I nod, and he pulls out his phone, flips to a photo and shows it to me. Drew is kneeling on the ground next to a pretty girl in a wheelchair who’s wearing a medal around her neck. The wheelchair is low to the ground and has a third wheel that extends out in front of it. His parents, who don’t look any hippie-er than mine, stand behind it, smiling proudly.

  “This is my favorite photo.” I can hear the pride in his voice. “Annie was born without legs. Totally random birth defect. When she was a teenager, she started wheelchair racing. She took a gold medal at the Paralympics in Rio a couple of years ago.” He leans closer to me as if he’s letting me in on a secret. “If you look closely, you can see my mom’s crying.”

  “Wow, that’s incredible!” My eyes start to fill with tears as they do anytime I get emotional.

  “Whoa, you’re not crying too, are you?” Drew looks faintly alarmed.

  I blink back the tears. “I cry really easily,” I say apologetically. “Even if I get just a little bit emotional.”

  Drew tucks the phone back in his pocket. “Why don’t you tell me about your family.”

  That, at least, won’t make me cry. I know this story too well. “Well … my mother was a human rights lawyer, then she retired from law a few years ago and now she’s sort of a professional philanthropist. She raises a lot of money for good causes, sits on a lot of boards, that kind of thing. My dad owns a construction firm— he builds a lot of hotels, actually—all over the world.”

  “Hey, my family’s soaps are probably in some of your family’s hotels!” Drew points out with a grin.

  “Probably,” I laugh. “I also have an older sister, Brianna, who works for a start-up. She’s the ambitious one. And my younger sister, Annabelle, is the smart one. She’s working on a Ph.D. in physics.”

  He cocks his head at me. “The smart one, the ambitious one—which one are you?”

  “Me? I’m just the pretty one.” It’s supposed to be funny, but I can hear a note of bitterness creep into my voice as I say it.

  He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Your sisters are real hags, then?”

  That makes me laugh. “No, my sisters are beautiful. You met Annabelle.”

  “Yeah, she was cute. And last time I checked, Northwestern wasn’t letting in total airheads, so why don’t you get to be the smart one?”

  I dig the toes of my right foot into the sand. “I’m smart, but I’m not as smart as Annabelle. And I’m definitely not as ambitious as Bree. In fact, compared to the rest of my family, I’m kind of a slacker.”

  He studies me. “You somehow managed to wrangle your way into a top marketing firm. Why do I get the sense you don’t give yourself enough credit?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know … I think they hired me because I looked the part.”

  He laughs. “Do you at least like working there?”

  “Not really,” I confess. “I mean, I like the people, I like the atmosphere … but I don’t love trying to pass things off as more or less than what they really are. It’s … a lot of smoke and mirrors. It wears me out.”

  “What would you be doing if you could do anything else?”

  I gaze out thoughtfully at the ocean again and give a tiny shake of my head. “I don’t know … something where I could make food and talk to people. Open a cafe, maybe.”

  I’ve never mentioned my cafe fantasy to anyone, not even Lindsay. Compared to what my parents and sisters have done with their lives, opening a cafe—not even a pretentious restaurant with top chefs and Michelin star-ratings, just a cozy little corner cafe—seems sort of pathetic. I hold my breath, wondering how Drew will react.

  He grins. “I guess you liked working at that restaurant back in Evanston.”

  I smile back at him, my bitterness at being “the pretty one” forgotten. “You know, I really did! I loved talking to people and talking about the food … Honestly, I think I could have been happy being a waitress for the rest of my life—except that I like to cook, too.”

  “Well, if those mushrooms and those cookies are anything to go by, your cafe will be a great success.”

  A warm glow spreads through my chest. “Thank you, Drew.” I decide to make something for him tomorrow. Maybe a zucchini loaf with nuts, not too sweet. “Your job sounds amazing.”

  He shrugs. “It has its pros and cons. I like being a journalist, I like traveling. I don’t get to see much of my family, though. My parents are getting older, my dad had a stroke last year, so that kind of sucks.”

