
He kept talking, waiting for her to accept his friendly gesture. “Yeah, I’ve got a year’s lease here, but I moved to Seattle for my job, then had to move right back. Family problems.” He shrugged. “Guess you’re stuck with me a while longer.”
How horribly nice was that? But, oh, darn. Coincidentally, those rowdy street urchins were also from Seattle, the hotbed of the year’s civil unrest and, well, apparently a lot of other things. That had to be where he’d caught his—disease.
Mr. McClane’s much larger head canted onto his shoulder. His hand fell back to his thigh. Those mischievous eyes made him look like an adorable, but very naughty, little boy. “What’s wrong? You don’t like coffee? Hell, hot chocolate then. Or wine. Name your poison. I’m not choosey.”
Which brings us back to the reason I’m here today…
Ashley closed her eyes, fighting the fierce attraction for her neighbor strumming through her body. Lifting her right hand to her forehead, she scratched a tense fingernail over her brow, praying for strength to do what had now become an enormously distasteful job. Wishing this man didn’t look as breathtakingly fantastic as he did. But he did, and that was probably why he was now carrying around a nasty STD in his pants, that she—God, why me?—was here to tell him about. Please don’t let him ask me for a lesson on where STDs come from and how they work.
He leaned into her. Closer. “Hey, neighbor. How’d you get that bruise on your cheek? Is there something you want to tell me? Is some guy—? Is your boyfriend—?”
“No. I mean, no, I don’t have a boyfriend, but yes, there’s something I need to tell you, only…” Darn. Darn. Darn! A gasp of exasperation sent a loose strand of her hair flying, and Ashley clenched the mace in her bag, again, just in case. There was no way she’d tell this guy what happened Friday. That was her business. Her mistake.
“Read this,” she ordered in her most professional voice, slapping the incriminating, folded-in-thirds, official notification into that hard, made-for-sex-that-was-never-going-to-happen, chest. “I’m an outreach coordinator for the Health Department. That makes me just the messenger here, so don’t blame me. There’s a phone number on the bottom line if you have questions. Whoever answers will explain. Not me. B-b-bye.”
That was as much as she could squeak out. Like a chicken, once he slapped his hand over his chest to keep the notice from falling, she turned tail and ran for home, the apartment next door to this Adonis with a sexually transmitted disease. What a shame!
“What the fuck? Hey! Wait up!” he called after her. “Wait! Ashley!”
“Forget we ever met,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’m not your type!”
Obviously. Because I’m no man’s type. Not anymore. What kind of guy would want to face her after this debacle of a first meeting? Yeah. That kind. The kind who had unprotected sex with strangers and shared STDs like twitchy addicts shared needles.
Slamming her door behind her, Ashley locked it, then stood with her back against it, out of breath and shaking like a ninny. How unprofessional was that, to dump this mess on him, then run away like a chicken with her head cut off? So unprofessional. Hardly even couth. She still had two more men to face with this awful news. Could she do it? Probably not.
Ashley squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassed for herself and for Mr. McClane and… and… for Peewee! Why not? His
