“Earth to Natalie. Come in, Natalie.”
I rip my gaze from the oddly powerful trap of the stranger’s eyes and turn my attention back to Sloane. She’s looking at me with lifted brows.
“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Yes, I know, because you were too busy getting eye fucked by the beautiful beast who crushed your best friend’s ego.”
Flustered, I scoff. “There’s not a man on earth who could crush your ego. It’s made out of the same material NASA uses on spaceships so they don’t burn up on reentry through the atmosphere.”
Twirling a lock of her dark hair, she smiles. “So true. He’s still staring at you, by the way.”
I squirm in my chair. Why my ears are getting hot, I don’t know. I’m not the type to be unsettled by a handsome face. “Maybe I remind him of someone he doesn’t like.”
“Or maybe you’re an idiot.”
I’m not, though. His wasn’t a look of lust. It was more like I owe him money.
The waiter returns with another round for us, and Sloane orders guac and chips. As soon as he’s out of earshot, she sighs. “Oh no. Here comes Diane Myers.”
Diane’s the town gossip. She probably holds the world record for never shutting the fuck up.
Having a conversation with her is like being subjected to water torture: it goes on and on in a constant, painful drip until eventually, you crack and lose your mind.
Without bothering to say hello, she pulls up an empty chair from the table behind us, sits down next to me, and leans in, engulfing me in the scent of lavender and mothballs.
In a hushed voice, she says, “His name is Kage. Isn’t that strange? Like a dog cage, but with a K. I don’t know, I just think it’s a very odd name. Unless you’re in a band, of course. Or you’re some kind of underground fighter. Whatever the case, in my day, a man had a respectable name like Robert or William or Eugene or such—”
“Who are we talking about?” interrupts Sloane.
Attempting to look nonchalant, Diane jerks her head a few times in the direction of where the stranger sits. Her shellacked gray curls quiver. “Aquaman,” she says in a stage whisper.
“Who?”
“The man by the window who looks like that actor in the movie Aquaman. What’s-his-name. The big brute who’s married to the girl who was on The Cosby Show.”
I wonder what she’d do if I dumped my glass of wine over her hideous perm? Shriek like a startled Pomeranian, probably.
Picturing it is oddly satisfying.
Meanwhile, she’s still talking.
“…very, very odd that he paid in cash. The only people who keep that kind of cash handy are up to no good. Don’t want the government to know their whereabouts, that kind of thing. What do they call it? Living off the grid? Yes, that’s the expression. On the lam, living off the grid, hiding in plain sight, whatever the case may be, we’re going to have to keep a close eye on this Kage person. A very, very close eye, mind you, especially since he’s living right next door to you, Natalie dear. Make sure you keep everything locked up tight and all the blinds drawn. One can never be too careful.”
I sit up straighter in my seat. “Wait, what? Living next door?”
She stares at me like I’m simpleminded. “Haven’t you been listening? He bought the house next to yours.”
“I didn’t know that house was on the market.”
“It wasn’t. According to the Sullivans, that Kage person knocked on their door one day recently and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. With a briefcase full of money, no less.”
Surprised, I look at Sloane. “Who pays for a house with a briefcase of cash?”
Diane clucks. “You see? It’s all exceedingly strange.”
“When did they move out? I didn’t even know they were gone!”
Diane purses her lips as she looks at me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, dear, but you do live in a bit of a bubble. One can’t blame you for being distracted, of course, with what you’ve been through.”
Pity. There’s nothing worse.
I glower at her, but before I can clap back with a smart remark about what I’m about to put her ugly perm through, Sloane interrupts.
“So the hot rich stranger is gonna be living right next door. Lucky bitch.”
Diane tsks. “Oh no, I wouldn’t say lucky. I wouldn’t say that at all! He has the look of a felon, you can’t deny, and if anyone is a good judge of character, why, it’s certainly me. You’ll agree, I’m sure. You remember, of course, that it was I who—”
“Excuse me, ladies.”
