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My mouth goes dry, and my heart thunders in my ears when I see a girl's figure move into sight.
I don’t know why I’m so arrested by her, but it’s as if my world has imploded right in front of my eyes. Something about her captivates me, making it impossible to look away from her.
She's breathtakingly gorgeous. And Christ Almighty, all she has on is a white bra and panty set, though it's thinly veiled with a white button-up shirt that she's left to hang open like a robe.
She's thin, but I can see the gentle curves of her body. Light brown hair cascades down her back to her waist. She's turned toward the canvas, so I'm looking at her profile. It keeps me from seeing her eyes, and I'm suddenly desperate to know what color they are.
She picks up a brush and a paint palette and starts to paint.
I watch the gentle sway of her body as she holds the palette in one hand and strokes the canvas with the other. She paints swiftly, her brush frequently mixing the paints squirted on the palette she’s holding in her hand.
Who is she? Somehow, I can't see her being the old man's wife. She looks too young. His daughter, perhaps? But if he has a daughter, how come I never saw her at school? Was she homeschooled? I know I've never seen her before because there's no way I'd forget the vision standing in that window.
I stare at her in fascination. I'm not sure how long I stand there, but by the time her shoulders finally sag in exhaustion, and she lays down her brush and palette, the sun has descended over the ocean.
She finally turns and looks out the window.
And directly into my eyes.
Her eyes are more stunning than I could have imagined. A rich honey-colored caramel. They gaze right into mine, widening for a fraction of a second when she realizes I've been watching her.
Most women would probably pull their shirt tighter around themselves and retreat out of view, but she doesn't.
No, she steps right up to the window and curls her fingers against the glass.
As if she's reaching out to me, trying to touch me.
As if she's as entranced by me as I am her.
It’s a move that would seem forward coming from any other woman, but somehow, with her, it’s just…not. If anything, it makes her seem even more innocent. It’s not that she isn’t sexy because she is, but there’s a sinful innocence about her that grips and claws at a man until all he wants is one taste.
She may be scantily clad and standing in front of her window for me to see, but she doesn’t come across as calculating or flirty.
She’s purity. Innocence personified. A vision.
Her lips are unsmiling, but they're not frowning either. They're full and pink and perfect.
As if she can sense the direction of my thoughts, she licks them and bites down on the bottom one.
My blood roars in my ears as the lower half of my body reacts and my blood heads south.
Holy mother of God, has this girl been next door all this time? Why have I never seen her before?
The questions burn in my mind, and I've halfway decided to go over there and introduce myself, demand to know who she is, when she suddenly turns, and I see her lips moving.
Someone's in the room with her. I keep watching her profile and frown as I see her shrink in on herself, her shoulders curling up.
Anger flares in my chest, hot and heavy. The sudden wave of protectiveness for her should startle me, but it doesn’t. Instead, the need to know who's eliciting that kind of reaction from her consumes me.
I never find out because a moment later, the room goes dark.
I continue to stare up at the turret, wondering if she'll come back to the window to say goodnight.
I shake my head when I realize the direction my thoughts have taken. Say goodnight?
I inhale deeply and run a hand through my hair before I blow it back out, chancing one last look up at the window.
Empty. The way my chest suddenly feels.
I can't fully explain the way my stomach drops at the thought that she's not coming back tonight.
I don't even know her name.
But I decide right then and there that I will soon.
