With that, he is gone, and I feel bad never having asked his name. He was the least asshole-ish man here tonight, and I wish I could’ve thanked him for not treating me like a piece of meat.
Once again, I’m alone in the kitchen, and I’m half tempted to start cleaning up because standing here twiddling my thumbs is only making me more riled up with each passing minute.
With my back against the island, I watch the clock.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
People flit in and out of the kitchen, passing through, grabbing drinks.
I yawn and check the clock again.
I haven’t even met Zane de la Cruz, and already I’m convinced he’s a giant asshole for throwing a ridiculously obnoxious party on a weeknight, no less, and for keeping me waiting, which I’m positive he’s doing on purpose.
And the stories.
Oh, lord, the stories.
He’s the one getting Aunt Rue so worked up all the time. I have to hear about it every week during our Tuesday night phone chats.
Aunt Rue claims he’s been nothing but trouble since he moved into their little gated community, and as the president of the Laguna Palms Home Owner’s Association, or HOA as she calls it, she gets the pleasure of dealing with him every time he refuses to trim his hedges to the covenant-required height or the time he painted his front door in team colors or the time he answered the door with nothing but a sock on his privates and a smirk on his face when Aunt Rue interrupted his three o’clock three-way.
She says he won’t play by anyone’s rules but his own, and it’s a miracle the Gainesville Cougars haven’t kicked him to the curb already.
No wonder she can’t stand him: he’s made it his personal mission to live a life of hedonistic defiance.
I blow a strand of hair from my eyes and unhook my arms. I can’t stand here doing nothing a minute more. Stacking red Solo cups into other red Solo cups, I dump them into an overflowing trash can at the end of the island. Next, I move to the chips, crumpling up the empty bags and tossing them as well.
Some miscellaneous plates and silverware fill the rest of the island. I stack them neatly and place them in the left side of the kitchen sink before searching the cabinets for a bottle of cleaner for the spills on the counter.
Lastly, I stoop down to the mess on the floor, a clean rag in hand, and sop up the spilled beer and wine covering the dark wood floor courtesy of the crazy exhibitionists.
A man clears his throat. “I was told the maid wasn’t coming until noon.”
I look up, my gaze landing on a bulge the size of Texas hiding behind clinging, sun-faded, olive-green chinos.
A tan hand reaches down, palm open wide.
Swallowing the dry lump in my throat, I place my hand in his and allow him to pull me into a standing position. My lungs gasp for air as I attempt to find my balance as a delicious, woodsy scent invades the space around me.
This man oozes sex appeal. He doesn’t even have to do anything but stand here, looking at me the way he is, and my knees buckle.
No one, and I mean no one, has ever done this to me.
I’m quite embarrassed actually, and my cheeks are giving it all away.
My stare lands on a crisp white-shirt that clings enough to show off washboard abs, and then I lift my gaze to the bare flesh of his sun-kissed chest, accentuated by a V-neck only someone looking like this could pull off outside of a fraternity setting.
Clearing my throat and pulling myself together, I lift my shoulders back and rest my hands on my hips. Maybe I should be girding my loins too.
“I’m Zane,” he says, with a curious smirk that showcases a deep dimple in his right cheek. “You wanted me?”
My mind is hurried with thoughts that never find my lips, and I struggle to form a legible sentence in the company of a man who looks like . . . this.
His jaw goes for days, intersecting at the cleft in his chin, and his full lips are pulled up at the corners as his maple-honey eyes are locked on mine. Zane hooks a hand on his hip and rests the other casually on the edge of the kitchen island, his brows lifting as he waits for me to speak.
Forcing my own composure, I take a moment, inhale, and remind myself that sugar goes a hell of a lot further than vinegar.
“You normally stop by other people’s private parties and start cleaning up their kitchen?” He masks a laugh. “Or did you escape from somewhere? Should I be calling the authorities? Is anyone looking for you?”
Screw sugar.
He’s getting a mouthful of vinegar.
My jaw slacks, and I feel my word venom collecting and rising, burning my throat on the way up.
“Relax, gorgeous.” His hand cups my shoulder, engulfing it, really. The man has some big . . . hands. And he called me gorgeous. Though lucky for me, I’m smart enough to know he probably doesn’t mean it, and I sure as hell won’t let that weaken my resolve. “I’m teasing. But really, you don’t need to clean my kitchen. I pay people to do that.”
His messy dark hair is tugged and pulled into a work of art on top of his head, playing off his bronze skin, innately sensual gaze, and white smile. The hint of a tattoo peeks out from beneath his collar, and drawings in black cover his muscled, veiny forearms.
“I just came by to ask you to keep the noise down.” I fold my arms, taking a step back. “I’m next door trying to sleep, and it’s kind of hard with all this noise. Would you mind asking your guests to come inside?”
We both glance outside, where a group of guys are hitting a beach ball over the pool volleyball net with bikini-clad girls on their shoulders. The sound of their laughter carries into the kitchen, floating on a breeze of pumping house music.