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I walk back to my golf cart parked at the curb, happy that I seemed to have made two more friends. Tess seems cool. Bodhi’s a little odd, but I’m sure he’s harmless.
“Come on, not my favorite hat!” I hear Bodhi shout as soon as I start up my golf cart.
Looking up, I see him following Tess outside as she marches over to the middle of the front yard. She clicks a lighter in her hand a few times before a flame flickers out of it, then she lights the hat in her hand on fire and tosses it down to the grass to watch it burn.
“Huh. So I guess this reallyisjust what happens on Wednesdays,” I muse, pulling away from the curb.
Less than aminute later, I’m pulling up to the front of 423 Paradise Lane. Turning off my golf cart and climbing out of it, I’m unable to hide my smile when I see a cottage that fits Ryan much better.
It’s Tiffany-blue with white trim, the lawn is perfectly manicured, and there isn’t a scorch mark in sight on the lush green grass. The landscaping is filled with yellow and blue flowers, and hanging baskets overflowing with even more colorful flowers hang down from the ceiling of the large front porch. The glow of a strand of Edison lights hanging along the outer roof of the porch highlights the beautiful home this evening. And as I make my way up the stairs of the porch, I see there’s anactualwelcome mat on the floor that saysWelcome Friendson it. There’s even a seating area off to one side, with white wicker chairs with blue-and-white cushions on them. A table in front of the chairs, with a potted plant in the center filled with the same blue and yellow flowers that are out in the yard, makes this house much more inviting than the last one.
Lifting my hand and knocking, I take another look around while I wait. The street is dim and quiet. Antique street lamps along the sidewalk light the way for a couple out walking their dog, while two kids go flying by on bikes. I can just barely hear the sound of the waves crashing to the shore from the beach on the other side of the house. Of course Ryan’s home has an ocean view. My most favorite thing in the world and it’s being dangled right in front of me, trying to entice me into living here.
When no one comes to the door after a minute or two, I try knocking again, louder this time. And for the second time tonight, I’m greeted by a man not wearing a shirt when the door is quickly flung open while I’m still rapping my fist against it.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my fist still suspended in midair, my eyes dropping right down to the well-defined abs with beads of water dripping down over them right in front of me in the open doorway. They’re even more impressive than Bodhi’s, since the man standing in front of me easily has thirty extra pounds of cut, wet muscle on him.
My head cocks to the side as my hand slowly drops, fully appreciating the beauty of the V-shaped indent by his hips and lower abs, since he’s wearing just a pair of black basketball shorts hanging low on his hips. Everything around me suddenly slows down, and I feel like I’m in the middle of an Axe Body Spray commercial. Where I’m standing in front of a hot guy who just got out of the shower, sexily pulling his shirt on in slow motion, with porn music playing in my ears as he confidently puts on a backward strip tease.
“Hi! Sorry! My head’s stuck!”
I look away guiltily from ogling all those muscles when I hear Ryan’s muffled voice. The slow-motion, sexy bubble immediately bursts when I find him struggling to pull his shirt on while he opened the door.
“Stupid wet skin and dry cotton…,” Ryan’s muffled voice comes through the material of the shirt again.
I can’t help but laugh as his body twists from side to side with his arms flailing above his head, tangled in the bunched-up T-shirt covering his face and shoulders as he struggles. A few seconds later, his head finally pops through the opening, and then he tugs the shirt down the rest of the way over his wet skin with a frustrated grunt. His short, dirty-blonde hair is mussed on top of his head and still looks a little damp from a recent shower. And there are a pair of square, black-rimmed glasses on his face that are currently askew from his battle to pull his shirt down. Pushing the glasses back up on his nose and straightening them, he finally looks at me with a big smile on his face.
He looks like a hot accountant who just got home from the gym, and I want to screw his brains out while he does my taxes.
“You’re here! Sorry it took me a minute to answer the door. Practice went a little late, and I’m running behind.”
Ryan looks so happy to see me that some of my annoyance with him disappears, as well as my irritation that Tristan sent me to the wrong address. The urge to climb Ryan like a jungle gym, however, stays right where it is.
This is not good.
“It’s fine. I almost didn’t make it. Tristan gave me the address of Tess and Bodhi’s house. I even asked Tristan three times if he was sure it was the right address. Tess says hi, by the way. She and Bodhi are a little insane but seem nice.”
Ryan’s smile falls.
“Tristan gave you the wrong address?”
“He also told me, and I quote, ‘He’s like a volleyball coach or something. I don’t know.’ He’s not the most observant man,” I inform him.
Going by the 2021 Virginia State Bowling Tournament T-shirt he’s currently wearing, along with the fact that he was carrying a bowling ball bag at the pizza place and wearing a flashy bowling shirt, and all the bowling trophies I can see right inside the door displayed on an entry table, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say he has something to do with bowling.
“I’ve sent him a Christmas cardevery yearwith a newsletter. How does he not know my address or what I do for a living?”
I feel a little bad that he looks so dejected, but I laugh once again. He’s friends with my brother. He should know damn well how self-centered Tristan is.
“Sorry for laughing. It’s just… you send my brother a Christmas card?”
The image of Tristan kicked back on his couch, happily reading through someone’s newsletter because he actually cared about what was going on in someone else’s life is just too funny to ignore. Ryan’s lucky Tristan probably threw them in the trash every year without even opening them. Knowing my brother, he would have taken a picture and posted it on social media just to make fun of him.
“I know, I know. Tristan’s a jerk.” Ryan sighs. “But I can’t just send all my friends a card and not send him one. It would be rude.”
I just shake my head at him, wondering how in the hell someone likehimever became friends with someone like Tristan.
“Well, come on in, and I’ll show you around the place.”