  “Still, sounds pretty exciting.”

  He chuckles. “Not really. Somehow it manages to be stressful without being exciting. Lots of bad hotels, bad food, lots of waiting around. And then every so often, there’s sniper fire or a bomb goes off. But it’s worth it when I get a good story.”

  It must be nice to have that sense of purpose. We lapse into silence again, staring out at the water.

  “Why didn’t you write your book in Indiana?” I ask. “You could have been nearer your family.”

  He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah … but they have a habit of sucking me into their drama, especially my mother. If I were within a hundred mile radius, she’d be trying to get me to go to work for their company or find me a girlfriend or something.”

  “I’m sure she just wants you to be happy … I guess your job doesn’t really lend itself to having a girlfriend?” I hope it’s not totally obvious that I’m fishing for information.

  He shakes his head. “Not really. Not anything long-term, anyway.” He turns to look me in the eyes, and I wonder if he’s trying to tell me more than he’s saying. “And my last girlfriend was … well, she wasn’t crazy, but we were sort of crazy together.” He chuckles again and watches Princess. “Maybe I’m out here trying to zen out a bit myself.”

  “Mm.” I nod, trying to look wise and understanding but I’m actually parsing his words, trying to decide if I should take them at face value or if he’s trying to let me know he’s available. Or if he’s available but just wants to be friends. Or if he’s available but only for something short-term.

  Overthinking is making my head spin, so I give up. “Well, if Princess or I are a bother, just tell me.”

  “Yeah, likewise.” He turns around. “I’d better be heading back. Nice talking to you, Flirt.” He gives me a friendly wink and begins walking away.

  “Yeah, you too.” I watch him for a moment, then call Princess and clip her leash back on, contemplating Operation Seduce Drew.

  A summer fling with a handsome, friendly neighbor … It sounds so simple on the surface, but underneath it’s fraught with complications.

  Not least being that I have no idea what I’m doing.

  I think about calling Lindsay again for advice then remember that she’s having dinner with Martin’s parents. I’m on my own for now.

  Princess tugs on her leash as we walk through the sand, our shadows stretching out in front of us. Okay, I don’t have to go all in yet. I can just test the waters, feel Drew out a bit more.

  We’ll start simple.

  12

  Drew

  The next day I head out for my morning run not long after sunrise. I’m feeling more at ease with the Carina situation. Sure, she’s ridiculously beautiful, but she’s also low-key and nice, easy to talk to, and she’s a great cook—maybe a little insecure, but on the Pilar scale of drama and histrionics, she’s pretty low key. I don’t know what the deal with Mario or her other men is, but so far, they’re not hanging around, causing trouble.

  In other words, aside from being super-model gorgeous, she’s just a nice, normal person.

  I can handle living next door to a normal person.

  At six a.m., I’m coming back from my run when I see Carina out on her deck.

  She’s wearing an outfit that looks like a dominatrix’s idea of athletic wear: a cocoa-brown sports bra with straps that crisscross intricately over her back in a way that makes me think of Japanese rope bondage, and matching leggings with spaces of bare skin from ankle to hip, broken only by narrow strips of spandex. She’s bent at the waist, her feet far apart, her long, slim body folded over her right leg. She straightens up, and I see that the waistband of her leggings splits into wider straps that wrap around her flat stomach and slender hips, creating a V below her navel, like an arrow pointing directly toward—

  I stumble on the sandy asphalt.

  Carina sees me and waves. “Good morning, neighbor!” she calls out cheerfully.

  “What are you doing up so early?” My voice is gruffer than I mean it to be. Normal person, normal person, I remind myself, but it doesn’t help. My peaceful mornings aren’t what they used to be. The calm that rising early and going for a long run usually induce in me is gone, maybe forever.

  Something else has replaced it, but I don’t want to look too closely at what. On the beach last night I felt like we were falling into our old friendship; casual, easygoing and undemanding. But what I’m feeling right now is neither casual nor undemanding—and it goes way beyond friendly.

