I can’t help but chuckle at his candor, something I’ve grown to appreciate. We met at a heart-health awareness gala, one ofthose events Jenna The Ex swore would be good for networking. I figured I’d park myself at the open bar all night, but then I met Mont. Since then, he’s become more than a business partner. He’s a mentor. A father figure. Maybe the closest thing I’ve had to a second family in years.
“Give it a rest already.” I lean on the deck railing with a chuckle and take a swig of beer as seagulls cut across the violet sky. “Getting involved with a woman is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”
After what my ex did, I’m done. I gave her years of loyalty, unconditional love, and support—but she still cheated. So, no, I’m not in a rush to even hook up. Too easy for a casual night to crack something open. And I’m not risking handing over my heart again. Especially not when I know exactly how bad it hurts when someone drops it, leaving it battered and bleeding. I don’t need another heartbreak. I just need a quiet summer to forget.
“On the contrary, that’s exactly what you need to shove this all behind you.” He pauses. “Hey, what happened to that skinny-dipping hottie who ran into you the other night? The one you said had perfect tits and a perfect ass?”
Cami.
“Nah. She nearly bit my head off at the coffee shop earlier today, mouthing off somewildexcuse for her naked sprint.” I roll my eyes. “Can you believe she accused me of slamming into her when she’s the one who bulldozed me?” I finish the last swig of beer, wishing I’d grabbed two bottles from the fridge. “Besides, she’s too quirky. Too animated. And way too young.”
Everything I shouldn’t want but can’t stop thinking about.
“Oh yeah? How young?”
“Not sure.” I shrug. “Mid-twenties? Probably some college student Millie’s hired.”
“And who’s Millie?”
“Sweet older lady next door. Travels frequently and hires a house sitter while she’s gone.”
“Well”—he clears his throat—“the best way to get over an ex-wife who cheated on you with a twenty-something low-life prick is for you to hook up with a twenty-something hot-as-fuck house sitter.”
I scoff. “You do realize I’m pushing forty, not some frat boy chasing shots and sloppy hookups, right?”
“C’mon, you’re barelythirty-five. Besides, I had just celebrated my fortieth when Frankie’s mom walked into my life. We fell head over heels despite our age gap, and the fact that I was her boss.” He pauses as if marinating in thoughts of the woman and kid he circles back to often. “She’ll forever be—they’ll forever be—the best that’s ever happened to me.”
“Well, I thought Jenna was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and we all know she managed to make our marriage look like a full-blown shit show.”
Mont blows out what sounds like a frustrated breath. “You know I love you like a son. So, here’s my advice: Save your overthinking shit for when you’re tearing apart that boutique fitness chain. Step out of your comfort zone, and do what you gotta do to get over your ex while away. Have a one-night stand with someone you meet at a bar, in a grocery checkout line, or better yet, with that bombshell next door. Think of it as therapy.Sextherapy. A common cure for get-over-a-bitch-itis. Trust me, it’ll do wonders.”
He’s not wrong.
While most guys would’ve buried themselves in a new woman after their spouse cheated, I’ve buried myself in work, unwilling to risk my heart again. Jenna and I’d been together for over eleven years, counting our first year of dating. She’s the only woman I’ve slept with since college. The only woman I had ever craved. Our marriage seemed unbreakable. Strong.Everlasting. No sign she’d fall astray. Seeing her get fucked by another man—a much younger man—nearly sent me six feet under.
Before our call ends, Mont challenges me to bang the next hot piece of ass I come across, even if she happens to be Ms. Perfect Ass and Tits next door.
If it keeps Mont off my back, and keeps me from thinking about how damn lonely this house is going to feel over the next three months, fuck it.
“Okay. Challenge accepted.”
My new late-night pastime before settling in is a jog along the beach—secluded, accessible only to a couple of oceanfront properties: mine and Millie’s place next door.
Back in Manhattan, a quick two miles on the treadmill sufficed. But Manhattan doesn’t have crisp sea air, waves crashing against the shore, or the head-clearing vibe I need after crunching numbers and eating cold takeout.
I grab my phone, lace up my running shoes, and head down toward Crystal Cove Beach, its waves lapping at the shore.
And just as I’m about to slip in my earbuds, a woman screeches, “No freaking way I’m staying here for three whole months! Not with attic gremlins!”
My curiosity snaps to the house next door, and my dark-haired, blue-eyed smoke-show neighbor.
Her short, satin robe clings.
Her hair is wild.
And she’s bolting straight toward me like déjà-fucking-vu.
Instantly, Mont’s challenge flashes in my head.
