Boys Next Door. Sommer Marsden
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a plain croissant from the bottom shelf. ‘Sit. I’ll make you a nice chicken salad sandwich. Once you’ve eaten food you can have some sugar.’
I gaped at him, mildly confused but also kind of turned on. I was losing my mind. ‘I, um … I don’t have much money on me I think. I might have to stick with the coffee and a don –’
He waved me off and pointed to a table. ‘Sit. On the house. You’re new, right, not just passing through?’
‘Right.’
‘Welcome to town, then. Lunch is on me.’ He leaned on the counter and grinned at me. The grin made him look both handsome and ethereal. I couldn’t help but stare for a beat or two before taking a step back to have a seat.
‘Well, thanks Mr …’ My ass hit the seat but my eyes never left him. I was getting a feeling. A weird déjà vu feeling.
‘Stephen. Stephen Vogel. This is my family’s joint. And you are …’
‘I’m Farrell McGee, I’ve moved into Lady Bug Lane,’ I whispered.
His eyes lit up and he shook his head, chuckling. ‘213’s missing resident.’
There it was. My toes tingled and my nose went chilly and I sighed. ‘How did you know?’
‘I live across the street. Stone house –’
‘To the right from my perspective,’ I finished.
He grinned again and I felt it in my lower half like a tingle and a flash. ‘Yep. That’s me.’
And here we had the third and final little pig.
* * *
‘Much better than just sugar, right?’ He put a plate with a biscotti and a donut on it in front of me.
The chicken salad had been impeccable, the croissant damn near orgasmic. Paired with some chips and a pickle plus water and coffee, I was ready to bust, but I picked up the biscotti and nibbled it.
‘I feel like the suckling pig at the luau,’ I laughed.
‘Nonsense. You’re darn near too thin.’ Stephen took my plate and I handed him my empty coffee cup. Our fingers touched again. An unmistakable zing that only came with attraction sizzled up my arm. I had to focus hard to keep from shaking myself to throw off the sudden charge of energy.
‘That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day,’ I joked.
‘Eat your sweets.’ He turned from me and I watched him walk away. Fine, fine ass moving with measured ease as he walked behind the counter. His chef whites showed off the tan on his forearms from being outside.
And speaking of those forearms, they made me think dirty things. I was a slut for forearms.
‘Did you make these too?’ I cooed, nibbling more flaky buttery biscotti.
‘I made everything,’ he said.
I heard him put my dishes in a small dishwasher. The place was so small that even at a table I could see past the counter into the small kitchen and to his work space. A metal table and two large ovens dominated the back room. Up front, one large stand-up case, then a wall of baskets to the right of the front door. Floor-to-ceiling bins of fresh bread, bagels, rolls and croissants. The place smelled like heaven – where good, clean eating folks went to die, living out eternity gorging on buttery, decadent baked goods.
‘Chicken salad?’ I countered.
‘Yep.’ He came back in, wiping his hands on a towel. ‘Croissant, yep. Biscotti, yep. Coffee, yep.’ He grinned at me and I felt that free-falling feeling in my middle again.
‘The table?’ I tried to keep a straight face.
‘Yep.’
I blinked. ‘Oh –’
‘Kidding, kidding,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you some leftovers tonight. Judging by the looks of you, you have no food in your house.’
‘The looks of me!’
‘Skinny,’ he said again.
‘Not too skinny,’ I countered.
‘Well, you do have a fine ass,’ he said. But then his cheeks coloured brilliantly, as if he wasn’t usually so forward and it felt foreign to him. Which was both sweet and sexy at the same time.
I blinked again – this man put me off balance, and I liked it. ‘Um … thanks?’
He nodded. ‘No problem.’
‘I do have to go. I have to get to my house and actually get inside it.’ I wiggled my keys at him. ‘Now that I have this, I can.’
Stephen Vogel nodded and said, ‘Let me wrap some donuts up for you. Hold you over till dinner.’
Who was I to argue with complimentary ‘welcome-to-the-neighbourhood-I-like-your-ass’ donuts?
You will not drop these boxes. You will NOT drop these boxes. You are such a dumb ass, why did you take this many boxes to begin wi–
‘Here, let me help you before you kill yourself.’
I jumped from the sudden unexpected male voice and when I jumped my boxes shimmied. Two hands plucked the top two boxes from my stack, leaving me with the bottom box only.
Coop.
‘Wow, thanks. Of course all my dishes are in there, so if I’d have dropped them, I’d have been, well, eating out of measuring cups I guess.’
He smiled, his brown hair falling over his brow again. The wind pushed at my back, urging me into my new home. I hadn’t even been in yet. Part of me was scared I guess. I had simply made a stack of boxes by the door. And there weren’t that many. Coming from a furnished apartment, I had a lot less than the average person.
Which reminded me, at some point I’d have to get a bed. And a sofa. And chairs. I sighed, feeling overwhelmed just thinking about it.
‘That was a pretty big sigh. You getting settled in okay?’
‘I just realised I need furniture,’ I said, laughing at myself. I dropped my box which was full of cookbooks and he placed his two in a pile.
I bent over to catch my breath, grabbing the banister when I became light-headed.
‘Whoa, you okay?’ he steadied me.
‘Besides feeling like an ass? Perfect. Just a little head rush. Ow –’ I shook my hand. ‘And a splinter.’
‘It’s been at least two seasons since this porch has been sanded and all that jazz. Maintenance is key with wood.’ He winked at me, which I found somewhat sexy instead of the normal condescending. ‘May I?’
He put his hand out, open palmed, and nodded to my hand.
Bad idea … three jolts in a day from three little pigs would be bad …
I put my hand in his. There was a jolt. A severe jolt from the way he possessively curled his fingers around my hand and raised my palm closer to his face. ‘Oh, that’s an easy one.’
I hissed and looked away. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit of a pussy.’
Coop made a low noise in his throat when I said pussy and I blushed. And the body part in question started to throb along with my heart. ‘Sorry, I guess I should say I’m a wuss.’
‘Pussy works,’ he said almost offhandedly, not looking at me but eyeing the long thick splinter just under my skin. His voice warm caramel, all campfires and dried leaves. That voice was sinful.
‘Take