  “Yoga,” she replies, lifting her arms over her head and stretching. She bends one knee. Arms still in the air, she gracefully slides her body over to one side. I watch, fascinated. “You inspired me with your getting up early to go running. Normally, I like to sleep in, but this feels so good.” She closes her eyes as she says the last words and breathes out deeply.

  “Uh, good.” I maintain a light in-place jog, half wanting to stay and continue watching her and half wanting to escape to the relative safety of my monastic little house. “Well, have a nice day, then.”

  “Oh, thanks! You’re still okay with looking after Princess?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you! You have a good day too!”

  Without breaking her pose, she gives me that little fingertip-wiggle wave, and I jog the remaining feet to my bungalow and head up the stairs. It takes a phenomenal amount of willpower not to turn my head back to her deck.

  The vision of those long legs and that slim, bare waist are impressed on my brain like afterimages of lightning. I can’t blink them away.

  I make myself a protein shake and find myself sitting in the living room at just the right angle that I can see her out the window, still stretching, only now she’s bent over and I’m looking directly at her ass.

  I should get up and move to the kitchen where I won’t be distracted. Instead, I tell myself I’ll just sit for a moment. I’m tired from the run, after all. I’ll just sit here for a minute or two. She clearly doesn’t mind being watched, after all.

  I sip my protein shake. Maybe I’m there more than a minute. Or two. Carina moves gracefully through a series of poses that show off her long legs, slender waist, and impressive flexibility. Finally, she finishes, rolls up the bright blue mat she’s been standing on, and walks inside. Her silly little dog hops off a beach chair and follows her in.

  The spell is broken. I’m officially the creepy dude who spies on his pretty neighbor.

  I sigh, force myself off the couch and head down the hall for a shower.

  The next couple of weeks slide by, and the sexual tension between me and my neighbor simmers without ever hitting a boil.

  Well, I’m simmering, anyway.

  I can’t quite figure Carina out. Her early morning yoga routine seems deliberately provocative, but when I run into her on the beach in the evenings, she’s mostly just friendly and chatty. Occasionally, she’s mildly flirtatious, but not enough that I can get a clear signal.

  And I don’t know what to make of the food. Every day or two, she shows up on my doorstep with something she’s made: zucchini bread, a platter of miniature quiches, the best flaxseed muffins I’ve ever had, and more.

  I wonder if the food is some kind of Carina-style courtship ritual, but on one of our walks, she tells me she’s been baking muffins for the construction guys who are renovating the empty house. Most of them are Hispanic, and she’s been brushing up on her Spanish with them and now apparently knows them all by name. When I see her hand over a loaf of what looks like zucchini bread to the older couple who are renting the Airbnb house across the street for the weekend, I have to consider that she may just be a compulsive baker.

  I begin running an extra mile every morning to make up for it.

  I stick to my routine with a few significant changes. At sunrise, I go for a run, then sit at my window and watch Carina do yoga on her deck as I drink my protein shake. I pound my way through my five thousand words in the morning, then go over to her place at lunchtime to let Princess out. Oddly, Carina’s relaxed housekeeping is almost as seductive as her yoga routine. There are always fresh flowers in the kitchen and a jumble of colorful objects in the living room—a sweater left on a chair, a new throw cushion on the couch, magazines on the coffee table. I’ve always taken pride in keeping my life streamlined, but now whenever I return to my house after being in hers, it feels stark and empty.

  And although I never set foot in Carina’s bedroom, I always seem to end up following Princess as far as the doorframe, studying the never-made bed and the lingerie she leaves lying around—a silk slip spills out of the dresser, her robe is thrown over the window seat, a tiny pair of lace panties sits on top of a basket of clean, unfolded laundry.

  Finally, on most evenings, I’m drawn to the beach where we watch her dog chase seagulls and run away from the waves, and we talk and almost-flirt.

