“Wait.” He frowns, and that brief pause gives me a glimmer of hope. Ben never wants to talk. I hate that I’m so desperate to want a connection with him, but the hope fizzles with his next words. “You’re not going to be checking up on me all the time, are you?”
My gaze hardens. “No worries there, Ben. I’ll never walk into that house.”
And I mean it.
Never.
2
RIDER
My unease growsas I watch Ben Rodriguez, my tight end and new housemate, talk to my neighbor.
Gabby Duran is the last person I want living across the street from me, but I didn’t know she’d be sleeping a few yards away when I signed on to live with the guys last year.
But life is like that, tempting me with things I can’t have, shouldn’t want, and can’t deal with.
Today Gabby’s all dressed up, like she’s ready to star in some dirty librarian fantasy.
It’s a fantasy I’m familiar with.
The first time we met freshman year, she was wearing a t-shirt that said “I’m silently correcting your grammar,” while I was wearing a shirt that had two atoms talking, saying something about losing an electron.
Her eyes lit up as she read my dumb shirt, and I never had the heart to tell her it was something I got from Goodwill because it was cheap, not something I picked out because I was smart.
But yeah. She got under my skin faster than I’m comfortable admitting. She’s smart and focused and kinda fierce. And fuck, those long lashes and hazel eyes have always done something to me.
My former tutor is all grown up now. She was cute as hell three years ago, but she’s filled out in the best ways and is downright mouthwatering now.
Not that I can go there or that she’d let me, given the fire in her eyes when I tried to say hi.
Not gonna lie. That stung.
What did you expect, you dick? You’ve barely spoken to her in the last few years.
Some part of me was hoping that what happened this past May might’ve changed the dynamics for us a bit. Broken the ice in some weird way. I mean, I never wanted the girl to hate me. But I shouldn’t be surprised she gave me the finger earlier today. The last time I saw her, she slammed her front door in my face.
Women—even former flings and hookups—usually love me. Not that Gabby and I ever went there. Not exactly.
I rub my chest, wondering where she’s going and why she’s not taking her car. Unless it didn’t start again.
I’ll admit there’s one advantage to living across the street from her. If she ever has another emergency, I’ll be there for her. She might tell me to go fuck myself, and that’s fine, but it gives me peace of mind to know she’s close if she needs anything.
I wave at my other neighbor, the one who liked me even before I started mowing her lawn. “Can I bring you some barbecue or pizza, Mrs. Goode?”
She nods and smiles even though she probably has no idea what I just said if her hearing aids are off—which is great when our music is too loud because she never complains.
Mrs. Goode pays me for cutting her lawn with Super Saver coupons. I always accept them because I understand letting people have their pride.
Mentally, I prepare for that long-ass nap I’m gonna take this afternoon. After an early workout, moving furniture all afternoon, and mowing Mrs. Goode’s lawn, I’m more than ready to bypass this party.
My best friend Tank marches through the chaos on our front lawn in ridiculously small swim trunks, scuba flippers, and a snorkel mask. “Cannonball contest in ten.”
“Who’s dumb enough to challenge you?” We bump fists.
“I know, right?” He gives me a wide grin. “I think people just want an excuse to see my beautiful Samoan ass glide gracefully through the air.”
I choke on a laugh. Tank, whose real name is Tamatoa Salamasina, is six five, three hundred pounds, and the heart of my O-line. “Don’t get hurt, man. I need you.”
