“Rude is pounding on someone’s door at two AM and treating them like a fucking teenager, demanding they close up shop so you can get your precious beauty rest.”
“Are we seriously going back to that?” She releases something that sounds like a groan and a growl and a moan, collecting her things all over again. “I’m sorry I didn’t say please or thank you or kiss your ass. I’m sure you’re not used to women having a conversation with you that doesn’t involve lip biting and hair twirling and winking and giggling. I’m probably the only woman on the face of the earth who can stand in front of you and not throw herself your way, and maybe you don’t know how to handle me because of that. I don’t know. . .”
Her rant continues, but I cut her off.
“You’re implying that all the women I talk to are vapid, horny bimbos.” I scratch the side of my head, watching her flit about. “See, now that’s an insult. You’re not even teasing. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”
“Enough.” She ends the conversation with a single palm in the air and a tone in her voice sharp enough to slice through the thick Florida humidity on this balmy afternoon.
Letting her hand fall, our eyes lock and her lips part, as if she’s seconds from saying something. But instead, she slides her feet into conservative black flip-flops and turns to leave.
I kind of feel bad.
Kind of.
She needs to loosen up a bit and not act like a ninety-year-old twenty-something. A little verbal sparring might be good for her. Might get her out of her wound-up little shell a bit.
Glancing around, I notice many of the lounge chairs have begun to fill in, and to my left, the Gossipping Gabbies of Laguna Palms are all tuned to me, lips flat and sunglasses masking disapproving glares.
I give them a nod as I walk past to retrieve my things.
“That’s not the way to a young lady’s heart, Zane,” Ethel French says with a tsk-tsk in her tone.
I stop, addressing Ethel and her crew of gossip aficionados. “Not trying to get to her heart.”
“Sure you’re not.” Her lips dance into a coy grin. “We see the way you look at her.”
I laugh. “You’re making something out of nothing.”
“She’s a beautiful woman. You’re a handsome man.” Ethel shrugs. “We’ve been around long enough to know when a boy is sweet on a girl. It’s elementary really. When a young man is callous to a young lady, it’s really because he likes her. And often times the reverse is true.”
“That’s a cute little theory, but believe me, not the case here.” I give them a tiny salute and continue on my way.
Not the case. At all.
Plus, Rue would have my balls if I so much as thought about going near her niece. She said so herself while brandishing a pair of garden shears as we were chit-chatting over the fence a couple weeks ago. And if there’s anything I’ve learned about Rue since I moved here, it’s that her threats are never empty.
I can fuck with the HOA all I want, but going near her great niece probably wouldn’t be in my best interest.
Then again, when have I ever met a rule that couldn’t be bent in my favor . . . just a little?
Chapter 3
Delilah
“What time is Taylor coming again?” I ask Aunt Rue Friday morning. The woman’s on her fourth cup of coffee already, dusting off china in the cabinet with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex tucked beneath her left arm. “I did the windows yesterday, remember?”
“Oh, sugar, the Windex is for the mirrored backing behind the china.” Her lips are slicked in ruby red, and she scratches her forehead just beneath the white golf visor that rarely leaves her head. It’s almost a part of her now.
“I don’t think she’s going to inspect every square inch of your house, Aunt Rue. It’s not like dusty shelves are going to knock a couple grand off your asking price. We have plenty of time for deep cleaning. I’ll dedicate my entire weekend to it.”
“He.”
“Pardon?”
“Taylor’s a he.”
“Oh. Okay. Anyway, he’s not going to inspect your china cabinet. Trust me. What time will he be here?”
She pulls back the sleeve of her pastel peach tracksuit and glances at her watch. “Any damn minute, that’s when.”
Slipping my arm around her bony shoulders, I rest my palms on her hands to keep her still for a moment. She’s lived in this house in Laguna Palms for over twenty years. This house is her life. But it’s too much for her these days, and she’s opting to downsize to a modest-sized, ground-level luxury condo as to not risk breaking a hip on one of her slick wooden staircases. I shudder at the thought of having to forcibly relocate Rue to an assisted-living facility.
“Everything’s going to work out,” I say. “And you’re going to love that condo in Palm Springs. This house has served you well, but now it’s time to move on.”
“You’ll still visit me every summer, right?”
“Always.”
I pull away just in time to hear the doorbell ring.
“I’ll get it,” I call out, running my palms along my sides and brushing my hair from my shoulders. Yanking on the front door, I step back, preparing to usher in Aunt Rue’s real estate agent.
But instead, I’m looking at a vision of tawny, taut muscles, dark tattoos, and a deliciously wicked half-smirk that could only belong to Zane de la Cruz.