Page 9 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

I sip the wine, grimace because it’s damn good, and say, “So have you picked one yet?”

“Hold that thought,” he says, and makes his way through the throng of women. As he’s a full head taller than anyone else there—except the one who’s animatedly gesturing at her bright orange and pink purse and talking to someone else over by the fridge—I watch him stride toward the deck. Intrigued despite my better judgement, I follow.

“What are you doing?” I demand when I step outside and find him standing in front of a grill. There’s a tray of what looks like bacon-wrapped, stuffed jalapeños sitting next to the grates, while he focuses on pulling some sort of savory-looking tarts off the flames.

“The ad didn’t mention he was a chef, too,” the woman standing beside me says. “Probably a good thing. Guys who cook are sexy. There would’ve been twice as many of us here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Which part?” Paynter asks. He hands a tray of steaming tarts to a woman wearing a black dress with giant cabbage-like flowers everywhere and asks her to take it inside and place it on the counter so his guests can help themselves.

“You cook?” This doesn’t mesh with the image of him I’ve created in my head.

“Gotta eat,” he responds.

Well, certainly. But that is easily accomplished without cooking. I do it every day. There’s this excellent gourmet market on my way home from work that makes fully prepared meals for the busy executive. On Fridays, they make enough to get me through the weekend.

“Who has this sort of stuff just lying around?” I watch as he flips the stuffed jalapeños. My mouth is watering, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t entirely due to the play of muscle that moves across his shoulders while he tends to the task. I take a slug of wine, but all that does is remind me that he now knows it’s my favorite, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

“Someone who cooks,” he says. “So are you auditioning, too? I heard I’m supposed to be on the hunt for a bride. Do you iron? Apparently, I need help in that arena.”

“No way. And you do. You dress like a homeless person. And why are you taking this so damn well?”

I hate his laugh, mostly because I like it and I don’t want to like anything about him. Not his glasses or his eyes or his scruffy face. Not the wrinkled T-shirt and faded, snug jeans, and certainly not those hands with long, sturdy fingers that handle whipping up food for thirty people as if he does it all the damn time. Does he own a catering company? Is that what he does for a living?

“I’m flattered you’ve been checking me out. If it helps, I’ve been checking you out, too. That skirt is hot, but I prefer the more laid-back look from the other day.”

“I am most certainly not checking you out.” I wince at the high pitch of my voice and then again when he laughs. “And what are you talking about? I’m not laid-back.”

A fat raindrop smacks my nose and I glance at the sky. Paynter’s deck is wide open with no cover, other than the small overhang under which his grill is situated. The girls who have been standing around making small talk all hurry toward the house.

Paynter slides a pile of steaming jalapeño poppers onto a plate and hands it to a passing woman wearing a lime green tube dress with no panty lines. Ignoring the rain that is increasing by the minute, he adds more food to the grill. I watch the finished jalapeños disappear from my sight, their lingering scent making me contemplate following. Especially since Paynter and I are now momentarily alone on the deck.

“That doesn’t seem to be the case, generally, but before you noticed me and Garrett watching you, you were. Speaking of, something about that day’s been bugging me.” He turns away from the grill to give me his undivided attention. “I couldn’t help but notice the lack of undergarments.” His gaze deliberately drops to my hips.

Impatiently, I brush a few droplets of water off my face. “My undergarments are none of your concern.” I pull my indignation around me like a cloak. It’s easy when we start talking about my underwear. Does he now think I don’t wear panties?

“What about you?” I try to deflect. “Are you a boxers guy or a brief guy? Or do you go commando?” Never let it be said that Chloe Green is afraid to take on tough topics of conversation. Even the dumb ones she shouldn’t.

“Wanna find out?” he asks, moving toward me, invading my personal space. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, and I’m letting him, which is irritating as hell.

The droplets of rain have turned into a steady shower. Paynter’s glasses are splattered with water and his dark, slightly-too-long locks are plastered to his forehead. His shirt is outlining wide, strong shoulders and a series of sharply defined muscles on his torso.

My hair, I know without looking in a mirror, is ruined and my makeup is probably running down my face. Glancing down, I notice my wet silk shirt is quickly displaying the bra I’m wearing under a sheer white camisole. I guess now he knows I at least wear bras.

I should hurry inside, through the house and out the front door, escape to my own home. Except I can’t seem to make my legs work the way they should. Stumbling backward, my butt hits the warm stones that make up the facade of his house. He presses his hands to the wall on either side of my shoulders, caging me in but still giving me plenty of space to slip under his arm and run away.

I don’t do it, and I don’t know why. It cannot be because I find him ridiculously sexy, with water streaming down his face, dripping from his chin, soaking into his shirt. I stare at his bulging muscles. Maybe he owns a line of gym equipment, maybe he tests it all in his basement every day. How else could he be so beautifully defined?

Glancing down, I’m a bit disappointed that wet jeans are not quite so revealing. When I look up again, he’s shoving his glasses onto his head and smirking. He caught me checking him out. Again. Crap.

“I don’t—”

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Chloe. I admit, I’m impressed. Maybe even a little turned on.”

Did he just say he was turned on? By me? I have to kick up my defensive mode, remind this guy that he isn’t my type. At this point in my life, no one is my type. I don’t have time to ogle sexy neighbors. I have a partnership to achieve, a career to get back on track.

“You’re just a sleaze looking to get laid.”

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