Page 10 of The Guy Next Door
This house has too many damn windows. Anyone can see right through. Watch him, the way I’ve watched him for the past couple of weeks. However, to the credit of this voyeur’s paradise, it works both ways, and he spots me through the window, the eyes on his sexy face widening before he hides behind the door.
I wait to hear his phone trilling as he calls the police. Or for him to tell me to leave him the fuck alone, but as I’m trying to imagine what I could possibly say to navigate this, I hear, “Can I help you?”
There’s a tremble in his voice, and I’m pleased to detect his innate, primal fear.
Heshouldbe afraid. That’s what’s going to keep him safe, alive.
I try to shake those kinds of thoughts away—they’re like shit Dad would have said.
“I think you know why I’m here.” Did that sound creepy? Fuck.
I wait for a response, but nothing for a few moments before he says, “You wanna tell me why you were over the other night?”
“I do, but not out here. Not like this.”
Silence.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me?”
“Did I hurt you when I had the chance?” That fucking sounds creepy too. Shit, I’m bad at this.
Nothing from the other side. Okay, maybe this isn’t happening, and I’m probably scaring the shit out of the poor guy, so I start toward the steps when I hear aclickbehind me. I turn to find him standing inside the cracked-open doorway, pepper spray in hand. In sweats, and he’s wearing one of his beanies…why does he have to wear beanies? I love a man in a beanie. And his tank top is tight around his chest, his lean, muscly arms on full display.
I maintain eye contact to keep from ogling him, but fuck, he’s hot.
Stop being a creeper!
Too late, I guess.
“What? You’re not gonna Lysol me to death, are you?” I say to cut through our awkward stare-off.
But he just keeps staring at me.
Doesn’t get my humor. Fair enough. Maybe not all that funny, given what happened the last time I saw him.
“I mean, I’m the one who should be mad,” I add. “You really nailed my nose.”
He assesses my face before looking me over. Maybe trying to figure out if I have any other weapons on me. But he won’t see the knife in my ankle sheath. I’m not a fucking amateur.
“I guess.” He starts to turn back to the house, but then quickly pulls his attention back to me. “Just so you know, you tryanything—before opening the door, I sent an email to a friend to let them know the last person I was with, Zane Grayson. And that officer who was here last night will—”
“I get it. Everyone will know I’m your psycho stalker killer. Can I come in or what?” I ask it like I’m some kind of vampire, waiting for his permission, and that’s how he’s eyeing me.
He’s obviously struggling with it, his gaze shifting around before he says, “Fuck it. Come on. Close the door behind you.”
He steps aside, facing me as I close the door.
“I assume you know where the kitchen is now,” he says.
“Yup,” I admit as I head in. “You want me to sit down? Or will this be like…give me my gun and then ask me to get the hell out of here?”
He follows me into the kitchen, keeping his pepper spray ready for me.
“I think it’s ambitious for you to assume I’m gonna give you your gun,” he says.
As I enter the kitchen, I have a little more time to appreciate the design. White tile floors. Dark-gray cabinets. Marble backsplash, counters, and island—all white with the occasional light-gray vein. A glass kitchen table with some clear ghost chairs around it. As appealing as the style is, my eyes are particularly drawn to a plate of jumbo chocolate-chip cookies on the kitchen island, which stir an intense growl in my stomach. Clearly some steel oats weren’t cutting it for breakfast. Not for this greedy belly.
“Nice kitchen,” I say.