The lots here are huge, but they’re all landscaped to death. Voices carry. Out windows. Through hedges. Down retaining walls. Over fences.
I know what they think of me – especially that sassy ol’ Rue Rosewood next door. She’s seventy-five, has a hell of a lot of opinions, and she’s not afraid to make sure everyone within a five-mile radius of Laguna Palms knows them.
She’s also the HOA president, a role she takes very seriously.
Too seriously in my opinion.
That woman watches me like a hawk, noting my comings and goings. Dropping by with “friendly” reminders in the form of written warnings taped to my door.
How was I supposed to know that the trash can had to be hidden from street view Tuesday through Sunday? That we could only use white or gray rock in our landscaping? That backing into driveways wasn’t allowed because registration stickers needed to be viewable from the sidewalk? That we had mandatory Christmas light colors that coincided with our house numbers?
I’ll never forget her standing on my doorstep my first December in Laguna Palms. She was sweet, bringing a plate of sugar cookies decorated like snowmen. And then she demanded I take down the twinkling blue lights lining my roof and promptly replace them with red.
And here I was just trying to fit in. To be neighborly. I don’t even fucking like Christmas that much.
But despite the fact that Rue Rosewood has been the biggest fucking pain in the ass since the day we met, I kind of have a soft spot for her. She reminds me of my abuela, Magdalena, the grandmother who raised me since I was nine. We lost her a couple years ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. Or the crazy things that came out of her mouth half the time.
I never take Rue’s insults to heart, because if she’s anything like Magdalena was, they’re all coming from a good place, and somewhere beneath that hardened exterior is a whole lot of harmless fluff.
Rising above the over-chlorinated water of the Laguna Palms community pool, I inhale a lungful of air and dive back down, my arms and legs propelling me toward the end. When I reach the wall, I rise, sliding my hand down my face to clear my vision as I steady my breath.
“Seriously?” A woman’s voice fills my water-filled ears.
I shake my head to try and recover my hearing once more, and my eyes focus on a set of pink-manicured toes resting on a lounge chair in front of me.
“Don’t you have your own pool?” she asks, folding her book and setting it aside.
I move toward the ladder, climbing out. Drenched, I’m caught off guard when she tosses me a towel from the chair beside her.
“My pool is . . . out of commission today.” I opt to leave it at that and not go into detail about the floating globs of orange vomit left by a mystery guest this morning. “I pay my association dues. I’m allowed to swim here.”
I dry off, half-attempting to comb my hair into place and hoping she doesn’t think I’m doing it for her.
I mean, sure, Delilah’s hot.
She’s beyond hot.
She’s like a mermaid and a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had a baby . . . hot. And I’m not even sure she realizes it.
Bee-stung lips. Hourglass curves. Dark, sultry gaze. Long, dark hair that falls in her face.
But after the season I had last year and almost getting kicked off the team for dropping twelve too many F-bombs on live television and discovering my playboy reputation was beginning to overshadow all the hard work I put into my athletic prowess, I made an emergency re-commitment to all things career-oriented.
No girls.
Less booze.
Zero shenanigans.
Coach’s orders – or else I’ll be released from my wildly lucrative contract.
I’d forfeit millions in future earnings.
The party last night was an exception. A couple of players and I decided to throw something together for our buddy, Weston, who’s been down and out since breaking things off with his long-time girlfriend. We gave him strict instructions to show up in head-to-toe green, and the asshole had the nerve to walk into his stoplight party in fucking yellow.
Yellow!
“Fair enough.” Delilah shrugs, retrieving her book and burying her nose between the pages. Lowering it into her lap a moment later, she shields her eyes from the sun and looks my way. “Anyone ever tell you staring is rude?”
“I’m not staring. I was thinking. You just happened to be blocking my line of sight.”
She flicks a page. “Stare in a different direction.”
“What if I don’t want to? What if I want to stare to the north?” God damn it. I have more game than this.
I continue to gape, trying to get a read on the enigma before me. A perfect, shiny bun rests on top of her head. Not so much as a hair out of place. She adjusts her giant sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of her straight-as-an-arrow nose and leans back in the lounger, swiping a Red Vine from a small package to her side and sticking the end in the corner of her mouth.
Oh, how I’d give anything to be that Red Vine right now, nestled between those two pillow-sized lips she has.
And then my gaze drops down to the rest of her.
Her hourglass figure is covered in a modest, black one-piece.
Lame.
“You should really try to cover up a little more.” I toss my towel over my shoulder and pretend to be disgusted.
She tugs her sunglasses off her face, jaw gone slack.
“I mean, really. This is a family establishment and you’re lying around in that?” I point. “I don’t think Myrtle Rickers would appreciate the kind of looks you’re going to draw from Mr. Rickers when they get here in . . .” I glance at the clock hanging on the side of the pool house. “Oh, about fifteen minutes.”