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“Mm.” Grandma turned away and headed back down the stairs where I followed her into the kitchen, pausing to toss the towel into the laundry basket in the utility room on the way. “Which mistake? The water balloon or the sex?”
“The sex? What sex? I haven’t had sex with him!”
“Again. Yet.”
“You need a therapist.” I yanked a bottle of water from the fridge and slammed the door shut. “And glasses, because I clearly hate him.”
“No. You’re clearly stuck in the past and hold less than favorable feelin’s toward him because he hurt you.”
“Never mind. You are the therapist. Do I have to pay you for this, Dr. Jen?”
“But you’re also a big sucky baby about it.”
“You just wrote off any bill you could charge me. I’m gonna call Mom and whine to her for an hour.”
“Why? Because I’m right?” Grandma sighed. “The Anderson women never did like being wrong.”
“She’s an Anderson by marriage, you lunatic.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She paused. “You know, I’m not even entirely sure I like your mother.”
Other people would be offended by that. Me? Not so much. “She doesn’t like you either. Neither do I right now.”
“Sticks and stones.” She waved a hand through the air. “Go whine. Being a little bitch won’t solve your problems, Immy.”
I stopped in the doorway and glared at her. “You have got to get off the internet.”
“I like the internet. It has free porn.”
“Grandma!”
“Old ladies like orgasms, too,” she said matter-of-factly.
“And we’re done here.” I threw up a hand in defeat and headed back to the stairs. I did not need to hear any more of that thought train, thank you very much.
Now or ever.
Neither did anyone else.
I really had to set up parental controls for her internet access. She wasn’t smart enough to navigate her way around them. Then again, I wouldn’t have thought she could find a porn website, but here we were.
Having a conversation about it.
Abort fucking mission, Captain.
I closed my bedroom door behind me and went over to my window. Water droplets had beaded on the outside, but I peered between them at Mason’s front yard. I couldn’t even see the front of his house from my vantage point, but I had a clear view of his driveway.
He was cleaning his car using a pressure washer, and the powerful stream of water ripped through the floury mess I’d inflicted on his car. His white vest gave his tanned skin a slightly darker glow, and I found myself momentarily jealous of his ability to catch the sun.
That was nothing new, though.
Where he tanned, I burned. It’d always been that way. The only tan I was capable of getting came from a bottle and brought at least one of its friends with it: streaks, patches, or tangerine.
I sighed, leaning against the window.
Of all the people who could move in next door, why did it have to be Mason Black?
CHAPTER SIX – MASON
Puppy Love
She was watching me.
I didn’t need eyes in the back of my head to feel hers on me.
I was annoyingly connected to Imogen Anderson. It was that cliché as fuck thing that popped up in those godawful romcoms people watched on TV. Eyes meeting across a crowded room kinda bullshit, except this was real.
If I turned around, I knew I’d catch her looking at me.
I fucking hated it. The last thing I needed was her complicating my life with her blue eyes and her memories. Yet here I was, cleaning off my goddamn car because she’d tried to flour bomb it.
She would have succeeded, too, if I hadn’t walked out when I did.
I wished I hadn’t. It was easier to wash flour from a car than it was your hair.
I spoke from experience, obviously.
Of all the places I could move, why was it here? When Francesca had moved her and Maya in with Matt last year, I’d spent six months trying to get a transfer. I’d just never connected this town with Immy, and why would I have?
We hadn’t spoken in years, and it was entirely my fault. Even if I had made the connection, there was no guarantee that she still lived here.
Yet here I was, wiping her goddamn flour from my car, pretending like I didn’t know she was watching me.
I walked around the car to where I knew I was out of sight from what I guessed was her bedroom window. Unless she had water bombs stashed around the house, something I assumed would be dangerous, having met her grandmother.
I took my time cleaning the front of my car. It didn’t need cleaning compared to the rest of it—it was the back that looked bad—but I needed to shake the feeling of her eyes on me.
I wasn’t the one responsible for the spider. I was still pulling my boxers out of a fucking box, for the love of God. When did I have the opportunity to buy a rubber spider?
