That’s one of the reasons this job is so important.
And when my car doesn’t start—again—I’m reminded of another.
Groaning, I swing my bag out of my old Honda and pray I have time to catch the bus.
Thankfully, Rider is back to his side of the street where, lo and behold, a party has broken out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the telltale red Solo cup parade. Someone has placed the stereo speakers in the window, and AC/DC is blaring Back in Black for the whole neighborhood to appreciate.
I moved here before the Victorian across the street became the Stallion Station, otherwise known as the football fuck-pad and party palace.
I would’ve looked for a new place this summer to get away from these Neanderthals, except the rent prices in Charming have skyrocketed, while my older bungalow still has lowish rent, so I’m loathe to leave it.
As I hoof it to the bus stop and navigate the cracks in the sidewalk in my dress heels, a brand-new Range Rover pulls up beside me. The window rolls down, and I yank my purse to the other side of my body, but before I can pull out my mace—because a girl can’t be too careful—Ben’s serious face pops out.
“Where you going all dressed up?”
That’s my brother. Never a ‘hello’. Never a ‘how you doing?’ or ‘what did you do this summer?’
But his question makes me self-conscious. “I have a job interview. Why? Is this too much?”
I’m wearing a simple black pencil skirt and a white button-up blouse. It’s nothing fancy, but it seems appropriate attire for a secretary. Except thanks to the August heat, I’m already sweating.
“What happened to your job tutoring?”
I adjust my glasses. “I lost it after I got sick last spring. I told you.” May, to be exact. The last time I saw Rider.
Ben frowns. “Sorry. Guess I forgot. It was a busy time of year with mid-terms and spring break.”
It must be a rough life, partying it up in Cabo with his douchey friends. I bite my tongue, not wanting to add more friction to our relationship, and ignore how he’s misremembering the dates.
I’m older by a year, but you’d never know it from looking at us. There’s something about Ben that screams confidence. I may have a big bark from time to time, but Ben commands attention. Never mind that he’s well over six feet and I come in at a whopping five foot four.
“How was camp?” I’m assuming he got here a few weeks ago for football. I ignore the spark of hurt that he never called.
“Ball-busting. As usual.”
The silence grows, and I struggle to think of something to say. That’s when I notice the boxes in his SUV. And is that… a bed frame sticking out the back window?
“Are you moving?” A terrible thought settles into the pit of my stomach. Say it isn’t so! Because if I have to watch my brother’s one-night stands make the walk of shame on the weekends, I’m going to hurl.
Seriously, there’s no judgment on my end toward those girls. They see these beautiful men who shower them with affection. For one night or one weekend. Of course they’re going to lose their minds and undergarments.
But then the party ends.
It always ends.
And those guys always send the girls packing.
I know because I’ve seen them crying on that front lawn. I’ve even made one or two of them breakfast while they waited for their rides. Thankfully, they were never Rider’s hookups, but still. I can extrapolate what he’s been doing.
Ben grins. “Yeah, just up the street, actually. With Rider—”
“—Kingston.” I shake my head, disgust roiling in my stomach. “You know I live across the street from him, right?”
His brow furrows. “I knew you lived here on Pine, but I thought it was closer to the coffee shop.”
“Nope. Right. Across. The. Street.”
Which Ben would know if he ever bothered to visit or hang out with me. He’s probably partied steps away from my house.
That desolate feeling I get whenever I think about how close we used to be as kids settles in my chest, and I step away from his SUV. “I’ve got to go.”
If I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s that I can’t rely on anyone. Not even my own brother.
“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 grows as 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.