Naughty Neighbor - Lauren Runow Page 0,7
at my yoga pants and oversize sweatshirt while he looks amazing in his slacks and button-down.
“Do you?” He raises his eyebrows in question.
“I’m on a deadline, and I’ve finally connected with my characters. I can’t desert them now,” I lie.
“Ah, another fictional boyfriend. Who’s your hero? Let me guess. A charismatic thirty-year-old florist from Chicago?” he asks wistfully, like he’s talking about himself.
“Nice try.” I laugh off his idea as I round the kitchen island. “Wait, you’re a florist?”
“Moreau Flowers, fourth generation. You sound surprised.”
“A little.”
He doesn’t seem to be bothered by this as he continues, “At least tell me your literary hero has dirty-blond hair and chocolate-brown eyes that make you melt.”
Yep, he’s describing himself.
“Readers like their men to have dark hair and blue eyes.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s the truth. I polled my Facebook group, and it was practically unanimous. You’re not their type.”
It’s a lie. Based on looks alone, Jake is every woman’s type. If I were to write him into a book, I’d say he was an Adonis of a man. With his chiseled jaw, full lips, fit physique, and a smile that gleams from his eyes, women become weak in the knees with just a glance. His charm and wit would make a woman fall in love instantly.
All, except for me.
“Admit it, Lace, I’m everyone’s type. And before you make a joke about how conceited I am, what I mean to say is, I’m a people-pleaser. Diplomatic. Tactful. I’m a total catch.”
“You mean, catch and release.”
His eyes squint as he looks over at me suspiciously since a neighbor knows more than anyone else about the comings and goings from a home. “Clever.”
When I moved into this building, he was the first person I met. Sure, he was standing in the hallway, wearing a towel around his waist and saying good-bye to a woman who looked like she’d slept over after their first date, but he was welcoming and cordial, even inviting me in for a welcome-to-the-building drink. I refused, of course, because no sane woman follows a half-naked man into his apartment. He appeared a few nights later, asking for sugar. I told him that sounded like a bad introduction to a porno.
I glance at the clock and sigh. “What are you doing here anyway?
“I need lime. The woman who owns the yoga studio next to the flower shop swung by to talk cross promotion. She wants a cosmopolitan, and I’m out of citrus.”
“A rather intimate and late business meeting, don’t ya think?” I say with a knowing grin as I walk to the refrigerator.
He levels his gaze at me. “You’re judging.”
“What is there to judge? Other than the fact that she drinks cosmos when Manhattans are the superior drink.”
“Just because an attractive woman—whose name is Natalie, by the way—wants to come to my place for a drink does not mean she’s throwing herself at me.”
I grab the tiny green bottle and turn back to him. “Never said she was.”
“Your face implied it.”
“So, you don’t plan on taking her to bed?”
“I probably will end up sleeping with her, yes. But we’re adults, living the single life in our early thirties. It’s healthy. Based on your judgment, I take it, you haven’t had a date in a while.”
“I have plenty of men ask me out on the regular.”
“I have no doubt that you do. I just never see you leave here with anyone. Or get dressed up for that matter.”
I tap my foot on the floor and bite my lip while I try to think of something witty to say back, but what’s the point? I have nothing to hide.
“For your information, I’m just as happy, being here on a deadline, wrapped up in my fictional world for the evening, than being with a man who is a waste of my time.”
I push the bottle of limejuice into his chest—a tad bit forcefully—and walk over to the couch, where I was working.
Propping my feet up, I put the laptop back on my thighs and look at the screen. I’m about to start typing again when the cushion next to me dips with the weight of the man taking a seat beside me. When I glance up the bottle is sitting on the counter looking like a forgotten thought.
“What are you working on anyway?” He slings his arm behind me, resting it on the top of the couch.
I roll my head toward him. The scent of his cologne is so damn sexy. I wish he’d bathe in fish oil, so