I’m not sure when he decided to stop ignoring me, but that’s better than pretending we’re friends, which we’ll never be.
I close my eyes because I don’t need any reminders of his masculine beauty. And I definitely don’t need to see that sexy smirk, the one more powerful than his cannon that took the team to the playoffs last year.
No, I’m not interested in the star quarterback. Not anymore.
Turning on my heel, I wave my middle finger and march back to my house.
Laughter is all I hear as I slam the front door shut behind me.
An hour later, I’m still feeling like an idiot, but I don’t have time to wallow in the ineffectiveness of my interview questions because I have my own interview to get to.
After a jittery swipe of mascara, I lean back to find that one eye is now bigger than the other thanks to my lack of makeup skills. I wad some tissue and try to rectify the problem, but only manage to make a bigger mess.
Lord, help me!
With a groan, I remove the black smear and attempt it again.
I stare at my pale face and the lopsided topknot. At the clumpy mascara and vanilla lip gloss. At my glasses that always got me labeled a nerd when I was growing up.
With a sigh, I untie and re-knot the mass of black hair. Having long hair in the Texas heat is a pain, but it reminds me of my mom, so I never cut it beyond a trim.
My arms shake as I finish my quick updo. I call out to Ramona. “Can you do me a favor and throw an apple in my bag?”
Which is a dumb thing to request since she’ll probably ignore me, but that’s okay. To each her own. I’m nothing if not a respectful roommate. I don’t ask too many questions or get in anyone’s business. Life has taught me to keep my nose down, work hard, and avoid distractions.
I grit my teeth when the sound of a lawn mower blares toward my side of the house.
At least he’s almost done.
Because Rider can’t just be the star quarterback. No, he has to go and do thoughtful things for our elderly neighbors.
I bite my bottom lip as my eyes slide to my window. It’s not like he’ll know if I take a peek.
Before I can stop myself, I race over to the blinds and carefully peel one up. Just a smidge. Just enough to see Rider in all his sweaty, eight-pack glory as his muscles bulge and glisten in the bright sun.
That man is too handsome for his own good.
And I’m not sure who I hate more. Him, for being so tempting, or me, for being tempted after all this time.
My hand trembles on the window pane, reminding me that I need to eat something or I might get slammed with another twelve-hundred-dollar EMT bill when I can’t afford the first bill.
That’s one of the reasons this job is so important.
And when my car doesn’t start—again—I’m reminded of another.
Groaning, I swing my bag out of my old Honda and pray I have time to catch the bus.
Thankfully, Rider is back to his side of the street where, lo and behold, a party has broken out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the telltale red Solo cup parade. Someone has placed the stereo speakers in the window, and AC/DC is blaring Back in Black for the whole neighborhood to appreciate.
I moved here before the Victorian across the street became the Stallion Station, otherwise known as the football fuck-pad and party palace.
I would’ve looked for a new place this summer to get away from these Neanderthals, except the rent prices in Charming have skyrocketed, while my older bungalow still has lowish rent, so I’m loathe to leave it.
As I hoof it to the bus stop and navigate the cracks in the sidewalk in my dress heels, a brand-new Range Rover pulls up beside me. The window rolls down, and I yank my purse to the other side of my body, but before I can pull out my mace—because a girl can’t be too careful—Ben’s serious face pops out.
“Where you going all dressed up?”
That’s my brother. Never a ‘hello’. Never a ‘how you doing?’ or ‘what did you do this summer?’