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“Do you understand?” His eyes drop down my body, and his eyebrow rises. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”
Chapter 4
I glance down at myself and cringe. What am I wearing? “Well . . . obviously . . .” I search for something to say, some divine intervention that offers an excuse for me. I glance up at his muscular body in only boxer shorts, and I hold my hands up toward his body. Of course he looks photoshopped. “What are you wearing is the question,” I splutter.
He puts his hands on his hips in a silent dare. “Pajamas.”
“Well . . .” I’m tongue tied and can’t find the right words. Why the hell does this guy make me so dumb? “How dare you come over here in the middle of the night and start ordering me around half-naked in your pajamas. That is not how this works, Henley. I do not know who you think you are, but I can assure you that you have no say whatsoever in anything that goes on in this house.”
His demeanor changes, and he steps forward, causing me to take a step back.
His closeness causes my heart to somersault in my chest.
“I came over here to control your mutt.”
“The control of my mutt is none of your concern, Mr. James.”
He steps forward again, his eyes darkening. I instinctively step back until I am cornered against my fridge.
“Your mutt is all of my concern.”
How does he make the word mutt sound hot?
I swallow the lump in my throat as we stare at each other, the air swirling between us.
He picks up a piece of my hair and holds it between his fingers. His breath tickles my skin. “Your pajamas are ridiculous.”
“I like them,” I spit. That’s a lie. I want to die a thousand deaths right now.
Without another word, he turns and leaves through the front door. I stare at the back of it as it closes behind him.
My heart is beating hard in my chest. I glance down at my Minnie Mouse underwear. “Fuck you, Minnie.”
“Oh my fucking god, I cannot believe Blake Grayson lives here,” Chloe whispers as she peers through the curtains. “This street is the mothership of orgasms. The holy grail, even.”
I roll my eyes, unimpressed. “They’re dickheads. All men are giant dickheads.”
“That’s exactly what I’m after, so it’s a win-win,” she replies as she keeps up her spying. “Who put that putting green there, anyway?”
“Ethel’s husband was a greenkeeper. Apparently, he loved golf, so he turned the center of the cul-de-sac into a putting green, put a grill over there with a table and chairs. He died, but everyone else uses the park area he created now.”
“So they all just hang out in the middle of the street? This is seriously brilliant. We can see what they do right from your window. Pole position.”
“Ugh, I really didn’t think this through.”
“Okay, so give me the rundown,” she says as she keeps peeking through the window. “Who’s who?”
I get up and join her. The men are all sitting at the table and chairs, and a few are putting golf balls.
“So there’s Henley putting the golf ball, and obviously Blake Grayson is beside him.”
My eyes linger on the shoulder muscles twitching beneath Henley’s shirt as he putts the ball.
Flipping hell . . .
“Fuck, Blake’s hot,” she murmurs, her eyes glued to them. “I hope he takes his shirt off.”
“Why would he take his shirt off?” I frown.
