Page 21 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

“So your knowledge of wine?” She slowly gets into the methodical swing of cutting.

“One of my uncles owned a vineyard. We used to spend summers there when I was younger. We worked hard, learned a lot about the process and the different wines.”

“Really?”

“Not what you were expecting, huh?” I dice up some potatoes, drizzle them with olive oil, garlic, thyme. I’m not exactly showing off in the cooking department, though she probably thinks so.

“What do you do now? Is it something to do with cooking? I know you said you weren’t a chef, but…” She points the tip of her knife at the food in front of me.

“No one made it to their teenage years in our house without knowing how to cook at least three meals. Even if one of those meals was toast. But, no I’m definitely not a chef, and I don’t make porn. Though for you, I could probably strip down while I cook.”

“T-that’s not really necessary.” Her fingers are covered in the juice from the strawberries, her skin slightly shiny and pink as her face heats, but it’s her eyes as they rove my chest down to the point where the counter cuts off visibility that tell me she’s imagining me doing just that. “Please don’t.”

Her gaze is almost like a caress, creating that same antsy prickling under my skin as every other time. And I’m fucking hard behind the counter, my dick straining at the fly of my jeans. I’m tempted to discard my shirt and shuck out of my jeans anyway. It’s a completely immature reaction, but then so are all the pranks we’ve played on each other.

“I’m kidding.” I pass her the sugar canister and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. “You’d really have to ask me nicely.”

“I’m not going to.” She gives me a withering look. One designed to make me feel little better than the chopped fruit. Except her voice has that breathless quality I like so much, and she rubs her lips together to wet them as though she’d like nothing more than for me to kiss that look off her face.

I shrug it off, like I don’t have a second thought to give her and her lips and her sky- high fucking legs and the way I first met her panties and that soft sliver of skin where her pulse fluttered under my lips. “Your prerogative. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“What’s the vinegar for?” She picks up the bottle and studies the label a little too closely.

“Slop in about ten spoons of that and five of the sugar.”

“Sounds appetizing.” With her nose scrunched, she starts spooning the measures I told her. “Maybe I can’t ruin it after all. It doesn’t sound like it would be much to start with.”

“Don’t worry, the sugar and acid will balance each other out.” Sort of like it is now, between us. I take a moment to slide the pans into the oven. No, we don’t balance each other out. This is just a temporary truce. Hell, I don’t even know her. She sure as shit doesn’t know me, but she’s here, in my house, asking questions and holding back on her judgments. That’s something, isn’t it?

“I’m a coder.”

“Okay. So you’re a coder. As in computer tech?”

“Yes, I can fix computers, build them from scratch, but no, I write programs, some apps.”

“Apps? Would I know of any of the ones you’ve created?”

“Possibly. I’ve done quite well from a couple of them.” Well enough that I could look after my parents financially so they can enjoy their retirement, and afford this house.

“You’re intelligent then. You have a good career.” She holds up the bowl of strawberries for me to check. “What do I do with these now?”

Shit. Does being intelligent and having a decent career make me a check in some of those boxes I’m sure she has? Do I want her to be ticking me off? Do I want another woman in my life who thinks she can control me? Hell no. No fucking way.

“They go back in the fridge.”

I pour another glass of wine, consider knocking it back. I could practically see it in her eyes while she checked boxes on me. Next thing she’ll be asking if I plan to still be coding in five years’ time. Then exactly how much money I make. I grit my teeth and pour a measure for her too. I don’t want her drunk, don’t want to be drunk. Not when the last time is still a little too clear for my liking.

Coming up beside me, she picks up her glass. I glance at her, waiting for her to ask one of those questions that will encourage her to check off another box. Maybe I should have listened when she said she was one of those women. I mean, I know she is, but she’s different, too. I’m sure of it. Isn’t she?

“Paynt?” She touches my shoulder. It sears me through my shirt. I’ve been waiting since we walked in the front door for her to let her guard down enough to do so, but not if it’s going to come with one of those damn questions that turns a man into an asset or liability. Still, I wait for it. Wait for her to speak, and pray it’s something entirely different from what I’m expecting.

“Could I borrow a sweatshirt?”

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