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Declan snorted. “Right.”
“Come on…” Nate drawled. “Just hit the button. See what happens.”
“I’m not hitting the button.” Invite her to be his friend? The woman already had boundary issues. She was going through his household trash for shit’s sake. Why the fuck would he ask her to be his friend on Facebook? Talk about inviting trouble.
Nate chuckled as he lifted his beer. “Come on. If you’re not going to let me pursue the love of my life, let me live vicariously through you.”
Declan shook his head. “The only thing less likely than Benta Aldrete being your soulmate is me inviting this crazy lunatic to be my Facebook friend. In fact…” He rose. “I’m going to bed.” He closed the laptop, killing the image of Autumn Jones and that ridiculous pig. He stretched back and sighed with satisfaction as the bones in his back popped.
“Come on! It’s not even eleven. You’re like my fucking grandpa. It’s a Friday night. If you aren’t going to invite hot pig girl to be your friend, at least go out with me.”
Declan shook his head and headed down the hall for his bedroom. He glanced into the guest room that Nate once lived in, back when their lives revolved around parties, women and the occasional class. He almost missed having him as a roommate, the constant presence, restless energy, and soundtrack of eighties music and female guests. Almost.
“You’re boring!” Nate called out from the living room, the insult bouncing across the worn wood floors.
He closed the door to his bedroom and rubbed his hands over his face. He needed a shower, something to cleanse away the feeling of being … violated was too strong of a word, but there was still something invasive about knowing that she had been so close. He stepped to the window and adjusted the blinds, looking out on the driveway. His cans were back in place, lined up and lids closed, just as they were every night. Maybe he should start keeping them in the garage.
He scanned the dark road, the streetlights illuminating his neighbor’s mailbox, a kid’s bike lying beside it on the grass. Would she come back and return his trash? Did she do this every week? He eyed the driveway and considered putting a motion-activated light on the spot, maybe one that came with an alarm. That would serve her right, to sneak up to his cans and be assaulted by a whooping alarm and blaring spotlight.
Unfortunately, that would also wake up every person on their block, including that little old lady across the way, who made an excruciatingly painful trek to the mailbox each morning, her crooked body shuffling along the driveway. Twice, he’d offered to help, and both times, she’d glared at him and muttered something under her breath as she continued toward the box.
He closed the blinds and made his way to the bathroom, the sounds of the living room television faint and comforting. As much as he appreciated how peaceful life was without Nicola, there were the moments where the house felt empty.
Turning on the shower, he pulled his shirt over his head, the faint smell of his cologne dragging over his face. He’d gotten dressed up for his date, yet was going to bed with thoughts of a different woman entirely.
Autumn Jones. It felt odd, having her name. Her address. That photo. Despite the pig, she had been pretty. A different beauty than Margaret’s angular features—or Nicola’s surgically enhanced pout. This woman looked happy. Normal—which was terrifying in itself, and only reinforced his belief that Facebook was a false view of everyone’s lives.
Fully undressed, he stepped into the shower and angled the spray toward himself. As his hand settled on his cock, he tried to picture Margaret, her eyes on him, her mouth soft, kissing him. Her hands trailing down his chest. Thoughts of Autumn Jones invaded his mind, pushing the image of Margaret aside. All he could picture was that selfie with the pig, and that was an erection killer.
He let out a groan and released his dick, reaching for the bar of soap and raking it across his chest. Maybe he should get a restraining order. Force this woman out of his life. Maybe he should move. Hell, this house was full of memories of Nicola anyway. It’d be nice to have a fresh start, away from all of them.
Closing his eyes, he put his head under the spray and tried to sort out the mess in his mind.
8
Mr. Oinks fell off the bed, a common occurrence, and one that created a strangled noise somewhere between a squawk and an oink. I leaned over the side of the bed, my hands swinging through the air, and found him, hooking both hands under his belly and hoisting him back onto the bed.
