Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,108

Street was bathed in twilight copper, and the beautiful houses, fronted with trees and flowers, looked idyllic. Like a postcard for San Francisco. I grinned and pulled out my phone and took a photo of the cream-colored Victorian.

I live here! I typed in a message to Carla, my sister, and attached the photo.

No response.

I told myself she was busy with family stuff or having dinner. It was seven o’clock in New York, after all.

On the first floor in the Victorian I heard voices. The door to #1 was open, and a middle-aged Hispanic woman stood in it, talking to a young man. The guy looked to be about my age. He cradled a toddler on his hip with one hand, held a briefcase in the other, and wore a diaper bag slung over his shoulder. He had short, dark blond hair with soft, loose curls, sharp brown eyes fringed with long lashes, a square jaw, and a broad mouth that was currently turned down in a stiff frown…

I could have kept mentally appraising his attributes for days, but in the space of a second, my brain had tallied up the sum of his parts and came to the very definitive conclusion that he was fucking gorgeous.

Seriously? Do not tell me Mr. Mom is my neighbor.

He and the Hispanic woman both stopped talking when they saw me. The woman’s face broke out into a warm, welcoming smile. The guy stared at me with a mixture of alarm and disdain.

“Who are you?” he demanded rudely, shifting the diaper bag higher on his shoulder while hoisting his little girl in his other arm. Six feet of hotness in a rumpled suit, glaring at me with suspicion in his dark eyes.

The woman swatted his arm lightly. “Sawyer, be a good boy.”

“I...I’m your new neighbor?” I said. It sounded more like a question; as if I needed this guy’s permission to live. I straightened to my full height. “I’m Darlene. I just moved in upstairs. I’m a dancer. Well, I was. Had to take some time off but I’m going to get back into it soon...ish.” I put on my friendliest smile. “I’m a massage therapist now. Just got my license and...”

My words died under Sawyer’s withering stare.

“A dancer. Fantastic,” he said bitterly. “Just what I always wanted. Someone leaping and thumping above me, waking my kid up and disturbing my studies at all hours of the night.”

I planted my hands on my hips. “I can’t dance in a dinky apartment, and besides...”

Words failed me again as the sharp planes and hard angles of Sawyer's face melted when his daughter—I guessed her to be about a year old—clapped her small hand over his chin. Sawyer’s gaze softened, and his broad mouth turned up in a smile—a beautiful smile I was sure he saved only for his little girl, and one so full of love that, for a moment, I could hardly breathe.

“It is very nice to meet you, Darlene,” the woman interjected. “I’m Elena Melendez. This is Sawyer, and his little angel is Olivia. They live upstairs.”

“Me too,” I said. “Third floor, I mean. Obviously,” I added with a weak laugh. “The studio?”

“You’re subletting for Rachel, yes?” Elena smiled. “She’s such a nice girl.”

“And quiet,” Sawyer added, earning himself another swat from Elena.

“Yes, I’m subletting for six months,” I said. “Rachel’s doing a Green Peace tour.”

Elena beamed. “Welcome to the building.”

Sawyer took his little girl’s hand off his chin, gave it a kiss, then grunted something unintelligible as he brushed past me to go upstairs. I got a whiff of cologne and baby powder, and the strangest sensation ripped through me. It was as if every sexual and maternal molecule in my body ignited in response to Sawyer’s masculinity and the sheer babyness of his little girl at the same time.

Oh my God, cool your jets, girl. He’s probably married and is definitely kind of an asshole.

Except to his daughter. Over Sawyer’s shoulder, Olivia watched me and smiled.

I waved at her.

She waved back.

“He’s really a very nice young man,” Elena said with a sigh, watching Sawyer round the corner.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, easing a sigh of relief that Sawyer had taken the strange tension—and his arsenal of potent pheromones—upstairs with him. “His death-glare could cut diamonds. His daughter’s a cutie, though. How old?”

“Thirteen months,” Elena said. “I’ve been babysitting her since she was an infant, and I love every minute. I’d do it for free but Sawyer insists on paying the ‘going rate.’”