He shoots me a withering look.
“Or maybe private investigation?” I suggest.
“This is what friends do, Kitty. They point out when they feel like their friend is going off the deep end a little. I went in your kitchen yesterday to grab forks and saw you’d alphabetized your spice collection. I could eat off your kitchen floor; it’s so squeaky clean.”
“You’re more than welcome to give it a try, if that’s what you’re into.” I settle back down, pushing my sunglasses firmly back into place.
“I’m just trying to say, you’re a workaholic.”
“Gee, I had no idea.”
“People like you and me, we can’t handle having nothing to do. And, yes, we tend to burn out very easily. You should start running with me in the mornings. I find it helps me focus and clears my head.”
“That’s why I practice yoga. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the rolled-up mat in the corner while you were so busy with investigating the jigsaw puzzle on the floor. And you’ll notice, I’ve been eating a lot more vegetables and salads lately to make up for going off the deep end when I was on a deadline.”
“Yeah, and look at all the good it’s doing you—your yoga practice and salads. You’re still wound up tighter than … I don’t know what.” He shrugs. “You’re the writer. You have all the words.”
I have more than a few words for him, come to think of it. “You know I don’t like receiving unsolicited advice.”
“Because you always take it as criticism. Sometimes, when people make observations, it’s because they’re genuinely concerned. News flash: people care about you.”
I know he means it. And deep down, in the rational part of my brain, it means a lot to hear it. A writer’s life is a lonely one. We tend to live in our own worlds, worlds we make up from scratch. We don’t go to the office every day; there’s nobody to monitor us.
If anything, Matt is the closest thing to a coworker I’ve ever had. I’ve been lucky enough to make a career of writing ever since college, so I never went through the whole nine-to-five schedule.
He’s the one person I see almost every day. Sure, I visit Grandmother and Peter at least once a week, and Hayley and I see each other whenever she has time.
But that’s it.
I have to take a deep breath and slowly let it out before responding. Crow has never been my favorite thing to eat, but it looks like I have a serving waiting for me. “Thank you,” I manage. “I’m not used to having a lot of people in my life who genuinely care.”
He’s quiet for a minute.
I finally look up at him. “Well? Did I kill you?”
“Just about. You must’ve gotten too much sun if you’re thanking me all of a sudden.”
“Maybe I have, but that’s not the point.” I sit up, looking at him straight on. “Thank you. I’m trying to be a better person. More thoughtful, less argumentative.”
“Oh. Don’t change too much.”
“Are you kidding?” I laugh. “I imagined you would jump up and click your heels.”
“Well, you can keep imagining that, because it will never happen.”
“You know what I mean.”
He offers an actual, genuine smile. “Kitty, if I had such a problem with your argumentative attitude and your complete stubbornness, would I even talk to you anymore? Granted, having lunch or dinner in your apartment gives me a break from mine, but I could go just about anywhere. I like you the way you are. Mostly.”
“You just had to slide that last word in there, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did.” He gives me a smug wink. “I mean, would you expect anything else?”
“Honestly, no. I know better by now.” I roll onto my stomach to get a little sun on my back.
“Want some help?” When I look up at Matt, he’s holding up his hands. “Sunscreen. It’s not summer yet, but the sun will still burn you up. Especially since you’re not, um, the outdoorsy type.”
“Okay, but don’t get handsy with me.” I give him the bottle and settle my chin on my folded arms.
He snickers. “Right. Do you remember how we officially met?”
“What about it?”
“You threw up all over my rug—”
“Which I will replace! I keep telling you!”
“And then you stripped down to nothing and passed out in my bed. Now, I ask you, if I didn’t get handsy with you that night, why would I do it now that I actually know you and know all the baggage you come with?”
“You are such a jerk!” I jump a little at the sensation of sunscreen hitting my back. “I don’t have baggage.”
“No, you’re right. But you definitely have issues.”
“Why do I even talk to you?”
“Because you find my sense of humor so endearing.”
“Oh, a sense of humor? That’s what you call it?”
I would keep going, but there’s a problem brewing. A problem caused by the hands now sliding over my back, my shoulders, the back of my neck.
Here’s the thing.
Matt’s seriously hot. Like, breathtakingly hot. Back in the day, before that whole unfortunate getting drunk and puking and stripping incident, I was too intimidated by his looks to even talk to him. For an entire year in fact.
That hotness hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s like he gets better-looking all the time. It’s so unfair that men age well. Not that he’s old. But time shouldn’t work its magic on him like it does.
“Would you relax?” He digs his thumbs into my shoulders while rubbing the lotion in. “God, you’re a mass of knots.”
Yeah, because I don’t know what to do with the weird, fluttery feeling he’s giving me.
I seriously need to get a grip on myself. This is Matt. My annoying neighbor from across the hall, who I wouldn’t love nearly as much if it wasn’t for his adorable dog. So what if he happens to be scorchingly hot? The funny thing is, I used to get so nervous around him that I never uttered a word to him.
I honestly haven’t thought much about his hotness in a long time. Now that I’ve gotten to know him better, his sarcasm and unceasing devotion to knocking me down a peg or two have superseded the effect his looks have on me.
But right now? With his rather large, rather strong hands rubbing sunscreen into my skin?
It’s all I can think about. And things are about to get worse if he doesn’t stop.
“Thanks. I think I’m okay.” I scramble up to my hands and knees and then stand on shaky legs. “Actually, I think I should head inside. I’ve been out here for way too long. I feel a little woozy.”
He rubs his hands together, like he’s getting rid of the rest of the lotion on his palms.
Is he grinning? Why is he grinning? Dear Lord, does he think he turned me on just now?
Would he be entirely wrong if he did think that?
“Drink a lot of water,” he advises. “Rest. Keep yourself cool. You do look awfully flushed and worked up.”
“Sure, sure. Will do.” I can’t even look at him. It would be like getting heated up over my brother or a cousin or something. It’s gross.