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Son of a bitch.
“Imogen?” Grandma called. “Are you okay?”
“Mason!” I yelled, the rubber spider slapping against my leg as I stormed down his driveway. “I know you did this, you asshole!”
“Imogen!”
I ignored her and marched right up to his front door, banging on it with my fist. After several quick thumps, I resorted to extra loud bangs at a slower pace until the door swung open and a very wet-looking man answered the door.
Mason clutched a towel at his waist and rubbed his hand down his face. “Are we being bombed?”
“What?”
“Is the street being bombed?”
“No.”
“Then why are you hammering at my door like the worst burglar ever?”
I blinked at him. Honestly, it was a little hard to ignore the fact he was tall, tanned, shirtless, and gripping a My Little Pony towel around his waist.
I didn’t know what was more distracting.
“You did this!” I held up the rubber tarantula. “You put this in my mailbox.”
He looked at the offending fake arachnid in my hand and quirked an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You put this in my mailbox! You know I’m terrified of spiders! I about had a heart attack just now, Mason!”
“Immy—”
“Imogen!”
“Imogen,” he continued, smirking. “I didn’t put the spider in your mailbox.”
“You damn well did and you know it,” I snapped, waving it so the legs slapped against his bare chest. “You put one of these in my bag when we were in college—and under my pillow! It’s your trademark move!”
He leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his tanned, muscular chest, apparently no longer bothered about potentially flashing the entire neighborhood. His eyes danced with amusement, and with a tiny shake of his head, he said, “I didn’t do it.”
“That’s what you said when you put a rubber snake in my underwear drawer!” I shoved the spider at his chest and let go. He didn’t bother to grab it, so it splatted onto his doorstep. “I’m not letting this go, Black.”
“I didn’t do it!”
“You can shove your lies!” I stabbed a finger at him and backed up his path. “I’m coming for you. You’ve done it now. It’s on.”
He laughed, shaking his head again. “I haven’t done anything. I’m telling you, it’s all in your head.”
“Is that a rubber spider on your doorstep?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not in my head.” I gave him my best glare as I stepped onto his sidewalk. “Watch your back, Mason. If you thought our prank wars in college were something, you have no idea what I’m capable of now.”
“You burn toast!” Grandma hollered from the front porch, hugging the bottle of Jack Daniels she’d apparently spirited from my car.
“Only when you turn the toaster up!” I yelled back, then paused, briefly turning my attention back to Mason. “I’m not done with you!”
“Now, those are some words I can get behind.” His smirk pulled his cheek right up, showing the shadow of a dimple on his left cheek.
My nostrils flared, but I didn’t have a response for him. Not even I was quick enough to think up something that would be smart enough, so I simply ignored it and turned to my car. I grabbed his beer—or what was his beer—from it and marched up to the house with it.
“C’mon, Grandma. Let’s get drunk.” I shot a pointed look toward Mason, who was still standing in his doorway. He was now grabbing his towel again and was peering over at us.
“Yahoo!” Grandma cheered. “Let’s get drunk and think about how we can remove his ball hair in his sleep!”
“That—” I stopped because my protestation was useless.
She’d already gone inside, hugging her bottle of Jack, wondering out loud how much Nair hair removal cream she’d need for a ballsac.
Yep.
She hadn’t even opened the bottle yet, and I was already regretting not hiding it under the seats.
CHAPTER FIVE – IMMY
Bombs Away
“What on Earth are you doing?”
I looked up from the table where I was using a funnel to get flour into water balloons. “Making flour bombs.”
Hannah flicked her brunette curls over her shoulder. “As you do. What for?”
“My neighbor.”
“What did Alistair do to you?”
I peered at her through my eyelashes, unamused. “Not Alistair. I have nothing against him, except that he’s forty-five and living in his mom’s basement.”
“Oh. You’re talking about Mr. Hottie Daddy.”
“Don’t ever call him that again.”
“He’s hot and he’s a daddy. What’s the issue?”
“How’s your hot neighbor again?”
She groaned, slumping against the counter. She passed me the flour when I motioned for it. “Isaac is great. Takes out my trash if I forget. Waters my plants when I go on vacation. Otherwise, I’m not sure he even knows I exist.”
“You need a hobby that doesn’t include mooning over your hot British neighbor.”
“Says the one filling up water balloons with flour to throw at her own hot neighbor.” She took the flour bomb I handed her and tied it off.
