“I don’t know about that. I managed to scale the fence earlier.”
The officer’s eyebrows rise imperceptibly and he turns to Uri with an expression that seems to read, She tried to jump your fence and she still lives to tell the tale?
Uri waves a gracious hand. “Of course Ms. Walsh will spend the night here. It’s no problem.”
“I beg to differ,” I blurt.
He turns toward me with a disappointed look that makes me feel like a disobedient child. “Alyssa, don’t be silly. This is a large house with plenty of guest bedrooms. Plus, I have twenty-four-hour security and a state of the art alarm system. Officer Imbroglio is right: this is the safest place for you.”
Yeah—then why don’t I feel safe all of a sudden? I’m feeling a lot more like a cornered animal caught between a rock and a hard place.
But no good counterarguments are coming to mind and the officer seems impatient as it is. He claps his hands and nods. “Well! Glad we got that settled. If you don’t mind me…”
Uri nods. “I’ll walk you to the door, Officer.”
Neither man looks my way as they leave the living room. Even though they’ve made all the decisions for me. The male species is consistent, you gotta give them that much.
I grab the tea, walk it over to the ficus in the corner of the room, and drain the cup into the painted cement pot. My mind is still racing. On the bright side? I wasn’t arrested. On the downside—it looks like I’m having an impromptu sleepover with my hot neighbor.
Which means I need a game plan. It doesn’t take long before one takes shape in my head. Turns out, it’s pretty simple:
Step One: Stay calm.
Step Two: Act innocent.
Step Three: Lie if you have to.
Step Four: Flirt if you must.
Step Five: Do not, under any circumstances, look directly into his eyes!
I think I’ve got all my bases covered. With my five-step plan in place, I’m feeling a little more confident when Uri walks back into the room. Of course, one look at that smile of his and my confidence is gonna start to unravel just like my tights did.
Remember Step One, Alyssa. Stay calm. I touch my charm anyway, just for good luck. “Did the officer give you any additional information?” I ask. I’m proud to report that my voice doesn’t even wobble or crack.
Uri is stone-faced. “They’re surveilling the area now. He said he’d let me know if there are updates.”
“You know, you don’t have to put me up. I can always go sleep at my friend’s place,” I suggest. “I don’t want to impose.”
He sits down next to me and crosses one leg over the other. “What kind of neighbor would I be if I didn’t offer you refuge when you need it?”
That would be really sweet if it weren’t for the fact that I’m pretty sure he has an agenda. It’s not like he’s running around door-to-door, offering Mrs. Heidegger and the other neighbors a safe haven. Then again, he hasn’t had sex with them, either.
At least, I don’t think he has. Though the thought of this behemoth of a man giving the moth-balling-smelling Mrs. Heidegger the dining room table treatment I got earlier tonight is pretty hilarious.
“Since you’re here, I can have my men bring you your package. It must be somewhere on the grounds.”
I do my best not to flinch. Remember the plan. “No need. You can keep it.”
“I’ve got my own toys.”
My gaze snaps to him so hard my neck pops. Pretty sure that the open gawking violates several stages of my five-step plan, but I’m having a wee bit of trouble concentrating on that right now. “Right. Of course. Silly me.”
He doesn’t seem to mind the silence that follows, but I start squirming after the first couple of seconds. Step One has thus far been a resounding failure.
“It really was for my friend,” I blurt. “The toys, I mean. They were for Elle. Not for me.”
Uri smirks. “It sounds like she and I would get along.”
“She’s getting married,” I snap before I can second-guess the impulse. “And even if she weren’t, you wouldn’t be her type.”
“She’s not my type, either,” he says with a casual shrug.
I frown. “How do you know that? You’ve never even met her.”
“She’s obviously the kind of woman who believes in marriage.” His irises have this weird kind of depth that makes me want to take a swim in them. “Marriage and I don’t mix.”
“Imagine my shock,” I say sarcastically. “You know, you may not be able to dodge that bullet forever. One day, one of those women you sleep with is gonna want more.”
“Seeing as how they never get a second date, I don’t see how that’s possible.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously? You’ve never been with the same woman twice?”
He looks remarkably comfortable sprawled out on the sofa next to me. “Never felt the need.” He throws me a flippant glance and my cheeks start firing up immediately. I don’t know why I even care. The man gets fingers in the freaking mail. I shouldn’t even want a second date with him.
I don’t want a second date with him.
“Maybe you have the right idea.”
His eyebrows drift upward. “You think so?”
I nod. “No one needs the drama. Or the pain. I’ve had like one relationship my entire life and I wasn’t anything close to happy in it.”
His lips purse. Why does he look irritated? Did he expect me to be sad that he wasn’t interested in fucking me again? Did he expect me to push back, disagree with him?
“Recent?”
“It ended three years ago. So not that recent, no.”
“Well, that explains the sex toys.”
I roll my eyes. “For the last time: They. Were. Not. For. Me!”
“Shame,” he says with a low chuckle. “It sounds like you need them a hell of a lot more than your friend does.”
I roll my eyes, even as my cheeks heat up yet again. I mean, he’s not wrong. Tonight is the first time I’ve had sex in over three years. Not that my Garfield panties weren’t a dead giveaway. But even when I was having sex, it was underwhelming on the best of nights.
I’m on the verge of telling him that when I stop myself. Why? Why do I feel the need to share so much of my personal shit with him? It’s not like he deserves it. It’s not like he’s even asking for it.
Just because you’ve watched him from your window doesn’t mean you know the man.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, though,” he adds, leaning in slightly. “It doesn’t matter how many toys you use: they won’t scratch the itch like a hot-blooded man will.” His gaze is intense as he holds eye contact for one more hot second. Then he relents and eases back, flippant again. “But I suppose, if you’re afraid to be hurt, they’re the next best thing.”
I recoil in irritation. “I’m not afraid to be hurt!”
“So you enjoy being lonely then, do you?”