Pretty sure I should go on that run, mind my damn business.
Instead, I stand here, my gaze cemented on her breathtaking beauty. Also known asYou are so fucked.
CHAPTER 3
Cami
High-pitched squeaks echoing from the attic have convinced me Ms. Palmer’s house ispossessed.
At first, I assumed it was water passing through old pipes.
So I settled into the bubble bath I’d drawn, ready to sip peppermint tea and get lost in a novel I’d purchased at Heathrow.
But once those squeaks grew louder and more ominous, I hopped out the bathtub, wrapped myself in a robe, and practically flew downstairs before barging out the front door.
Straight into Neighbor Guy.
Again.Great.
Dark, judgmental eyes rake over me and my…attire. He probably thinks running around naked or half-naked is my go-to hobby.
“Hi.” I twist the damp ends of my hair and tip my chin toward Ms. Palmer’s house. “Something strange is happening in the attic.”
“Something strange…” he deadpans, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Loud squeaks, to be exact.” I remain calm even while my heart gallops—and not so much from those attic noises. Prettysurehe’sthe one kicking my heart into overdrive. “Go inside, and have a listen for yourself.”
“So…let me get this straight.” His brow hikes north. “You want me—the guy you publicly chewed out earlier today—to step into your house and investigate strange, loud squeaks?”
Maybe the request sounds odd, even a little ridiculous, but does he have to be all rude about it?
“Never. Mind.” I glare at Neighbor Guy, shoulder-check past him, and stomp toward the beach, its shore bathed in silvery moonlight.
Sure, he’s super easy on the eyes.
But grumps,and attic noises, are giant red flags that will send me running straight for the hills…or, in this case,downthe hill and straight onto the beach.
Three days in, and what had started out as a house-sitting getaway has already turned into a house-sitting nightmare—thanks to awkward run-ins with Neighbor Guy and now ghosts, or whatever, dancing on the ceiling.
Crystal Cove, the small town for big-hearted families, can officially fuck off.
“Hey!” Mr. Grump calls after me. “Where are you going in only a robe?”
Truthfully, I’ve no flipping clue. There are only two houses on this stretch of beach: Ms. Palmer’s and his. The next waterfront home is at least a mile away.
Despite that, I shrug in reply and traverse ahead, bare feet sinking in the warm sand. It’s not like I can call an Uber to drop me off wherever; my phone’s still inside Ms. Palmer’s stupidpoltergeisthouse. Most likely dead anyway, knowing me.
“Fine,” he drags out seconds later.
And when he finally offers to check out the noise, relief swirls in my belly.
Side by side, we head toward Ms. Palmer’s house, a puff of wind snaking between us.
Neighbor Guy looks even hotter than he did earlier today: jogger shorts and a long-sleeved, nylon workout shirt hugging his frame like paint.
God, he even smells better.
Of course my mind veers straight to how it might feel with him pressed against me, that shirt the only barrier.