The waiter interrupts, bless him. He sets the bowl of guacamole on the table, puts a basket of tortilla chips beside it, and smiles. “Are you just having drinks and appetizers tonight, or would you like me to bring you dinner menus?”
“I’ll be drinking my dinner, thank you.”
Sloane sends me a sour glance, then says to the waiter, “We’d like menus, please.”
I add, “And another round.”
“Sure thing. Be right back.”
The second he leaves, Diane starts right up again, turning eagerly to me.
“Would you like me to call the police chief to see about having a patrol car come by at night to check on you? I hate the thought of you all alone and vulnerable in that house. So tragic what happened to you, poor thing.”
She pats my hand.
I want to punch her in the throat.
“And now with this unsavory element moving into the neighborhood, you really should be looked after. It’s the least I can do. Your parents were dear, dear friends before they retired to Arizona because of your father’s health. The altitude in our little spot of heaven can be difficult as we get older. Six thousand feet above sea level isn’t for the faint of heart, and god knows, it’s dry as a bone—”
“No, Diane, I don’t want you to call the police to babysit me.”
She looks affronted by my tone. “There’s no need to get huffy, dear, I’m simply trying to—”
“Get all up in my business. I know. Thank you, hard pass.”
She turns to Sloane for support, which she doesn’t find.
“Nat’s got a big dog and an even bigger gun. She’ll be fine.”
Scandalized, Diane turns back to me. “You keep a gun in the house? My goodness, what if you accidentally shoot yourself?”
Looking at her, I deadpan, “I should be so lucky.”
Sloane says, “Actually, since you’re here, Diane, maybe you could weigh in on the discussion Nat and I were having when you came over. We’d love to get your insight on the topic.”
Diane preens, patting her hair. “Why, of course! As you know, I have quite a broad array of knowledge on various issues. Ask away.”
This should be good. I sip my wine, trying not to smile.
With a straight face, Sloane says, “Anal. Yes or no?”
There’s a frozen pause, then Diane chirps, “Oh, look, there’s Margie Howland. I haven’t seen her in ages. I should say hello.”
She rises and hurries off with a breathless “Bye now!”
Watching her go, I say drily, “You know that within twenty-four hours the entire town will think we were sitting here discussing the pros and cons of anal sex, right?”
“Nobody listens to that crusty old bat.”
“She’s best friends with the school administrator.”
“What, you think you’ll get fired for loose morals? You’re practically a nun.”
“Exaggerate much?”
“No. You’ve dated three guys in the last five years, none of whom you had sex with. At least if you were a nun, you’d get to have sex with Jesus.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works. Also, I have plenty of sex. With myself. And my battery-operated friends. Relationships are just too complicated.”
“I hardly think your short, sexless, emotionless entanglements can be called relationships. You have to fuck a guy for it to qualify. And maybe, like, feel something for him.”
I shrug. “If I found one I liked, I would.”
She gazes at me, knowing my problem with men has less to do with not meeting someone I connect with and more to do with not being able to connect with anyone at all. But she cuts me a break and moves on.
“Speaking of fucking, your new neighbor is over there looking at you like you’re his next meal.”
“Literally. And not in the good way. He makes great white sharks seem friendly.”
“Don’t be so negative. Damn, he’s smoking hot. Don’t you think?”
I resist the surprisingly strong urge to turn and look in the direction Sloane is looking and take another sip of my wine instead. “He’s not my type.”
“Babe, that man is every woman’s type. Don’t try to lie to me and tell me you can’t hear your ovaries moaning.”
“Give me a minute to breathe. I got dumped only half an hour ago.”
She snorts. “Yeah, and you seem really broken up about it. Next excuse?”
“Remind me why you’re my best friend again?”
“Because I’m awesome, obviously.”
“Hmm. The jury’s still out.”
