wasn’t shooting bodies.
As I surveyed the scene, my eyes landed on a Post-it note on the fridge. Adam, did you know that the heat shield for the Apollo missions could sustain temperatures of up to five thousand degrees Fahrenheit? Can you even imagine how hot that is?
Smiling, I grabbed the note and folded it up, tucking it into my pocket. I opened the fridge, cracked open a beer, and scrolled through the Whole Foods app to place a dinner order for tonight, adding red, orange, and green peppers, along with carrots and chicken for the stir-fry I’d make.
As I hit send, my phone dinged with a new voicemail on my messenger app. It was from my buddy Brandon, who worked in Paris now. Ah, he must have snagged the number of a TV writer he’d been trying to track down for me, a hotshot who he thought might be perfect for one of the shows my company was helming.
I hit play as he rattled off his usual variation on a greeting—“a stunning redhead walking down the street just stopped to give me her number”—yes, his usual greetings were details of his alleged prowess with the French women.
I laughed because he was so full of shit. Well, he’d never had a problem with the ladies in college, but we both knew he wasn’t trying to get strangers to stop, drop, and get on their knees for him. He was all talk. All facade. It was how he dealt with a past he wasn’t over yet.
Someday I hoped he would be. Someday soon.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered as I laughed. “Get to the good stuff.”
He reeled off the screenwriter’s name and number so quickly I blinked, missing most of it.
Grabbing a pen, I hunted around for a sheet of paper when I spotted one of Nina’s ever-present notebooks. I crossed the distance to the kitchen counter to write down the number.
As I replayed the message, I flipped open the notebook to scratch down the digits, but the second I saw her writing on the page, the pen slipped from my fingers.
The voice on the message turned Charlie Brown–warbly.
My head swam with images.
What on earth was I looking at?
Was this what I thought it was?
This fantastic, delicious, filthy list.
In sweet, clever, brainy Nina’s handwriting.
My friend.
My neighbor.
My deliciously depraved friend and neighbor.
I shouldn’t have looked, but hell if I could tear my eyes away now.
4
Adam
Arousal kicked in as soon as I read the first item on the list. When I reached the second, I was hard as a rock. And as I finished the third, I was sure I’d be imitating a skyscraper for days.
1. Get down on my knees.
2. Beg for it.
3. Talk dirty to me.
Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I exhaled roughly.
This. List.
This filthy, fantastic list.
It didn’t end there. More items filled the page, fantasy after filthy fantasy, elaborately detailed. Numbers four, five, six, seven, eight, and then nine.
Holy hell. The last few words of nine sent the temperature in me skyrocketing. F*ck me hard, f*ck me good, f*ck me for the first time.
My eyes devoured them all, my body heating like a supernova. I was a spacecraft about to re-enter Earth’s atmosphere, tearing through the atmosphere at five thousand degrees Fahrenheit or hotter.
Could I imagine it? Hell, yes. I was living it right now.
I shook my head, like I was trying to wake myself up in case this was a dream. The red-hot, dirty dream of discovering the girl-next-door’s fantasies, all of them.
Except for one that wasn’t finished. Number eleven—it looked like she’d started something with the word watch in it, but hadn’t finished.
No matter. The rest was clear and explicit.
My skin sizzled as I read it again, my mouth watering at every item on this sexual bucket list.
Including number ten.
That one taunted me the most.
I tugged at my shirt collar.
Stepping away from the list, I paced around the kitchen. I was an explorer who’d stumbled across a precious artifact, one that had great and formidable powers.
My mind assembled the movie reel of her list, frame after debauched frame. Nina bent over the couch, ass in the air. Nina on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back. Nina begging, pleading, crying out for my shaft.
I flinched, surprised at the ruthless immediacy of the film in my head, the shamelessly erotic way I’d spliced together all the images to add me into the credits of her fantasy cast.
I was surprised, too, at the hammering of my pulse.
The rushing of my