“With all due respect, Aunt Rue, Zane is far from a kid.” I can’t believe I’m defending him. “I’m pretty sure he’s older than me.”
“Age is nothing but a number, Delilah. If I say he’s a child, it’s because he acts like one.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head. “That man takes every rule life’s ever thrown at him and throws it out the window. I’ve never met someone so disrespectful. And arrogant. And the women. So many women, in and out, all hours of the day and night.”
She fans herself, like the room’s suddenly grown too warm.
“I think he’s doing what anyone would do in his position. He’s young and attractive and successful and filthy rich,” I say with a shrug.
“That’s precisely the problem.” She lifts a clenched fist to the air. “He can’t control himself. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, with no regard to anyone else. He’s a damn bull in a china shop.”
“Wrong analogy.”
“Kid in a candy shop.”
“Eh. Closer.” I smirk. Still feels strange defending him, but I’m having a grand old time watching Rue get all flustered when she talks about him. “Aunt Rue, you have the hots for him, don’t you?”
Her expression falls. “Absolutely not, Delilah. I’m a seventy-five-year-old woman. I don’t look at men that way. Not anymore.”
“Oh, come on.” My head tilts to the side.
This woman was a bona fide playgirl in her younger days, complete with a penthouse apartment in L.A. and a bank account the size of Alaska. Men dreamed of dating her. Women wanted to be her. The woman had not one but two little black books and a collection of engagement rings stowed away in a safety deposit box in an undisclosed location. The world was her oyster and she answered to no one.
They’re more alike than they are different, though I’ll hold off on mentioning that to her anytime in the near future.
Aunt Rue’s phone buzzes on the counter, and the screen lights up with a text. I reach for it, handing it off, and her shoulders seem to relax when she reads her message.
“Oh, goodness.” She pulls her visor off and runs a hand through her mussed-up hair. “I completely forgot. I have dinner tonight.”
“With . . . ?”
Turning to me, she purses her lips as the corners inch up. “His name isn’t important right now. I’ve got to jump into the shower. We’re eating at four thirty.”
“His?”
She rolls her eyes, refusing to act excited, but I see it in her wrinkled baby blue eyes. She maybe be seventy-five, but she’s not dead. There’s still plenty of mileage left on that old heart of hers.
“So much for not looking at men, eh?” I tease.
“Oh, you hush.”
“Don’t stay out too late now.” I toss her a wink and relish the fact that her little rage against Zane has come to a halt for the time being.
Defending him felt incredibly unnatural, though I suppose I could cut him a bit of slack on behalf of the beautiful flowers and apology he hand-delivered earlier.
Maybe he’s not a giant asshole. Just a regular-sized one.
I return to my guest suite, passing by the bathroom where my “schoolmarm” swimsuit hangs on a towel rack.
Yanking it off, I toss it in the trash.
I can’t look at it now without thinking of him. He’s everywhere. Under my skin. Invading my thoughts. His smooth-as-velvet voice playing in my head like an earworm. I can’t even look out the window without seeing him.
That man tries my patience something fierce, and I barely know him.
Anyway, Aunt Rue has nothing to worry about. Flowers or not, he’s not weaseling his way into my heart. Or my pants. And I’ll be damned if I let someone like Zane de la Cruz break my heart this summer.
Or ever.
Chapter 4
Zane
The For Sale sign in Rue’s yard is the most obnoxious shade of puke orange I’ve ever seen. A photo of Taylor Forbes grinning, arms folded, is printed across it along with his name in big white letters.
Under a dusky evening sky, two solar-powered spotlights shine bright, illuminating his virtual presence.
Orange Grove Luxury Realty.
His damn name is bigger than anything else on that thing. The asshole walks around like he’s a local celebrity, and every time I see his smug face, it takes all I have to keep myself in check.
What’s worse is thanks to some family favors, he’s become the official real estate agent of the Gainesville Cougars. But I’ll be damned if I ever use his services.
Seems almost every other day his Bentley cruises the streets of Laguna Palms. He comes and goes as he pleases. Helping himself. Making himself right at home. Laying claim. Just last year, the association voted to give him an all-access pass on account of him selling so many houses in this development.
It’s been two days since I dropped off the flowers and apologized to Delilah like some kid who broke a window with his baseball.
I don’t make a habit of apologizing, and I’m not particularly any good at it, but it seemed like the right thing to do after the pool incident.
I give people shit.
That’s what I do.
But it was never my intention to hurt her feelings.
I take a seat in my living room, glancing out the window toward Rue’s driveway. There have been hardly any comings and goings from that direction, at least not that I’ve seen, and I’ve been watching more than I probably should.