Page 3 of Three Wickedly Bad Neighbors and a Very Grumpy Girl

And nope. I’m not going to love them.

At this moment, I loathe them because I should be in bed, replenishing myself for a big, big day tomorrow, not breaking up a couple of house crashers.

?Chapter Three

Avery

“There’s Gray Wallace over there,” the supermodel says. I follow her perfectly manicured nail and nearly jump out of my skin as I take in Gray. The man is shirtless and performing some crazy feats with his body, like one-arm push-ups and those planche things where he holds his whole body up parallel to the floor.

For a moment, I forget to breathe—not because his body is razor sleek and pumped with an extraordinary amount of muscle, his skin glossy and exuding prime health, but because he is defying gravity with nothing more than the tips of his fingers while the rest of his body rests midair.

The tips of his fingers.

Oh my gosh. Does he want to break his fingers and his wrists, possibly also his shoulders and his nose if he face-plants, just to show off for the women standing around him and visibly swooning?

He’s now doing a one-arm handstand, and he can just as well one-arm handstand himself right off this private property, with his groupies following. He lowers himself and springs upright onto his bare feet, barely out of breath.

My gaze clashes with his eight-pack abs, then moves further up to his thick, corded neck, flanked on either side by broad shoulders.

By the time I reach his face, I conclude his visage is as ridiculous as his body. A sharp, chiseled jawline, specked with a well-ignored five o’clock shadow, supports full lips that seem to be in a perpetual grin tinged with lazy arrogance.

His dark, tousled hair is in need of a cut, but his eyebrows and the thickness of his eyelashes gleam as silkily as the waves on his head. When he turns his hazel-colored eyes my way and winks at the supermodel next to me, she giggles. I don’t even bother rolling my eyes. She could do so much better.

I tuck two fingers into the collar of my robe, pulled high around my throat. Why is it suddenly hot?

I’m just about to march over to him when the supermodel leans down and shouts in my ear again.

“And also Sullivan Crawford, over there, in the kitchen.”

Okay, so there are two of them. From where I’m standing, through the open sliding doors, I have a clear view into the kitchen, which has been upgraded with modern appliances and glossy white finishes.

And of course, another shirtless guy. Sullivan is as tall as Gray, well over six feet. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re both six-three. A lock of dark hair hangs over his forehead, matching the layer of stubble on his structured jawline. Under the bright fluorescent light, his thick eyelashes are so long they cast shadows on his sculpted cheekbones.

Glimpses of his eight-pack abs dip into his jeans, hung low on his tapered waist. The rest of his abs are concealed by a dish towel draped over one of his insanely broad shoulders. He’s using two fingers to massage the center of a juicy orange, and the women around him are losing their minds. Hmm, why? He’s just making a mess, if you ask me.

Now he’s whipping cream by hand with lightning speed before dipping his finger into the fluffy cloud and slowly sucking the cream off. I have no idea why everyone around him is giggling and sighing when all he did was taste his concoction. By the way his silky brows draw together, he’s decided the cream needs a sprinkling of sugar.

He performs some crazy knife tricks, and within seconds, he’s finely chopped a tray of strawberries and pecans, turns to flambé something in a pan, and then spins a dessert bowl on the tip of his finger. Okay, then.

Just like with Gray, his gaze lands on mine and the supermodel’s direction, and I catch a glimpse of his midnight blue eyes as he offers her a smile that apparently makes her weak, causing her to balance on me. Gosh, these guys give new meaning to showing off. And no, I’m not impressed.

Also, I don’t know what he’s on about, but I don’t think food should be played with like that. It’s... sinful. I fiddle with my gown again. It’s very hot. No wonder everyone is shirtless or dressed in barely-there garments.

“Thank you. Now please excuse me while I go and take care of these—”

“And also, Porter Robertson,” the supermodel says, catching my arm again before I march away.

“What?”

“Porter, the third ringleader,” she says, smiling and pointing to another man. “They’re a trio. And the hottest guys you’re ever going to see,” she adds.

A trio? There are three of them? Well, no wonder. Everything bad comes in threes, so I shouldn’t be surprised. My gaze falls on Porter Robertson.

But my god, why is it so very, very, very hot in here? I’m too young for this to be a menopausal hot flush.

Number three is currently solving a Rubik's cube with utter speed while blindfolded. My gaze remains fixed on his hands as he deftly spins the cubes. His fingers are long, strong, and anything but pampered and manicured. A valley of strong veins adorns the back of his hands and travels into his forearms, visible from his rolled-up shirt.

At least this one is wearing a shirt, although the buttons aren’t tied, and shocker, his abdomen is filled with four layers of brick-like muscles, so he is barely wearing a shirt. Clearly, they have an aversion to being properly clothed.

---