Would it be so wrong for her to march over to the place a few feet away, pound on the door, and ask, “Do you have to blast the music?”
Not so wrong at all.
Pacing the living room floor, pages ofProject Sizzleclutched to her chest, Chloe mentally reviewed reasons why it made sense for her to ask the neighbor to lower the music. But what if the neighbor was one of the town Pirates she’d read about?
Pirates don’t really live in duplex units facing the beach, do they?All overactive imagination aside, the pirates in this town were supposedly cordial, refined—and long gone.
Hopefully.
Fed up, Chloe stomped over to the front door, breathed in and out, before rallying up the nerve to open it and take ten—tiptoed—steps over to the door across the way.
And why exactly was she tiptoeing? It wasn’t like anyone could hear her footsteps over the…concert—another Luke Bryan song, this one calledShe’s a Hot One.
Does everyone on the block like Luke?
Standing right in front of her—hopefully-not-a pirate—neighbor’s door, Chloe found herself humming and swaying to the tune.
Such a great song.
But way too loud.
She raised her fisted hand, preparing to pound the hard wood, then quickly lowered it, pure apprehension taking over.
Come on Chloe, don’t be a wuss; unless, of course, you’d rather spend the next twelve weeks of your life with a noise-cancellation headphone appendage.
She hated when catty inner-thoughts popped in her head like a voice over in a comedic movie.
She also hated noise cancellation headphones. Too bulky.
Boom. Boom. Boom.Pounding on the door made Chloe feel tough, as if she were thelaw, following up on some noise-ordinance infraction.
Forty seconds passed and nothing. No lowering of the music, no pirate (or whoever) swinging the door open.
Boom. Boom. Boo—
The music ceased, followed by theclick, click, sound of locks that came as a start to Chloe, but when the door flew open, the man standing before her was far more than what she’d mentally prepared for.
Hot Motorcycle Coffee Shop Guy, in nothing but a bath towel hanging loosely around his waist—hair wet, body glistening with droplets of water.
Holy mother of all things godly.
“Can I help you?” The sharp tone that spilled out of his mouth matched his look of annoyance.
“Oh,” Chloe’s gaze trailed from his face, to a dreamy muscle-planed chest, then all the way down to a finely sculpted six-pack. It had been a long drawn out while since a half-naked man was this close to her. Chloe Davenport was just about speechless. Thankfully she remembered what led her to pound on the door in the first place, even though her span of concentration was limited to a glorious set of abs. “Do you have abs—uh, I mean…” she paused again, losing her train of thought, “abble pie?”
Leaning on the doorframe, her almost-naked neighbor said, “Abblepie?” Letting out a chuckle, his look of annoyance quickly transformed into a look of amusement, equipped with two raised eyebrows and a smirk that undoubtedly made Chloe’s heart flicker—that is, when she finally flicked her gaze from his lower body, back to his face.
“Apple pie. Do you have any apple pie?”
Awesome recovery, Chloe. Because everyone pounds on a stranger’s door in search of apple pie.If only there were a mute button for that mean-girl-style voice-over conscience.
“So…you hammered on my door looking for apple pie?”
Chloe’s awestruck eyes traveled back to Naked Chest Man’s face, meeting his dark browns head-on. “So…you make it a point to answer the door in nothing but a towel?”
“Only when I’m in the middle of taking a shower and someone practically bangs my door down. I actually believed it was a matter of life or death.” Arms folded, head cocked to the side, he glanced at the papers Chloe had clutched to her chest. Little did he know, she held on to that manuscript to keep her hands from reaching out and touching his chest as she silently chantedlook, don’t touch. “Wait.Isit an emergency? Some sort of an author thing? You need apple pie to write, Miss Davenport?”
Did he just say my name? And wait…he knows I write?
