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It’s so incredibly off-key, like they aren’t even attempting to make it sound decent. It’s the kind of singing you do as a joke at karaoke to get out of having to sing anymore.
There’s no fucking way I can fall asleep withthathappening. A padded cell wouldn’t block that noise out, much less a pillow over my head . . .
Still, I should head up. Put on running shoes, work off the lingering exhaustion and irritation and stop in later. Be civil and ask that they keep it down early in the morning.
Or at least put on a shirt and some pants, seeing as I’m in boxers and holding a metal bat.
Fuck that.
Time to meet the new neighbor.
Hattie has met who I assume is the owner once or twice while she was renovating and moving in, but each time I’ve either been out or with a client.
When I hit the base of the stairs, I make a right until I face the backdoor of the bakery. The center stairwell between our business has one main door leading to the road and a tiny hallway. On either side of the hallway is the backdoor to Coleman Ink, my tattoo shop, and now, Libby’s.
I knock on the door with a paper that has a logo and reads “Employees Only” written under it in a woman’s careful handwriting. I knock once, twice, three times, and I do it loud, pounding on the solid metal door.
But having the same thick back door, I know that if there is any kind of noise in her place, she won’t hear my pounding.
I should just go upstairs. Be a normal human being, take it as a sign that I should talk to her when I’m in better head space.
Unless. . .
I push on the handle. I assume it will be a lost cause because who doesn’t lock their door? Especially if you’re not used to the area. But low and behold, it moves, clicking with a mechanical thunk I feel more than hear, and I push open the door.
Apparently, my new neighbor didn’t lock it.
Who is that level of comfortable with their surroundings to leave a door unlocked? Especially if, from what Hattie told me, it’s a woman who moved in.
Jesus Christ, I hope it’s not some kind of ditzy, dumb woman opening up a store with her rich daddy’s money, no idea how to run a business or keep herself safe.
That thought souring my mind, I push open the door and step in.
And I freeze, still holding the bat in my hand.
Because there is, in fact, a woman standing in front of me, maybe seven or eight feet away, her back to me, facing a stainless steel work bench.
Music is pounding—some kind of pop that my brother’s girlfriend Jordan always blasts when she comes down to visit—and her hips are moving to the beat. She might not have a singing voice, but she has rhythm. Full hips sway, encased in tight black shorts that stop at midthigh.
Thick thighs.
Thighs that beg for a man’s fingers to leave impressions in.
My eyes move up until they hit long blonde hair with a hint of red, pulled back into two braids down her back, and fuck, there are little,innocent bows tied at the bottom.
Goddamn bows,for Christ’s sake.
Her skin is fair and flawless, her arms bare, and a light-pink tank top not quite hitting the top of the high-waisted shorts stops at a small waist. She’s not what you’d call a classic hourglass, with a small waist and narrow rib cage, but the way her hips flare out tells me she’s not skin and bones, like so many women feel the need to be these days. At her lower back, another pink bow is tied, the strings to an apron grazing the bottom of her ass.
On that ass are streaks of flour, like at some point it coated her fingers and she moved her hands along the fabric without realizing.
But it’s theassI’m fixated on.
It’s the ass that has me mesmerized, has me leaning in the doorway like some kind of psychopath waiting for her to turn around and notice before I brutally murder her.
I’ve always been an ass man. It’s a weakness, even. A pair of pretty eyes and a fat ass can get a woman anywhere with me.
It’s as I’m staring at that ass, my mind trailing off to places it absolutely should not be, when the bat falls from my grip.