  I’m still in no way convinced that actually hooking up with her would be a good idea. I’ve had my share of one-night stands, but as beautiful as she is, I’m not sure I want to be a notch on Carina’s lipstick case. As long as we live next to each other, we can’t simply walk away the next day, and while Mario hasn’t been seen or mentioned since the night he stayed over, I don’t like the idea of getting involved with her without knowing the full story there. Still, after months of living like a monk, Carina’s femininity is alluring, and the electricity between us is undeniable.

  And, to be honest, I’m enjoying the comfortable friendship that seems to be developing between us. Liam and I go out and bond over beers every couple of weeks, and my Gentlemen, Inc. work keeps my social skills from completely rusting out, but there’s something nice about having another human close by whom I can wave at and talk to once in a while.

  On a beautiful Friday morning, my phone rings on the railing beside me. I’ve finished my run, and now I’m on the deck, sunglasses on, pretending to be reading while actually watching Carina do her yoga.

  I check the number and smile. It’s two hours later in the Midwest, and Annie’s always been an early riser, like me.

  “Anna Banana.”

  “Best Westley.” On the other end of the line, my sister giggles as we exchange our nicknames from when we were kids. “How’s life in La La Land?”

  “Pretty fine.” I elect not to share my view of Carina with Annie. “When’re you going to come visit?”

  “While you’re on vacation, I’m busier than a no-legged woman in a butt-kicking contest.” Annie is slowly taking over the reins of my parents’ business as she and our mom try to convince Dad to slow down.

  “Well, you would know.” I chuckle. “And I’m not on vacation. I’m writing a book, remember?”

  “Like that’s work,” she snorts.

  I laugh. “What else are you up to?”

  “Oh, this and that. I went to a wedding last weekend where they served bottles of wine that had personalized labels. Got me thinking about doing a consumer line of personalized toiletry items, and now I’m trying to talk Dad into giving it a shot.”

  “Good for you.” I’m incredibly grateful that Annie’s competitive streak has translated so well from racing to running the show at Ameri-menities, thereby saving me the guilt of having no interest whatsoever in the family business. “How’s Dad doing?”

  “He’s doing as well as can be expected. It’s killing him that he can’t hold a golf club.”

  Dad’s stroke was relatively mild, thank God, but he still can’t grip things well with his left hand, and he limps on his left leg.

  I grimace. After his family and his business, golf is Dad’s passion. “I bet.”

  “Physical therapists are optimistic, though. They think he’ll get the use of his hand back, at least for things like playing golf. Honestly, I’m more worried about Mom.”

  Alarm tugs at my chest. “She’s not sick, is she?”

  “God no, healthy as a horse. So healthy that she’s always on my back about something. Really, she just wants to get Dad away from the business so that they can go enjoy their retirement, but she can’t tear him away from the company. It’s making her kinda crazy.”

  A twinge of guilt tugs at me. Although we stay in close contact, I’m rarely home. When Dad had his stroke last year, it took me three days to get back to Indiana from where I was covering the war in Sudan, leaving Annie and our mother to shoulder all the stress.

  Now the burden of worrying about both of them falls mainly on Annie.

  “Who got married?” I ask, mostly to change the subject but also because I’m suddenly curious.

  “What?”

  “This wedding you went to. Anyone I know?”

  “Oh. No … I didn’t know the couple. I went as someone’s date.”

  “Like … on a date?”

  “Yeah, on a date.” Annie’s voice gets that impatient, exasperated tone that tells me that she’s embarrassed. It’s way too good an opportunity to pass up.

  My voice gets sing-songy. “Anna Banana, do you have a boyfriend?”

  An enormous huff can be heard through the phone. “Geez, I’m twenty-freakin’-six years old. I’m allowed to have a boyfriend.”

  “And I’m allowed to tease you about it. Okay, where’d you meet this guy? What does he do for a living? Have you run a background check on him yet?”

  “For crying out loud,” she mutters. “We met online, he’s a dentist, and his name’s David. That’s all the background check you’re getting.”

  “Online? Oh God, he’s probably an ax murderer.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25