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I know perfectly well that no one is obligated to tell me who’s moving in next door, provided they’re not a serial killer, but I need to vent.
The chief grimaces sympathetically. “Sorry. I’m not sure why the authorities didn’t alert you.”
“Did you know I lived here?”
“The real estate agent said a pleasant woman who kept to herself lived next door. It never occurred to me it would be you.” His expression is a little too innocent. His gaze dips down my body, briefly enough not to be disrespectful but long enough for me to feel that warmth from my dream again.
He lifts his eyes to mine again. “Pink is a good color on you, by the way.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about my bikini or the color of my face, which is probably a lovely shade of raspberry by now. Either way, I’m not in the mood to be flattered.
I fold my arms across my chest. “We’re neighbors,” I mutter more to myself than to him.
“You catch on quick,” he deadpans. “This is Jackie, by the way.” He shakes Jackie’s single front paw in my direction.
The little Jack Russell looks at me with eyes the color of chocolate. He really is adorable, and I’d like nothing better than to pet him but I resist the temptation. “Jackie. What a clever name,” I say instead.
“He came with the name,” the Chief says. “If you can think of something better, let me know.” He frowns a little, not mad, just curious. Tucking Jackie under one muscular arm, he stretches his other hand out. “Hey, you’ve got something in your hair,” he murmurs.
He tugs gently on a lock of my hair, and the sensation, the brush of warmth from his arm, and the nearness of his large hand to my face make my knees go a little weak. He pulls his hand back, sniffs his fingers, and makes a face. “I think it’s pancake batter?”
Mom and her mixing spoon. Embarrassment surges, making me angry. “What did you do to your poor dog’s other leg?” I snip.
Annoyance flashes over the Chief’s face, and I feel bad for saying it. Whatever his faults, I don’t think Chief Wainwright dismembers puppies. “He came like that,” he says, his voice stiff.
I smile sweetly at him. “Well, you’re off to a good start if you want to get that calendar off the ground.” I pick up my book and glance at my door. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I left the oven on.”
“Better go check on that.” He smiles. “I’d hate to have to rescue you from a fire.”
“I’d hate that too,” I assure him as I spin around and head inside.
I might not hate it completely, though, and that worries me.
* * *
It’s not that Chief Wainwright is a bad neighbor, exactly.
In the week since he moved in next door, we’ve barely spoken except for a short hello or a casual nod when we pass each other in the driveway. He’s quiet, polite when we see each other, and cleans up after his dog, who is also quiet and polite. He took the trash to the curb on Thursday without us even discussing the issue.
So yeah, as a neighbor, he isn’t bad at all.
It’s just that he’s so freakin’ distracting.
Now it’s Saturday morning, and I’m crouched upstairs next to my bedroom window watching him mow the lawn. It’s not particularly comfortable. I’m kind of squatting with one knee on the floor and the other pressed up against the wall below the window, but I think I’m less visible than I would be if I stood. I lean one elbow on the windowsill for balance and use my other hand to hold the corner of the sheer curtain away just enough for me to be able to peek out at him.
We worked out an agreement that he’d take care of the grass and I’ll take care of the flowerbeds, which suits me fine. Now he’s holding up his end by mowing the grass… and he’s doing a magnificent job of it.
I’ve always gone for intellectual guys. Not necessarily bad looking, but I’m definitely a brains-over-brawn sort of girl. The guys I go for are generally smart and nice and well-behaved… and maybe just a bit boring.
A bit safe.
Not that I think the Chief is dangerous. His job is to save people’s lives. He’s the opposite of dangerous. But maybe he could be dangerous in other ways.
I’ve always told myself that I’d rather date a guy who spends his free time reading than working out. That if I were ever going to get seriously involved, I’d want someone I can have a deeper relationship with, a relationship based on mutual interests and shared values, not just hormones and lust.
But watching the Chief mow the lawn, I’m starting to wonder if I’m shallower than I thought I was.
There’s a lot to be said for hormones and lust.
