Teasing: Chapter 1

I hate when I go to the grocery store to buy lettuce and tomatoes but accidentally come home with Oreos and milk. Guess we know what I’m having for dinner tonight.

—Emmie’s Secret Thoughts

“Ugh . . . I really wish you’d just pick up the phone,” I whisper-hiss when my sister’s voicemail picks up for the millionth time. “I hate leaving you these messages, Vivi.” I lower my voice to a hushed whisper. “But seriously . . . you wouldn’t believe who’s moving in next door.” I glance across my front yard to the one next to mine, where a group of massive, mountain-sized men are carrying furniture from a moving truck the length of a football field into the house, and sigh.

Is it suddenly getting hot out here?

Hotter than July in Kroydon Hills already is?

“I’m almost positive it’s half the Philadelphia Kings defensive line and maybe a few offensive guys too.” I drop a foot down from my porch swing to the plank floor beneath me, stopping the swaying motion, and inch forward. “And my goodness . . . they look even better in person than they do on TV. Dad’s never going to believe this,” I whisper more to myself than to her, and my heart pangs at the thought before I end the call.

Casually, I drop the phone and lift the dog-eared paperback from my lap.

Who am I kidding?

I’m never going to be able to read now.

Our yards are big. Only twelve houses surround this side of Sweet Water Creek—the smallest of the four lakes in the area and the only one that crosses the border between both Sugar Hill and Kroydon Hills. That line runs right between my house and my new next-door neighbor’s. Most houses on the creek aren’t as big as the ones on Kroydon Falls, or as new as the ones surrounding Blue Bell Lake, but the yards here are bigger, more spread out, and generally afford more privacy.

My new neighbor’s house is the one exception to that rule though.

The house that used to be there burned down years ago and was eventually replaced with this house a few years later, although we never did end up with new neighbors. Not until now, that is. The couple who built it divorced before they moved in and had been trying to sell it since then.

I glance over the top of my favorite comfort read, shooting for casual but probably coming off more like a creepy stalker to anyone who happens to look my way.

Lucky for me, they don’t bother to look.

The men work and laugh loudly as they torment each other the way my brother, sister, and I always did when we were younger, bringing a small smile to my face. I force my eyes away from the ridiculously attractive men—but not before they connect with the biggest one . . . the one who looks angry.

Shoot.

I drop my gaze immediately and flip back to the start of my chapter, attempting to convince myself all he saw was a woman reading a book. It doesn’t work when I feel his eyes burning holes into the side of my head.

Don’t look at the beautiful man, Emmie . . . Do. Not. Look.

Maybe that would work if I had an ounce of willpower.

But willpower is barely in my vocabulary.

I look up and lick my lips just as the glaring tank of a man with dark brown hair and even darker tattoos covering his skin pulls his heavy stare away from me and focuses on a little girl, who looks like she could be his mini-me running toward him, followed by a small tan and white bulldog puppy that’s trying to keep up with her but failing. When the puppy stumbles, the little girl stops and drops to her knees, not caring that she’s most likely staining her dress. She picks up the puppy, then looks up at the man, who scoops both her and the dog up in his arms and carries them into the house like they’re the most precious things in the world.

I pick my phone up again, wishing that move hadn’t made him exponentially hotter, and text Vivi.

I tuck my phone in my pocket and grab my book and iced tea and head inside to cool down. It’s not every day you find out your new neighbor is the same guy that has a Reddit page dedicated to him, discussing all the ways men and woman have tried getting close enough to study his tattoos.

It’s looking like a long, hot summer.

“What’cha doin’?” comes from a tiny voice carrying through the arborvitaes separating my yard from my new neighbor’s, just before a sweet little face pops through. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in two uneven space buns with crooked pink bows tied around each, and her chubby cheeks are stained the slightest red from too much sun. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s maybe four or five, but if I’m right and Maverick Beneventi is her dad, she could be younger and just be tall like him. I mean, his stats say he’s every inch of six foot seven, and going by what I could see yesterday, they aren’t lying.

