But that’s just it. The whole thing is ridiculous. Because my neighbor, who hasn’t said more than a single word to me since I moved in over a year ago, who has literally only ever mowed his yard when I’m not home or gotten his mail when I’m not near enough to even wave, who eats—or throws away—every baked good I’ve ever given him without so much as a thank you, that neighbor banged down my front door, stormed into my house, and demanded to know who I took the sexy photos for. Like a possessive boyfriend who found another man’s boxers in my car.
But he didn’t just demand to know. No, he counted to three. He lifted me with one hand, between my legs, and then manhandled me in a way I’ve only dreamed of.
Clenching my thighs, I lift my head back up and face my mirror.
I look good.
I put on just enough makeup to look like I’m not wearing any while covering the dark circles under my eyes. I’m wearing leggings instead of shorts, a tank top instead of a baggy shirt, and a soft bralette instead of no bra—which is my compromise for having to wear any sort of bra on a Saturday.
Basically, I picked the opposite of everything I was wearing last night.
I’m sure I’m overthinking it, but at least there’s nothing about my appearance that can make him think I’m trying to recreate yesterday. But that’s also why I wore my hair down, even though the summer humidity will for sure frizz my curls between my house and his.
I square my shoulders. “Go across the street. Get your book back. Tell him he’s welcome to finish what he started. Then smile and walk back home.”
Before I can chicken out, I head down the stairs.
After Hans did that little runaway act yesterday, I’ve kept an eye on his house. And I know he came home about an hour ago—just in time for dinner. And I know he hasn’t left.
With one last deep breath, I slide my sandals on, then open my front door.
I’m only half hyperventilating by the time I get to Hans’s door. But I can’t turn around now, so I suck in a lungful of air and knock against the wood.
The sound is quiet, muted, like the door is made of something denser than mine, but it’s loud enough for someone inside to hear.
If he’s actually going to open the door for the first time ever.
Only a few seconds pass before I hear the deadbolt unlock.
Oh god, it’s happening.
When the door swings open, I start to talk. If I pause, I won’t speak at all.
“I came to get…” The rest of my words bump against each other inside my chest.
Hans is in loose-fitting sweatpants and a tight-fitting T-shirt. Jesus Christ. I want to put a steaming mug into his hands and stick him in a nineties coffee commercial.
Then I notice the exhausted look on his face. “Are you okay?”
He nods, and I watch as his narrowed eyes lower to my empty hands.
I bite my lip.
All the other times I’ve knocked on his door, it’s because I’ve brought him food. Now that he actually answers, I have nothing to offer.
Is he hungry? Is that why he actually answered the door?
Ohmygod, stop it. I don’t need to offer him anything. I’m here because the man stole my book.
“I would like my book back,” I say in what feels like a very mature tone.
Hans shakes his head.
Umm…
I hadn’t really considered him not agreeing.
“No, you won’t give it back?” I clarify.
He just holds my gaze.
“You can’t just keep it.” I lift my hands, fingers spread, in a what gives gesture. “It… was expensive,” I blurt out. Even if I shouldn’t need a reason. Because it’s mine.
Instead of replying, Hans steps back from the door, giving me my first view into his house. And I have to press my lips together to keep from smiling. Because from here, I can see that my guesses were correct.
The front door opens into the living room, like mine does. And off to my right is a little hall that must lead to the bedrooms. Right ahead of me is a doorway that must lead to a basement, and to the left is the kitchen, then the entrance to the garage.
Hans is stalking off to the right, toward the bedrooms, hopefully to get my book. But he didn’t ask me to follow, so I’ll just stand here and wait.
It’s a little dated. Not much in here but the usual furniture. Basically, a typical single dude setup.
Except above the couch, mounted to the wall, is a… sword.
Huh.
I glance around at the rest of the room.
A remote and a glass of water on the coffee table. A standing lamp next to the couch. A TV, bigger than mine, in the corner of the room, angled to the couch. Nothing expensive looking, but the pieces look sturdy and well kept.
I don’t require wealth from the hot man who kisses me like he wants to own me.
Hans reappears from the short hall, holding his wallet.
“What are you doing?”
Hans pulls a wad of cash out of the folded leather, and it looks like a bunch of hundreds. “How much?”
His voice snaps me out of my daze. It’s scratchy and quiet.
He sounds awful.
“Oh geez, are you sick?” I press my hands against my chest, suddenly feeling bad for bothering him.
Hans lifts his chin.
“Your throat?” I ask, assuming it hurts too much to talk. “Have you taken anything?”
His brows furrow.
“That’s a no.” I roll my eyes. “Have you had dinner?”
Expression not changing, Hans slowly moves his head from side to side.
“Okay, um, I’ll be back in five. Maybe ten. Just”—I wave my hand toward his couch—“leave the door unlocked.”
Before he can refuse me, I hurry away.
I’m not worried about Hans getting me sick. I mean, he had his tongue in my mouth yesterday. So if I’m going to catch it, I’m going to catch it.
But feeding people is my love language.
And thief or not, Hans looks like he could use some love.
CHAPTER 18
Hans
I stare at the ceiling for a solid minute before I move back to the couch.
Cassandra, my obsession, the worst baker I’ve ever met, is going to come back with who knows what to make me feel better because she thinks I’m sick.
I’m not sick. I’m just struggling to speak because I got popped in the larynx last night by a man I was in the process of killing.
I never should have opened her mail.
Settled back into my usual spot on the end of the couch, I watch through the living room window as Cassandra exits her house, makes it a few steps outside, turns around, goes back inside, comes back out, this time pausing to lock her door with her bundle of keys, then hurries back toward my house.
She’s dressed casually. But if she thinks skin-fucking-tight leggings are less provocative than shorts, she’s as wrong as she is tempting.
I grit my teeth, silently telling my dick to chill out.
I can’t sit here tenting my pants.
I shouldn’t even let her back into my house.
There are so many reasons why getting close to her is wrong.
So many reasons for me to jump up and lock my door. Tell her to stay away from me. Tell her to sell her house and move across the country.
But I can’t turn her away.
Because I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
And I don’t actually want her to go.
I want her to stay.
Cassandra hops up my steps and knocks once on the door before turning the handle.
Like she requested, I left it unlocked.
The door cracks open an inch, then swings in, allowing her entry.
“Hey,” Cassandra greets me shyly. Which is almost laughable since she was just here, and she’s back because she boldly inserted herself into my night.