Page 2 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

“You must be with that group over there,” the guy standing next to me says, shoving his thumb over his shoulder.

“Because I drink wine?”

“Nope. Because you have a seriously large stick up your ass. I’ve never seen anyone stand so straight in my entire life.”

My jaw drops. Is this some kind of joke? I glance around the bar, to see if one of my brothers is here. It would not surprise me in the least if one of my family members set up this entire charade. It’s been years since we’ve attempted to one-up each other with pranks, but that doesn’t mean I should ever let my guard down.

“Must be why you’re coming to the meeting. Add a little... something different.” What I’m really saying is, he’s a complete loser and those women over there will eat him as an appetizer and then look around for dinner. He doesn’t stand a chance. Which makes me determined to convince him to head over there. Just to watch him bleed.

“You couldn’t handle what I’ve got to offer.”

“That is the worst pickup line ever.”

“It wasn’t a pickup line, lady. You seriously could not handle having me at your Women With Sticks Up Their Asses meeting.”

“Challenge accepted.” I dig a twenty out of my purse and drop it on the bar before snagging my wine and taking a slug. It’s surprisingly not bad. “Let’s go, handsome.”

He grins.

“I’m not flirting with you,” I clarify. I do not find his messy hair and sexy glasses and abrasive personality attractive. I have a vibrator waiting at home that’s without a doubt a far better partner than this guy could ever be.

“If you are, you aren’t very good at it.”

“All right, that’s it.” I grab his arm, wrap my fingers around chunks of solid muscle, and pull him away from the bar.

“That wasn’t a challenge,” he says, like maybe he wants to run back to his own party now. But it’s too late. I’m going to show him. Marcus was pretty-boy handsome as well, and while he wouldn’t be caught dead in flannel, he was an asshole, and in my head, I am getting revenge on him vicariously through this guy.

“What’s your name, anyway?” I ask as I herd him toward the sharks in pencil skirts hovering in the corner.

“Painter.”

“Seriously? Like someone who paints houses?”

“No. It has a Y in it. P-A-Y-N-T-E-R. And what’s your problem with my name? I bet yours is Suzy or Marie. No, it’s probably Elaine. Or Joyce.”

I give him a little push when he doesn’t move and ignore the ripple of muscle I can feel through his shirt. So he’s one of those gym rats, too, huh? The guy keeps losing points and I’ve known him for all of seven minutes.

“I get your implication. Like I’m old or something. Well, my age is none of your damn business and my name is Chloe.” Why did I tell him my name? After my soon-to-be new friends and I humiliate the hell out of him, I’ll never see the guy again. Paynter. God, what were his parents thinking?

“Chloe, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed that. It’s an awfully pretty and soft name...”

I’m not an idiot. I know what he isn’t saying. And he’s right. I am hard. And I don’t care whether he thinks I’m pretty. When I was with Marcus, I dolled myself up to impress him, and all that got me was a front row seat while he accepted the promotion that should have been mine. Screw caring what other people think—especially what guys named Paynter think. If I’m remotely attractive, I have made the effort for me, myself, and I only. Well, and my clients. And my co-workers. And my boss. But not a guy I met in a bar who clearly doesn’t know how to use an iron.

“Now you’re really going to get it.” I’m not sure if he heard me because at about the same time the gathering of Armani and Gucci glide toward us, morbid curiosity carved into every perfectly designed feature on every carefully made up face.

“Hello, I’m Elizabeth.” The first one, a platinum blond wearing a gray and white striped suit and an excellent cleavage-enhancing bra, offers her hand and a toothy smile to my new friend. No, not friend. My victim.

“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” Paynter tosses a smirk my way and then takes a pull from his bottle of beer while scoping out the rest of the crowd. Several more introduce themselves before I can get a handle on the situation.

“I’m Chloe Green.” I speak loudly to be heard over the hard thumping music now blaring from the other party. “And I work in corporate real estate. A partner-in-training. As this is the first time I’m meeting all of you, I thought I’d bring along a gift.” Ignoring the sparks of interest in the faces of my cohorts, I add, “A sample of what we don’t want in our lives.”

“I wouldn’t mind having him in my life. Preferably with my legs wrapped around his hips.”

I’m not sure who made this comment; Elizabeth, I bet, based on the way she’s undressing him with her eyes, but I’m too distracted by his eyes to focus on her at the moment. Behind those dark frame glasses, they’re surrounded by long, thick lashes and they’re blue, but it’s not just any blue. It’s this clear blue, like colored glass. Way too pretty for a guy like him. Yes, I recognize I’m making harsh snap judgments on a guy I’ve only known for a few minutes, but so far, he hasn’t proven me wrong.

And then I pull my head out of the clouds or my ass or wherever it is that I even remotely consider him in a positive light, and I say, “No, that’s not what we want. We are powerful women, and the number one enemy of powerful women is...” I let my sentence trail off, hoping one of my new tribe will run with the thought we’ve all undoubtedly had.

“Bosses who want us to sleep with them in order to get ahead?” someone offers.

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