Her little tan and white puppy sidles up to her leg and plops down like it’s exhausted. Same, buddy. Same.

My smile is instantaneous.

“Hi there, cutie. I’m taking a picture. What are you doing?” I ask as I drop my camera to my side and squat down in front of her.

“I’m exploring. Daddy says I can if I stay in the backyard where he can see me and don’t go near the creek.” Her head bobbles like she’s nodding her agreement, and I look over her shoulder for her father but come up empty.

Typical girl.

We agree to do what we’re told, but pushing the boundaries is so much more fun.

“Well, I think you might have just left your yard,” I tell her softly. “Your daddy might worry.”

“Nah. Daddy is like Superman, and Superman never worries.” Her eyes dart around my yard, big and soft brown, soaking it all in before her whole face lights up. “You have roses?”

I look at the beautifully deep pink and white variegated roses I cut this morning to take just the right photo for my Instagram account and lift one from the blanket, careful to make sure it doesn’t have any thorns. “I do. Would you like one?”

She nods again as her smile grows so wide, her chubby little cheeks practically touch her eyes. “Daddy buys me roses all the time. He says it’s cause I’m his rose.” She leans in as if she’s about to tell me the secret to the universe, and I clamp my lips closed to stop from giggling at her seriousness. “But really it’s cause my name is Briar Rose, but everybody calls me Rosie.”

“Well, that’s a very pretty name, Rosie. I’m Emily Rose. But my friends call me Emmie.”

Her face lights up with a beautifully innocent excitement as she giggles. “We have the same name,” she squeals, and the puppy contentedly snoring loudly at her feet jolts.

“We do,” I agree as I hear a loud, frightened man’s voice call out my new friend’s name. “Uh-oh. It sounds like your daddy is looking for you.”

“Oopsie,” she whispers, and her face pinches like she’s finally realized she’s not in her yard.

“She’s over here,” I answer and look up from my squatting position in front of Rosie as the man I saw yesterday, who does indeed resemble a tank, shoves his way through my trees. His shoulders visibly relax when he sees her, and he runs his massive, tattooed hand over her head and down her hair.

My body unintentionally warms as I silently wonder what it must feel like to have this man’s enormous hands on your body.

Rosie’s mom is certainly a lucky woman.

He cups her chin and smiles at the little girl. “I thought I told you to stay in our yard. How did you slip away from Uncle Ryker?”

“Sorry, Daddy. But me and Butterfly were exploring, and we saw Emmie having fun through the trees. We’re explorers, Daddy. We had to see what she’s doing.” Rosie looks up at me, bites down on her lip, and winks.

Winks.

Oh, this man is in trouble because this kid knows exactly how to play him already, and I’m surprisingly here for it.

He sighs, but it sounds more like a grunt before he looks at me—more precisely, at the camera in my hand. And that’s when he steps in front of his daughter with the fury of a thousand angry suns focused on me.

Oh damn.

“Take Butters and go inside, Rosie. Lunch is ready, and Uncle Ryker is in the kitchen.”

Butters . . . I cock a brow, wishing so badly I could ask him which it is—Butters or Butterfly. But luckily, I have some sense of self-preservation and keep my comment to myself, even if neither name looks like it should be coming out of this man’s mouth.

“But Daddy . . .”

“Now, please,” he tells her softly but leaves no room for argument. He also never removes his eyes from my camera until he turns to watch her cross the yards and she’s safely behind her door and in her house. Only then, with a tight jaw and a now cold, hard fury in his eyes, he seems to become even angrier than a minute ago. “The. Camera.”

He holds out that big palm I was fantasizing about just moments before, like I’m going to give him my camera.

Ummm. I don’t think so. “Excuse me?”

I realize I’m still squatting and stand and step back, so I don’t have to crane my neck quite as much to look at him.

Oh my. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone as tall as him before. Even my brother is only six foot five. But he’s leaner than this man. He might be nicer too.

A smarter woman would probably be intimidated.

Like Rosie said—oopsie.

