ruined by a curl that’s escaped her messy bun and hangs down in front of her right eye. It makes her look cute and sweet, two things she definitely is not.
Playing my next move, I walk past her wordlessly, back straight and jaw tight. Outside, I lean against my truck, wondering exactly what the hell I’m doing playing with this girl.
What are you doing, man? No strings, no messiness. You know the drill. You’re too close to a major breakthrough to risk fucking it up with some crazy she-devil who lives next door.
My mind remembers how she felt, both clawing at my back and when she was pinned underneath me, but especially when she was straddling my waist, and my animal side says she’s definitely what I’ve been missing. She’s not cute and sweet but instead fiery and sexy . . . a very appealing combination to me.
Which means I should climb in the truck and drive away. There’s nothing I need in the house, and even if there were, Hunter could get it for me later. I consider it carefully. I could leave, forget about the laptop, forget about the redhead, and stay on mission.
But I’m intrigued. And attracted. And maybe a tiny bit guilty, the littlest shred of remorse. I didn’t mean to put her in a bad spot. I just needed a bag, and hers was right there for the grabbing.
And I do know where the laptop is, or more like who has it. Getting it back from JP won’t be easy, but I can probably figure something out.
I pick up the last bags from the store, steeling myself. I might see life as a chess game, but I’m also smart enough to know I’m not half as in control as I want to be. I know I’m going to need every bit of skill I possess to navigate this conversation. About the laptop . . . and about my mother.
I carry the bags inside, where my neighbor has helped herself to a box, unpacking my few personal items. “That’s none of your business,” I snap, setting my bag on top of the one she’s trying to unload and effectively pushing her out of the way with the movement.
“Ooh, yeah . . . I’m really gonna damage these,” she says, pulling out an old Rubik’s cube I fidget with when I need to go all Zen and think about things. She picks up the other item she’s pulled out—an oversized insulated coffee mug that keeps my lifeblood hot for hours. Turning the mug in her hand, she reads the words, “I might look calm. But in my head, I’ve killed you seven times.” She smiles like it’s funny and not the damn truth. Hunter gave it to me after a rough job, and it’s a favorite. “Jeez, I’m engaged to Mr. Sunshine, aren’t I?”
“We’re not engaged,” I growl as I pull the mug from her hand, setting it in the sink for a scrub down before my morning refuel, and she sets the Rubik’s cube down on the stack of boxes. “We need to talk.”
“Ya think?” she sasses, hand cocked on a thrown-out hip. “Let’s start with . . . where the fuck is my laptop?”
“Nope. Start with your name.”
Her eyes narrow, and she brushes that lock of hair back in a bratty move, huffing out, “Like you don’t know.” When I look at her expectantly, she freezes. “Wait . . . you really don’t know?”
“I really don’t.”
“Then why’d you steal my laptop?”
She thinks this is about her computer and not her bag. I might have a way to salvage this. “Long story.”
“A-ha!” she shouts triumphantly, pointing a finger at me. “You admitted it. I should call the cops on you.”
Dammit, but I had to take this particular risk. When her declaration is matched with zero movement, I realize that I’ve still got plays to make. She doesn’t trust or like the cops, perhaps? Interesting. Maybe Sexy Red’s got a bad girl side to her. I look at her expectantly and she gives in.
“Poppy Woodstock.”
I snort. I’ve been jumped and am talking to a walking meme. “Of course. Poppy.” I look her over, taking special note of the mane of red hair. It’s not poppy colored, at least not the orange-red California poppies I’m thinking of, but something about her seems vibrant and lively like a field of her namesake.
“That’s right . . . Connor,” she reminds me. “So now that we both know names, I want