Page 40 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHLOE

I suddenly can’t breathe. I gotta get out of here.

Everything Paynter said about me was sweet, eloquent, sexy even—and wrong. The only reason I let him kiss me while we’re standing on his front lawn and I’m wearing my old college sweats is because I forget everything when I’m with him. It doesn’t mean I don’t still care about my image; it means I’ve had a momentary lapse in judgment that I’ll regret as soon as I come down from the high he’s taken me on.

I care about what other people think about me, about my clothing, about my actions. I care what the HOA thinks, although, truthfully, I do hate that we live in a place where he thinks he can’t keep Spot. Okay, sure, the thing eats practically everything and won’t stay off the dining room table, but she’s so endearing. The idea of giving her up hurts my heart, although not as much as the idea of giving up Paynt.

Still.

He’s wrong. I think.

I grab my clothes as I go, pulling on my sweatshirt as I stumble into the living room and see Spot munching on the afghan draped over the back of the couch. Man, she loves that thing. Hopefully, it isn’t valuable, because an entire section is now in the goat’s stomach.

When Paynt wanders into the room without a shirt and with his jeans tugged up over his hips but left unsnapped, I avert my gaze and blurt, “I have to go. I forgot my parents are expecting me for dinner.”

“Okay.”

“I need to stop—pick up something—I told them I’d bring dessert. And there’s no time to make strawgasms. Which I’m not sure I really want to introduce my parents to, anyway.” He isn’t questioning me, doesn’t look like he’s suspicious of the plans I’ve supposedly suddenly remembered, yet I can’t stop talking. “And wine. They like Merlot. Even with steak. But I think Mom’s making lasagna actually.”

Now his brows draw together, and I know it isn’t my excuse so much as my inability to shut up that makes him curious. I give him a quick smack on the lips and then rush for the door. “Football is on tonight, and if I don’t get there early enough, we can’t drag Dad away from the TV to eat dinner with us.”

Then I’m gone, across the front lawn and secured inside the sanctuary of my own home, where I bang my head against the wall for a moment because crap, now I have to go visit my parents.

And damn it, Paynter is wrong.

***

On Sunday, I hide in my house and watch through the bay window in the dining room while Paynt and Garrett build a pen for Spot. They’re digging holes in the yard and pouring cement and everything. Sure seems permanent, given his claim to either find the goat’s original home or give it to his mom. But that’s Paynt, isn’t it? He makes a plan, he sticks with it, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Even the homeowners’ association, which, if Bernadette has her way, will rewrite the rules to make it clear he can’t keep the hapless kid.

I wish I were like that. Just make a decision and barrel ahead, everyone around me be damned. Or maybe I did, with this obsessive need of mine to be the perfect image of the perfect corporate woman, striving to reach the top of the ladder, preferably shattering a few glass ceilings along the way.

My problem is—okay, one of my problems is—that I actually love my job. I like that euphoric feeling when I close a deal; the sense of satisfaction when a client sends a follow up thank-you letter after I’ve convinced them to sign away millions of dollars for a piece of real estate.

And I like wearing pencil skirts and spiked heels. I like the way they make me feel; powerful, confident, and sexy at the same time. Guys have tailored suits, I have Gucci. And Miu Miu. And maybe, someday, Louis Vuitton.

But secretly, I like my pajamas bottoms and ratty old sweatshirt, too. I like not wearing makeup and dragging my hair into a ponytail and then forgetting about it. I like not spending a whole lot of time worrying about what everyone else thinks about me.

Hello, oxymoron.

To make this whole self-revelation bullshit even worse, Paynter actually likes me—that side of me that isn’t putting on a show for everyone else. And he’s making me question who I am, which part of me I really want to be.

Goddamn it, I’m almost there—almost to the top. Again. And once again a man is getting in the way. But this time, it isn’t on purpose. Hell, Paynter doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to me. He has no clue he’s making me question everything about myself, making me wonder if I want to be the person I’ve convinced myself everyone expects me to be. Is it possible to still continue my climb and yet allow my natural self to show?

Do I even remember how to be natural, be myself, around other people?

I do when I’m with Paynter, but I don’t want to put him on that pedestal, to create that expectation. I don’t want to convince myself I can only be me when I’m with him. Hell, I haven’t even accepted the idea of actually being with him yet.

Although it’s more tempting by the minute. I want to go over there right now, to hang out and chat while they dig holes and put up fencing. Maybe even help set up Spot’s new home. And later I want Paynt and I to head to the shower, together. I want to get dirty and clean all at the same time. And then I want to spend the night with him, to wake up in his arms, to brush our teeth while we stand side by side at the double sinks in his bathroom. Or maybe mine. His house is bigger, but truthfully, mine’s warmer, and all my stuff is here. He only has to get up and wander down the hall to his home office, whereas I have to look presentable for my co-workers and clients.

And for myself. Really, just for myself.

A dark-haired little girl darts into view, running on stubby legs, holding what looks like a dog leash, with Spot trotting along next to her. Paynt says something to her and points at the lake, probably a warning to stay away from the water, and I have a sudden vision so real, it steals my breath away.

Paynt. Me. A little girl. And her pet goat. All one, big family. We’re content, and I’m wearing yoga pants, and I’m not standing at the top of that corporate ladder, arms on hips, looking down on everyone else.

And I’m happy.

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