“Your camera. Hand it over. I’m sure you’re seeing dollar signs with whatever picture you’ve managed to get, but trust me when I say my lawyers will have you regretting every single fucking decision you’ve ever made in your life if you think you’re going to sell that picture. Now . . . Give. Me. The. Camera.” His words carry a threat I don’t miss. They’re low and angry and kinda scary, but also strangely sexy. Not that it matters. He’s still not getting my camera.

Instead, I turn it so he can see the screen, and he moves forward only for me to take a step back. “Listen, Cujo. Back off. I swear to God if you touch my camera, you will not be the only scary person in this backyard. You’re on my property—uninvited, might I add. But if you stay there, I’ll show you the only pictures on this are of my flowers and my coffee.” I point to the setup on my white blanket. My hot-pink eyelash mug and this morning’s roses are strategically placed next to an open notebook. Across the screen are the words Drink the coffee and pick your own roses. Life is short. Don’t wait. Enjoy the little things.

I scroll backward, showing him a solid twenty-five photos before dropping my hand to my side. “I was taking pictures when Rosie came over and introduced herself to me. It never occurred to me to take her photo because I wouldn’t do that.”

He crosses two thick arms over his chest, and an old, worn, West End t-shirt pulls taut across what I have no doubt is a glorious chest.

Oh man . . . Do not drool, Emmie. Not cool. Not the first impression I need to make.

“Yeah.” He looks at the camera in my hand, and a muscle ticks in his jaw like he’s not sure he believes me. “Sure. Just don’t forget what I said. I swear to God, if you even think about taking pictures of my kid⁠—”

“I said I didn’t, and I wouldn’t. Unless you want me to swear it in blood, I’m not sure what else I can do.” Ohh. I like this badass version of myself. Not sure where it came from, but I’m here for it. I reach out my hand. “I’m Emmie. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I’m not actually sure it is—yet.”

His stormy blue eyes finally focus on my face, and I force myself not to suck in a sharp breath. The weight of his stare nearly forces me to squirm. “Let me guess. You’re going to act like you don’t know who I am?”

Laughing in his face the way I do probably isn’t the best move, but I can’t stop myself. “Wow. You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

He cocks his head to the side, unamused but not quite as angry as he was a second ago. “Am I wrong?”

I cross my arms over my significantly smaller chest, mirroring him, and smile. “Nope. I know exactly who you are. Your father was my dad’s favorite Kings player of all time. He’s going to think it’s so cool when I tell him you’re my new neighbor.”

Maverick Beneventi’s mouth opens, then closes again, and I laugh again.

“Think you could get me your dad’s autograph? That would be the coolest Father’s Day gift ever,” I ask, unable to help myself from poking the bear.

Take that, you big grump.

His dark eyes flare as his jaw ticks, and I roll my lips together to keep from laughing . . . again.

He shakes his head and walks away without another glance.

Why are the hot ones always such jerks?

Maverick

“Briar Rose,” I groan as I walk back into the house, glaring when I find her sitting between her uncles at the kitchen table. My brother, Ryker, on her right and my best friend, Jamie, on her left. All three smile when they see me, matching grilled chicken and garden salads on each plate. Thankfully, the guys refuse to make Rosie feel like she’s different because of her food allergies, something my family has embraced too.

“Sorry, Daddy,” she says and signs because Ryker is in the room, and for as long as she’s been alive, Ryker has been almost completely deaf. It comes second nature to her because it’s all she’s ever known.

“Young lady,” I say and sign, even though I know my brother can read my lips and probably has both hearing aids in. “You were told to stay with Uncle Ryker.” I stand opposite the three of them and ignore the way Ryker and Jamie hide their smiles. Shit-stirrers. “And what have we said about talking to strangers?”

“Emmie’s not a stranger, Daddy. She’s our neighbor.”

“Our hot neighbor,” Jamie mumbles under his breath, and I shake my head.

He’s not wrong.

“It was really hot outside, Uncle Jamie,” Rosie agrees, and Jamie smiles triumphantly.

