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Not quite that busy, but before I can answer, the front door opens, and Matt walks in looking legit badass in black utility boots, dark-blue tactical pants, and a white LAPD cadet T-shirt with his last name emblazoned across the chest in block letters. Or maybe four years in the USMC accounts for the badassery? Either way, I would not want to pick a fight with officer-in-training Matthew Wright.
Luckily, Matt’s the most even-tempered guy on the planet.
Unfortunately, I was not expecting to contend with him this morning.
When he hauls himself out to his mom’s house in Alta Dena on a Friday, he usually stays the entire weekend and heads straight to the academy Monday morning. Change of plans, obviously. He stops beside me and pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. “What’s up with your car?”
“Sorry. I had a little problem last night. It will be fixed in the next hour.”
He levels an assessing look on me that causes a bead of sweat to run between my shoulder blades. Criminals of L.A. stand no chance. Finally, he says, “Do I want to know?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Okay, then.” He rolls his eyes until they settle on Dylan. “What else is going on?”
“Dylan’s recovering from a three-way with the hot bartender from The Cabana and her cousin from Mississippi.”
“Nice.”
“It did not suck,” Dylan agrees, “although Mississippi did, like a fucking pro.”
“Best of luck to you on the impending sexual harassment lawsuit,” Matt adds, mostly just to screw with Dylan. “Isn’t that the first rule they cover in Management 101? Don’t fish off the company pier.”
Dylan isn’t the least bit concerned. “Lisa gave notice last week—got a recurring role as Sexy Cocktail Waitress #2 in a new series. Last night was her going away party, and she was no longer in my employ by the time I gave her the farewell bonus. Nothing I did compromised my ethics. Now, I can’t speak firsthand for what went down here, but evidence suggests”—he drags a lazy fingertip across the table again—“Becca entertained.”
Matt winces and shoots another irritated look my way. “Is she still here?”
“No. She left for New York this morning,” I offer up quickly, feeling like an asshole for letting things get out of hand last night.
“Can I assume this place will be cleaned up by the end of the day?”
“Merry Maids are on the way,” I say, and make a mental note to call them ASAP.
“All right. Good.” He heads to the stairs. “I’m doing a ride-along this afternoon, so let’s just say I was never here.”
“You were never here,” Dylan calls out in agreement, settles deeper into the couch, and closes his eyes. “Now move your land yacht, V-dawg. My Audi’s on the street.”
Right. I backtrack to my office to call the house cleaners, unsure why I didn’t say anything to Dylan and Matt about our new neighbors. Because I’m embarrassed about the circumstances under which my introductions occurred? That’s probably it, since there’s no reason I should care if Dylan goes over there and tries to convince them a three-way with him would be the perfect sisterly bonding activity or Matt gives them his good-guy smile along with his number and tells them to call him next time our music gets too loud or his idiot housemate stumbles to the end of the drive and can’t find his way home.
Or whatever. I’m not the social chairman of the house. It’s not my responsibility to make sure they know what goes on next door. With the maid service arranged, I place a call to buy a gift for Kendall. The present ends up being a little over-the-top for a simple thank-you, even with an equally sincere “I’m sorry” added on, but her actions last night were more than simple girl-next-door decency. I’m hoping it shows her how grateful I am for everything.
Fingers crossed.
Chapter Three
Kendall
I tossed and turned all night, dreaming about the hot dogs from Mo’s pushcart on the corner of Fifth and East 62nd Street. The Hawaiian dog is my favorite. Honey mustard, Canadian bacon, pineapple, and jalapeno relish. I’ve been known to eat two, which really annoys my best friend, Brit, because she can’t figure out where I put all the food I consume. Hot dogs alone wouldn’t have kept me up, though. I dreamed about Vaughn eating one, too. In nothing but his Calvin Klein briefs. In my defense, it’s all he’s wearing in Times Square. I may have slipped off the crowded sidewalk, twisting my ankle, the first time I laid eyes on the ad. Brit did a full-on face-plant, her four inch heels no match for jumbo sexiness.
I stare at my bedroom ceiling a minute longer, then kick off the bedsheets and use the bathroom. The girl in the mirror staring back has tired eyes. Her hair is a wavy mess. I tie it into a ponytail, brush my teeth, and wash my face with cold water. “Let’s see if he’s still here,” I tell my slightly more presentable reflection.
Nervous tingles invade my body as I head downstairs. Half of me hopes Vaughn is already gone
—it is after ten—but the other half hopes he isn’t. Normally, I don’t think in halves, but Vaughn is…confusing. I don’t know how else to label the knot of anxiety and interest in my stomach. I’m worried that if he has this kind of effect on me when he’s drunk, what is seeing him up close when he’s sober going to do to me?
Doesn’t matter.
I pause midway to the family room to gather my wits and strengthen my walls. I’m an expert at letting people see only what I want them to see. Brit knows all my secrets, but that’s because Miss Psych Major is relentless. When talk of boyfriends came up our first week as roommates at NYU, I managed to give vague answers for only a few days. She wanted to connect with me, and despite being away from home and everyone who knew my story, I found myself letting her in.
