with superhuman strength. I reach for his belt and have it unhooked in two seconds flat, then start to whip it off as though I’m being timed for a new Olympic event in undressing a man.
He stills immediately. “Stop!” he gasps out and grabs my hands, still wrapped around one side of his belt. “I was laughing.” He rolls up into a sitting position, pulling his belt loose from my death grip. “Not seizing.”
“Laughing?” I jump to my feet. “I thought I’d hurt you and you were laughing at me? You…you…you big jerk.”
I consider kicking him out of sheer spite but figure that might be overkill. At least the wine dripped down to his white button-up. Good luck getting that out.
“I’m sorry,” he says, still chuckling. “I couldn’t help it. You just looked so earnest trying to explain the difference between a creep and a pervert.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve decided you’re both, so you can leave now. Before I call the cops and report you for trespassing.” I turn and march up the three steps to my patio.
“Wait.” He catches up to me easily, even though I had a head start and he was on the ground. “Don’t you want to know what I was doing in your backyard?”
“Being a creep and a pervert, I assume, as we already established.”
“I was trying to let you know that your garage door is still open.” He isn’t laughing now—not even a superior guffaw. “We’ve had a bunch of robberies in the area lately, and I was afraid the door leading into your house wasn’t locked.”
It seems like a more reasonable excuse than the fact that Mr. Subparagraph Three in the HOA Bylaws was trying to get his rocks off looking in my living room window. Still, he’s not off the hook that easily.
I narrow my eyes at him. “So why didn’t you come to the front door and ring the doorbell?”
“Have you seen your porch?” He shoots me a disbelieving look. “There’s no way I’m taking my life in my hands and walking on that thing.”
It’s a good point, especially considering what Mikey had to say about the porch earlier. But— “Why didn’t you knock on the garage door? Wouldn’t that be the logical next step?”
“It’s what I planned to do, but when I was walking up your driveway, I heard music coming from the backyard—which you have to turn off at ten o’clock, by the way—and I figured I’d see if I could catch you back here.” He holds up his hands in a profession of innocence. “I swear, that’s all there was to it. No creepiness or perverted behavior intended.”
I totally believe him—it also makes much more sense than any other scenario—but I’m pissed off all over again from his comment about the music. Off by ten. Ugh. All these freaking men with their opinions and rules and it has to be this ways that no one actually cares about. “What happens if I don’t turn the music off until 10:01? Or worse, 10:05? Do the HOA police come and arrest me?”
His eyes gleam. “I’m pretty sure you get a warning first.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky?” The words drip with sarcasm.
His smile disappears altogether. “I should be going.”
“Finally, we agree on something!” I’m more than fed up with men telling me what to do. Still, I can’t send him away without at least offering help. “Can I get you some ice? For your head?”
For a second, it seems like he’s thinking about it. “That’s okay. I’ll get some at home.”
“Are you sure? I hit you pretty hard.”
“Believe me, I know exactly how hard you hit me.” His smile comes back for just a moment. “You know, the neighborhood women’s softball league is looking for a pitcher. You’d probably be a shoo-in.”
It’s my turn to laugh—of course, because of the wine, not because Mr. Music Off at Ten is charming. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You should. The MVP of each game gets free pizza and beer from Salvaggio’s.”
“Okay, then.” I step inside the house before turning to face him. “I’ll let you see yourself out.”
And then I close the door—and Aunt Maggie’s lemon-yellow-and-ecru-colored giraffe-print living-room curtains—right in his astonished (and still merlot-stained) face.
Chapter Twelve
I wake up the next morning to more retina-searing sunlight—and this time, it’s about a gazillion times worse, because apparently drinking two bottles of wine is an awful, horrible, no good, very bad idea. Who knew?
My mouth tastes like I spent the night licking rusty scissors and just about every