The Guy Next Door - By Lori Foster, S Donovan, V Dahl Page 0,53

substandard crap I get? In less than two years? Does no one have a sense of pride in their artistry anymore?”

Gail leaned forward on the edge of the rocker and peeked between two large flowering bushes, looking to see if the man was speaking to anyone. She determined that he was alone over there, which made her even more curious. What kind of man would buy historically accurate reproduction shutter hinges and then talk to them? Curse at them? While using words like “patently” and “substandard,” no less?

She craned her neck. She could almost see him. If only he’d turn to his left a bit…almost there…now just a little bit more…

Gail’s eyes widened in comprehension.

Oh.

So that’s what George Clooney would look like after a month on the beach—all sun-roasted and sexy, salt-and-pepper scruff on his face and threadbare jeans hanging low on his chiseled hips.

Gail watched her foulmouthed neighbor examine what was obviously the offending hinge. He moved it back and forth in his hand, his scowl deepening, the muscles undulating in his hands, wrists and forearms.

She couldn’t take her eyes from him. A hot heaviness started low in her belly, and the longer she stared, the more intense the heat became, spreading, rising, causing her breath to become jagged. Despite the warm air, full-on goose bumps broke out on Gail’s arms.

She blinked. She licked her lips. The dark-haired hinge examiner wore a tiny silver hoop that glinted in the dappled sunlight. Maybe he was a pirate, one of those dangerous smugglers Kim had mentioned, a pirate smuggler with a rippling layer of muscle beneath the tanned skin of his abdomen. A pirate with defined biceps and strong shoulders. A pirate with an English degree.

Without warning, he looked up. His piercing blue eyes flashed at Gail, first with surprise, then with irritation. She gasped. She slammed herself into the back of the rocker, eyes straight ahead, hands gripping the armrests while she held her breath. How embarrassing. She shouldn’t have done that. Now her neighbor would think she was nosy.

“Oh, great.” An instant after the scholarly pirate made that sarcastic comment, Gail heard his sandaled feet clomp up his porch steps. Then she heard his door opening and closing.

Well, that had been awkward. Apparently, Gail didn’t even remember how to behave around extremely attractive men. Kim had been right. She really should’ve gotten out more.

“DID YOU SEE THE WAY THAT dude looked at us?” Hannah spread herself out on her stomach at poolside, dangling her fingers in the shallow end while Holly floated nearby in the warm water. “I swear he was undressing us with his eyes.”

Holly laughed. “All guys do that. They can’t help themselves.”

“Yeah, but that dude was sick hot.”

“You need to slow down,” Holly said, paddling over to where Hannah lay. “Pace yourself, girlfriend. We’ve been here, like, two hours. He was just the cabdriver.”

“I know, but he was hard-core exotic!” Hannah lowered her forehead to her arms and sighed.

Holly swam to the pool edge and propped herself on her elbows, kicking her feet lazily in the water behind her. “I’ve got a feeling this place is going to be crawling with sick-hot guys, and we’ve got ten whole days to meet every one of them, right?”

Hannah lifted her eyes, her expression now serious. “Your mom’s sweet and this place is totally tight. I kinda feel bad in a way, you know? We’re going to be having such a ballin’ time and she’s just going to be sitting around reading on the porch. It’s sad.”

Holly laughed. “But that’s her idea of fun! She’s not much of a partier. She can’t dance or anything. So I wouldn’t worry too much about my mom.” Holly wagged an eyebrow and was careful to lower her voice—not that her mom could hear anything while that Shaggy tune was pumping out into the courtyard:

Who da man dat love to make you moist and wet—uh?

Who da man dat love to make you moan and sweat—uh?

“If you say so,” Hannah said with a shrug.

“So what do you want to do tonight? Should we sneak out to the main party area? What’s it called again?”

“Duval Street?”

“Right.”

Hannah ratcheted her neck back in response. “What are you, wack or something? Of course we should sneak out to Duval Street!”

“All right, then,” Holly whispered. “We’re going to need a plan.”

SHE SMELLED HIM BEFORE she saw him, catching a whiff of clean male skin and fabric starch in the breeze. He stood on the sidewalk, head covered in a