“You Rue’s niece?” he asks.
“Great niece. Yes.”
“Ah.” His stare washes over me, head to toe, dripping slow. His shoulders rise and fall as his eyes narrow. “Delilah, right?”
My fingertips reach toward my collarbone, instinctively looking to toy with a necklace that isn’t there.
“How’d you know my name?” I ask.
“Rue told me,” he says, brows lifted, as if the answer should be obvious.
I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh at the kinds of things I can imagine coming from that seventy-five-year-old woman’s filter-free lips.
“But she didn’t tell me why you’re here.” His full lips jut as he slides his hands in his pockets. “Just told me to stay the hell away from you.”
That sounds exactly like Rue.
“She told me no niece of hers would be caught dead associating with a filthy football player,” he adds, though the twinkle in his warm eyes tell me he’s more amused than offended.
“Have to hand it to Rue, she doesn’t mince words.” My strong front is dissolving at warp speed. I need to get back on track. Injecting my voice with as much professionalism as I can muster at this ungodly hour, I add, “Anyway, if you could maybe just steer the party inside, I’d appreciate it.”
He stands, staring with this intense expression on his ridiculously handsome face, making this moment more awkward than it needs to be.
“Ok…ay.” I nod and eye the doorway. Luckily the masses have relocated, and I can see the front door from here. I take a step, and another, eyes fixed on the door knob. I can almost feel the cool metal in my palm.
“Wait.”
I turn to see Zane following me, and I stop to face him when I reach the foyer.
“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I tilt my head, confused.
“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he states with even more conviction than the first time.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too young to be the fucking Fun Police,” he says. “And I’d be doing you a disservice if I immediately obeyed you, because then you might actually start believing you’re the center of the universe.”
I see red for a moment, gulping in air and composing my thoughts. “I do not think I’m the center of the universe, and I certainly don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little bit of human decency. You live in a neighborhood. With neighbors. It’s the middle of the week and people are sleeping. You can’t just turn your backyard into a brothel-slash-club and then get offended when someone politely asks you to take it down a notch.”
Zane offers an incredulous half-smirk and steps closer. The top of my head fits snugly beneath his chin, but I won’t let his size intimidate little old me.
Oh, no, no no.
I can go rounds with this meathead if I have to.
“First of all, this isn’t a brothel. This is a stoplight party,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact.
“Aren’t you a little old to be having a stoplight party?” I ask. “Or are you in some kind of grown man fraternity?”
He ignores me. “Second, a little house music does not constitute a club, and third, you didn’t politely ask me to take it down a notch. You requested that I relocate my entire party, and you pretty much demanded it.”
“That’s your interpretation of things,” I say. I’m well aware that each and every word leaving my mouth is not doing me any favors, but I refuse to stand here and let this Abercrombie athlete make me walk out of here with my tail tucked.
“Was there anything else you needed, Delilah? I have guests to attend to, so . . .”
My fists clench at my sides. He’s lucky I’m not a violent person, because a firm smack across his chiseled chin would feel really good about now.
“I guess we’re finished here,” I say.
It’s glaringly obvious he’s not going to cave to my request, so I suppose my business here is done.
Reaching for the door knob, I jerk the door open, gifting him a squinting glare, and slam it behind me. I didn’t think it was too much to ask for a little common courtesy. A little human decency. And if he thinks I was demanding it, he’s delusional. I was nothing but professional and dignified.
And I was right earlier.
Zane de la Cruz is a giant asshole.
Chapter 2
Zane
Coach Roberts truly believed that if I moved to a gated community in a suburb of Gainesville where the average resident is sixty-seven, it might calm me down. He thought it would break me of my “wild ways.”
Instead, I’ve felt like nothing more than a tiger pacing his cage, anxious to get out, to not be tied down, bossed around, and told what to do.
My neighbors to the north are Clarice and Don Chapman. Retired transplants from Big Sky, Montana. Mid-sixties. Clarice likes to lay out by her pool in modest floral bathing suits, slathered in SPF 50 as she bitches at Don for not clipping the hedges to the Home Owner’s Association’s-approved height. Why they don’t hire it out like the rest of the neighborhood is beyond me. By the time Don finishes, he’s sunburnt and blustery, throwing his shears and waving off Clarice as he heads inside to fetch her an ice-cold lemonade.
If that’s what married life is, then count me the fuck out.
Anyway, when the Chapmans cruise down the street together in their little green golf cart, they smile and wave like we’re pals here, but I’ve heard the things they say about me.