Page 28 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

My heart and my body don’t get a say. They don’t get to tell me I can have it all—the guy and the career—because it’s not true. Marcus taught me that.

“Never trust the guy you’re sleeping with, babe,” he told me when I confronted him. “We’re all in it for ourselves. Most guys just want the orgasm, but me, I have bigger aspirations. I have a plan.”

Paynter shouts my name as I rush down the stairs, under that horrible chandelier, and out the front door. I don’t even bother grabbing my shoes before I run across the dew-soaked lawn, escaping to my own house. I lock the front door behind me and then hurry through to the back door to make sure it’s locked, too. I don’t know if Paynter is the type to stroll into someone’s house without knocking, but I don’t want to take the chance.

Fists are beating on the front door. I try to ignore it. I should go upstairs and shower. The sound of the running water will drown out the incessant noise.

“Open the door, Chloe.” Paynter’s voice bleeds through the thick wood as if he’s standing on this side of it. “I’m going to cause a racket, going to make the homeowners’ association come over and start asking questions.”

The man really doesn’t play fair.

Fuming, I stride through the house and jerk open the door. He’s standing on the doorstep in his pajama bottoms, no shirt, and bare feet. The woman from down the street who looks like she stepped off the set of Housewives of New Jersey prances down the sidewalk with her prissy Pomeranian. She waves and then narrows her gaze, staring at Paynter. I grab him and pull him inside and slam the door on her nosiness.

“You couldn’t get dressed before coming over here?” His outfit—or lack thereof—is distracting. His messy hair, the concern in his eyes, those kissable lips—everything about him is distracting. “Go away. Through the back door, if you don’t mind.”

“I mind.” He advances on me, the concern turning stormy. I back up and feel a sense of déjà vu, except this time we are not going to end up bouncing around naked on the couch. No matter how badly I want to.

Because I want my career, my future, more.

“What the hell is your problem? Why’d you run away like my house is on fire?”

“How do you know James?” I counter.

His brow furrows. “James? My brother?”

His brother? That cannot be. I can’t even… “Get out. Go away.”

“What the fuck is your problem? I know the sex didn’t suck. You looked too goddamn happy for that to be the case.”

“God, you’re so crude. Look, thanks for last night. Dinner and … everything else. But it was a mistake.”

“A mistake? You mean I accidentally stuck my dick into your pussy and gave you—how many orgasms was it again?”

Five. No, six. Oh Lord, why am I walking away from this? “My mistake. I shouldn’t have engaged when we were at that bar. I shouldn’t have involved you in corporate Taco Tuesday. I shouldn’t have talked to you when I found out you were my neighbor. And no, I shouldn’t have kissed you. Or responded when you kissed me. I’m not even sure who started it, and it doesn’t matter. All that matters is I have a life plan and you are not part of it.”

It’s like I flipped a switch or something in his brain. His face droops, his shoulders slump, even his hair seems less inclined to stick up every which way. I don’t know what I’ve done, but he is suddenly an entirely different person, and I have an almost impossible urge to reach out to him, to hug him, to comfort him.

“Fucking life plans,” he mutters, and then he shakes his head. “Fine. That’s what you want, I’m out. I’ll leave you the fuck alone, and you stay the hell away from me. I never asked for any of this shit anyway.”

He turns away and heads for the front door, and I swear I hear him say, “I can’t fucking win.” And then he’s gone. Exactly what I want.

So why do I feel so damn empty?

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