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“Right.” I clear my throat, struggling to push aside thoughts of Shane Beckett rolling out of bed. Naked. Because I have a vivid idea of what that might look like. I orgasmed to that mental image the other night before I could fall asleep.
His dimples appear with a curious smile, as if he can read my mind. “Lead the way, I guess?”
I toss the last of the towels to the grass to deal with later and let him trail me through the side door off the kitchen, sensing his eyes on my back the entire way. I wish I’d had the foresight to change out of my pajamas before I went traipsing around my backyard.
Then again, my ass does look incredible in these cotton shorts.
Justine’s suggestion to play cat and mouse with him rings in my ear, but even the idea of it has my stomach jumping with nerves. Where do you begin with a guy like Shane? I’d likely embarrass myself. At least I wouldn’t make the mistake of falling in love with him. Once was enough.
But what would it be like, after all these years? To feel those lips and hands on me again, to show him all that I’ve learned, that I’m not the same girl I used to be …
Fuck him and then pretend he doesn’t matter.
Except he’s my freaking neighbor. I’d have to deal with running into him every time I step out of my house. And, with my luck, that would end up being every goddamn morning for the rest of my life, until one of us moves. Or dies.
I reach for the door handle but somehow Shane comes from behind to grab it before I have a chance, pulling the door open for me. Yup, and he was always a gentleman too. Another part of his deceptive charm. Another reason I was utterly in shock by the way he broke me.
I step into my kitchen. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I have today off.” A pause. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I start when the school year starts.” I hesitate, not sure how much I want Shane to know about me. “I’m going to be teaching at Polson Falls Elementary. Sixth grade.” It’s one of the few in the area that go from kindergarten to eighth grade.
“Sixth grade.” His brow furrows. “That should be interesting.”
“Yeah. Hopefully they won’t be too hormonal yet.”
He nods slowly. “You really did everything you set out to do, didn’t you?”
Except get over you, apparently. I bite my tongue before that slips out. I point to the sink. “I shut off the valve.”
Shane edges around me in my cramped kitchen, his chest brushing against my shoulder on his way past—stealing a breath—and crouches in front of the open cupboard. “You got a flashlight?” he asks, squinting.
“Yeah, I think so. Hold on.” I weave around the last of the boxes to get to the living room and rifle through my toolbox—a practical and sweet housewarming gift from Joe.
“Did you do a home inspection first?” Shane calls out. A metal clank sounds.
“No.” What was an inspector going to tell me that I didn’t already know? Besides the fact that a kitchen pipe would explode within forty-eight hours of me living here. The truth is, I’m pretty sure I would have bought the house no matter what an inspection report revealed. The toilets flush, the fridge keeps things cold, and both the furnace and roof were replaced within the last five years. I figured any other problems, I could deal with as they came up.
“It was between me and a couple, and they wanted the inspection as a condition. I didn’t. That’s why I won.” Plus, I made sure the agent relayed my personal history with this little house. I wasn’t just anyone, looking to buy a cheap property near the school that I could then demolish to build a bigger, newer house. I wanted to preserve this place.
“I’m not sure ‘won’ is the right word,” Shane mutters under his breath.
Flashlight retrieved, I head back into the kitchen to find him flicking the cupboard handle, now dangling loosely. “That wasn’t broken a minute ago,” I say with an accusing tone.
“It just needs a new screw.” He peers over his shoulder at me and his gaze drops to my chest again—I really need to go change—before drifting farther down, taking in the full length of my bare legs. The look sends a small, unwanted thrill through my body.
“Here.” I thrust the flashlight into his hand and then make a point of stepping away and folding my arms over my chest. Shane Beckett, freshly out of bed, on his knees ogling me is a sight I don’t want to enjoy.
Resting a sculpted forearm on the counter above him, he leans forward, shining a beam of light into the dark, cramped space as he inspects the maze of pipes. “Damn, this is all original,” he muses. “It all needs to be replaced.”