I swear to God, I’m not sure why I agreed to let him and Ryker move in with me.

“Yes, it was hot outside,” I agree, not only because Rosie’s right but because Jamie is too.

Holy fucking hell.

Our neighbor is hot. Like seventh circle of hell hot. With an ass that could bring a man to his knees, cupped perfectly in ripped jean shorts, leaving miles of toned, tanned skin on display, and a white-ribbed tank top molding the most magnificent tits . . . Ones I’m gonna bet would fit perfectly in my damn hands. She had an effortless kind of beauty. Long brown hair, the color of melted caramel thrown up on top of her head with some kind of skinny braid thing tucked into it. And her eyes . . . I swear they were a golden-green like nothing I’ve ever seen.

She didn’t cower at all when I demanded her camera, and while that probably shouldn’t have been hot, it was.

“Yes, she’s our neighbor. And yes.” I look around the table at the three of them. “It is hot outside. But . . . that doesn’t change the fact you wandered off and talked to a stranger. You didn’t know her before you introduced yourself. You left our yard. And I didn’t know where you were.” I put my hand up when she opens her mouth to argue again. Something my daughter is very good at. This kid is going to grow up to be a lawyer with how much she likes to argue a point. “She may not feel like a stranger because she lives next door, but she is still very much a stranger. We don’t know anything about her.”

“Well . . .” Ryker grins as he signs, and I already know this isn’t going to be good. “We should fix that, shouldn’t we?”

“Housewarming party?” Jamie asks.

“No,” I answer at the same time Rosie squeals, “Party?”

Jamie shovels a forkful of salad into his mouth and doesn’t bother chewing. “She can’t live in that big house alone. Let’s have the hot neighbor over for dinner and hope there’s two of them.”

“Two?” I question, even though I know I shouldn’t.

“Just because you live like a monk doesn’t mean the rest of us do.” Jamie grins, and Rosie tilts her head.

I don’t live like a fucking monk.

Asshole.

“What’s a monk?” she asks, and I fist my hands at my sides because I can’t hit my best friend in front of my kid. As far as Rosie is concerned, we don’t hit. We use our words.

But you can bet I’m gonna hit Uncle Jamie hard at the first practice of the season in a few weeks.

Deep breath in . . . Slow breath out . . . I’ve got this.

“It’s kinda like a priest, sweets.” I try putting it in words she’ll understand, so I don’t tell her that her uncle is busting my balls about getting laid.

I warned them both before I agreed to the housing arrangement. No strange women in this house. No strange women introduced to my daughter. Ever. Nonnegotiable. They’re my top rules, right under no peanuts, no cats, and keep all other food my daughter is allergic to in cabinets she can’t reach.

Peanuts are the worst of Rosie’s allergies. Do not even touch my daughter if you’ve been near peanuts. The other things cause discomfort. Swelling. Splotching. Itching. But peanuts close off her airways. We live our lives with EpiPens stashed everywhere. We have no choice.

I’ve never shied away from talking to Rosie about her allergies, and even at her young age, she’s aware of them and what she needs to avoid. But she’s still only five, and mistakes happen.

Her mother did that once, and we almost lost our girl because of it.

That was two years ago, and that piece of shit decided a few months later that being a mother wasn’t for her anyway. Her loss, not Rosie’s.

My daughter barely remembers her.

“Oh.” Her little eyes crinkle for a minute, and she looks more like my baby than my rapidly aging five-year-old. I’m convinced I’m going to wake up and be looking at a teenager one of these days. She grabs Ryker’s arm so he looks at her, something only Rosie does because Ryker doesn’t care for people touching him if he doesn’t see them coming, and signs, “Can I go to Emmie’s house with you to invite her to dinner?”

Ryker looks between Rosie and me. He knows I want him to say no, but the shithead caves anyway. “Sure.” He shoves back his chair, picks up his plate and hers, then turns my way and shrugs. “So what time’s dinner?”

When exactly did I lose this fight?