She jumped out of the truck, literally, like a burst of color against the backdrop of the white snow-covered trees. Dressed in an orange fuzzy coat and matching orange beanie, paired with the most ridiculous bright yellow snow boots with white daisys painted on them, she almost seemed like a technicolor fever dream come to life. One look in her direction, and the lines over my brow deepened and my knees almost buckled beneath me.
She was stunning.
No. That wasn’t right.
Stunning wasn’t enough. Captivating. Gorgeous. Beautiful.
A dark-haired fairy come to life.
Tiny with delicate features, wide dark eyes, and curves that would make any man fall to his knees. I’d been half-tempted to stick my fist into my mouth and bite down because fuck. Even though she was wearing bulky, outrageously colorful clothes to keep her warm, there was no denying the curves that lay beneath. Curves that had my hands ache to touch and trace.
Fucking memorize.
There was an undeniable pull I felt immediately was frightening enough but then it happened. She turned and her bright eyes met mine from across the street, and her face transformed. I watched as surprise washed over her delicate features. She hadn’t expected anyone outside. Captivated, I watched the surprise melt away only leaving a smile on her face.
Jesus. Just remembering about that moment had me rubbing the spot over my heart. I’d thought she was a sight to behold before, but it was a whole other thing to see the curvy beauty smile right at you.
She waved and walked over, and something came over me. She didn’t know me from Adam, and it was obvious she was alone. Where was her common sense? I could be a damn serial killer. One of the ones my sister, Eden, loved to listen on podcasts. An overwhelming overprotectiveness washed through me with every step she took toward me. One I had never felt, or at least not as strong as I felt it right then and there. She came over with a sparkling smile and intoxicating warm eyes and introduced herself.
Camila Mendes from the California desert. Her uncle had left her the old cabin in his will, and she was looking for a change. She could have said a lot more, but it was like I couldn’t seem to focus as my body came to life as she stood in front of me.
The woman’s voice was like a melody that unlocked my heart with every syllable. She kept talking despite the fact I kept my grumpy mouth shut the entire time. Then she asked my name, and I grunted it out, turned, and walked away. I could have sworn she laughed, the sound like damn glitter. That is, if glitter had a sound.
“Nice meeting you, Reed!” she called out the moment I reached my front door.
I’d turned, and to my surprise, she had still been standing on my front lawn, exactly where I had left her. I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say, when she winked. One side of her lips pulled a little higher than the other, and a fucking dimple popped up. Before I could recover from the adorable discovery long enough to say something, she turned and walked back to her moving truck and pulled the back open. I forced myself to go inside.
But not ten minutes later, I was back out, gently moving her aside. Grunting I had the boxes if she could tell me where to put them.
Without another word, I did her bidding.
Unloading box after box, of who knows what, and her furniture. Which, of course, I had to set up and build her bed because I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if I knew she was left to her own devices.
Camila was chatty. Friendly, despite my grumpy demeanor. For some reason, she didn’t seem to mind it. Once everything was out of her moving truck and her bedroom was set up, and couches placed where she wanted them, she offered to take me to dinner as a thank you, but I declined. Stomping my way back home. I’d hated the disappointment in her eyes. But as I shut the door, I reminded myself that I wasn’t that man.
I paced all night that first day.
Back and forth, shocked as hell I hadn’t worn out a path over the hardwood floors ofmy home. All the while I tried to find a reason to go back there. Then, at the strike of ten, her music started to play. Then ten minutes later, her singing began. I gritted my teeth trying to bite back the smile that threatened to appear at just how terrible she sounded.
That was a month ago.
I might or might not have learned her schedule so that I could go outside to grab my mail or shovel the snow at the same time she came out for one reason or another. Gently moving her aside, grabbing her puny little shovel and using mine to clear out her driveway while she went on and on about with whatever she was up to that day.
Every day.
For the last month.
There hasn’t been one since she moved in that I haven’t seen her.
Again, not like me, at all.
Then, nightly, at exactly ten in the evening, I would wander to my own open window and listen to her music. It was never the same artist or hell, even genre. The woman had a very diverse interest in music. Sometimes, it was country or nineties throwbacks, girlie pop or Spanish music with a fun beat. And my stupid ass would search the music on my phone and play it the next day in my workshop.
Something was definitely wrong with me. I was sick in the head because I couldn’t stop. Doing that, had oddly made me feel closer to her.
Me!
The recluse.