“Look, why don’t you just be a good neighbor and go over and introduce yourself? Then invite him over for a tour of your house. Specifically your bedroom, where the three of us will explore our sexual fantasies while covered in Astroglide and listening to Lenny Kravitz sing ‘Let Love Rule.’”
“Oh, you’re going bi for me now?”
“Not for you, nitwit. For him.”
“I’m going to need a lot more wine before I start entertaining the idea of a threesome.”
“Well, think about it. And if everything works out, we could make it long-term and be a throuple.”
“What the hell is a throuple?”
“Same thing as a couple, but with three people instead of two.”
I stare at her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Sloane smiles, scooping guac onto a chip. “I am, but that look on your face is almost as priceless as Diane’s.”
The waiter returns with menus and more Chardonnay. An hour later, we’ve demolished two shrimp enchilada platters and as many bottles of wine.
Sloane burps discreetly behind her hand. “I think we should cab it home, babe. I’m too buzzed to drive.”
“I agree.”
“By the way, I’m spending the night.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“I’m not letting you wake up alone tomorrow.”
“I won’t be alone. Mojo will be with me.”
She motions to the waiter for our check. “Unless you leave with your hot new neighbor, you’re stuck with me, sis.”
It was an offhand remark, made because she obviously knows I have no intention of leaving with the mysterious and vaguely hostile Kage, but the thought of Sloane hovering over me in worry all day tomorrow to make sure I don’t slit my wrists on the anniversary of my non-wedding is so depressing, it cuts straight through my buzz like a bucket of cold water poured over my head.
I glance over at his table.
He’s on his cell phone. Not talking, just listening, every so often nodding. He glances up and catches me looking.
Our eyes lock.
My heart jumps into my throat. A strange and unfamiliar combination of excitement, tension, and fear makes a flush of heat creep up my neck.
Sloane’s right. You should be friendly. You’re going to be neighbors. Whatever his problem is, it can’t be about you. Don’t take everything so personally.
The poor guy probably just had a bad day.
Still looking at me, he murmurs something into the phone and hangs up.
I say to Sloane, “Be right back.”
I stand, cross the restaurant, and walk right up to his table. “Hi. I’m Natalie. May I join you?” I don’t wait for his answer before I sit down.
Silent, he gazes steadily at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“My girlfriend and I have had a little too much wine and we can’t safely drive home. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. We’d take a cab and pick up her car tomorrow. But she just told me that unless I leave here with you, she’s spending the night at my house.
“Now, there’s a whole long story about why I don’t want that to happen, but I won’t bore you with the details. And before you ask, no, I don’t usually demand rides from total strangers. But I was told that you bought the place next door to me up on Steelhead, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and ask you for the favor of a ride home since it won’t be out of your way.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. A muscle in his jaw flexes. He says nothing.
Oh no. He thinks I’m hitting on him.
Feeling hideously self-conscious, I add, “I swear this isn’t a pickup line. I really am only looking for a ride home. Also, um…welcome to town.”
He debates with himself about something for a moment while I sit watching him with my heart pounding, knowing I’ve made a terrible mistake.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough. “Sorry, princess. If you’re looking for a knight in shining armor, you’re looking in the wrong fucking place.”
He stands abruptly, bumping the table, and strides away, leaving me sitting alone with only my burning humiliation for company.
All righty, then. Guess I won’t be popping over in the future to borrow a cup of sugar. Cheeks hot, I head back to our table.
Sloane gapes at me in disbelief. “What just happened?”
“I asked him if he’d take me home.”
She blinks, once, slowly. When she recovers from her astonishment, she says, “And?”
“And he made it clear that he’d rather have his dick slammed in a car door. Are we ready to go?”
She rises, gathering her purse from where it’s hanging on the back of her chair and shaking her head. “Wow. He turned us both down. You could be right about him being married.”
As we head for the front door, she adds thoughtfully, “Maybe he’s just shy.”
Or maybe he’ll turn out to be a serial killer and put me out of my misery.
Probably not, though. I don’t have that kind of luck.
