“Well, since you offered . . .” My dad turns in his chair and gestures toward the front door. “Could you go water the flowers and the tree out front? I’ll order a soaker hose later this week, but it needs to be watered before that.”
If I was adding anything of value to the house, maybe I’d attempt to talk my way out of this chore that will force me into the sun. I’m still recovering from the sunburn I got while planting the dang tree. But my dad’s back has been bothering him since he ignored my sage advice to pick up the tree with his legs instead of his back and now I’m in charge of all gardening responsibilities.
“Fine.” I pretend to be put out, but there’s no power behind it. “But let me put on sunscreen first this time.”
“And a bra . . . and a clean shirt!” my mom shouts, unable to help herself. The midwestern motherly urge to nag and/or criticize one’s child cannot be tamed.
* * *
? ? ?
After finding clothing that will both please my mother and be appropriate for yard work, I grab my AirPods and turn on my favorite podcast as I get to work.
Before I know it, I lose myself in the simple activity, soaking up some much-needed vitamin D while the cool mist of the garden hose keeps me from getting too hot. I’m wrapped up in the host’s story, my writer’s mind busy anticipating what happens next and laughing at their over-the-top jokes, when a hand on my shoulder startles me half to death.
I scream out loud and spin on my three-dollar Old Navy flip-flops, never losing my grip on the spray nozzle. It all happens so fast that by the time my mind catches up to what’s happening, Nate is standing in front of me soaking wet.
“Oh my god!” I lower the hose and push up the lever on the back of the nozzle to stop it from spraying. “I’m so sorry.”
Nate shakes his head and water droplets explode off his slightly-too-long hair. I wish I could say he looks like a wet poodle, but he manages to look like a fucking ad for Realtors Gone Wild. It’s not that he’s jacked and his T-shirt has now molded to six-pack abs or anything. In fact, he’s softened up since high school. I don’t know if it’s because in LA, everyone was so obsessed with having the perfect body or because it’s so different from Peter’s, but I love a freaking dad bod.
And of course Nate “Single in the Suburbs” Adams is rocking the shit out of his.
“What the hell, Collins?” Nate growls, forcing my attention away from his physique and up to his face. The hazel eyes I spent so many summers staring into lack all the warmth I remember. A stark reminder that this isn’t a man I want to know. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” My spine snaps straight and adrenaline pumps through my veins, preparing me for the fight ahead. I’ve been villainized enough in the last couple of months and I’m not taking it anymore. Especially not over something so freaking stupid. “You snuck up on me while I was holding a hose! What did you think was going to happen? There’s no way you’re going to flip this to make me the bad guy here.”
The tips of his ears turn bright red, just like they did in debate class when I completely decimated his argument. If I remember correctly, it was so bad that he stuttered through his entire rebuttal and knocked his grade from an A to a B. While I may have tried to block out most of my high school experience, moments like those will stay with me until my dying breath.
I can tell he’s revving up to explode.
The Nate I used to know prided himself on never losing control. It’s what made him so popular in high school. He was this enigma who seemed utterly disinterested, yet totally involved. He did debate and played chess but was still the captain of the baseball team and, eventually, prom king. His clothes were thrift store chic before thrifting was cool, but he still managed to make everyone envious of his well-worn Chucks and faded tees . . . a far cry from the stuffy style he now has.
With my kinky curls and bronze skin among a sea of silky straight hair and rosy cheeks, I never felt like I fit in. He was my lifeboat in the storm. We felt like kindred spirits.
Until we didn’t.
Thankfully, before Nate can lose his cool and affect his standing in the neighborhood hierarchy, a woman I haven’t met approaches pushing a stroller that looks like it may have been designed by NASA.
“Good morning, Angela.” Nate’s peppy voice is unrecognizable from the deep, gravelly tone he had only moments ago. “How’s Mr. Liam doing today?”
What a freaking phony.
“Oh my goodness, Nate!” Angela engages the brake on her stroller. “You’re soaking wet! Are you okay?”
I don’t even attempt to resist the urge to roll my eyes. I mean, calm down, Angela. It’s June. Poor, precious Nate isn’t going to catch a chill.
“I’m fine. It’s only water.” He waves her off. “Just a little misunderstanding between me and Collins.”
Up until that point, I’m pretty sure Angela didn’t even notice I was standing there. She trains her eyes on me, taking her time to measure me up from head to toe and dismissing me just as quickly. It’s not a new experience for me in this town, being made to feel as if I’m invisible, not worthy of anything, but it’s still triggering AF.
The only thing worse than feeling like an outcast is feeling like nothing at all.
“Are you sure?” She bends over and reaches into the basket beneath the stroller. “I have a—”
“Thank you, but I’m sure.” Nate cuts her off. “I don’t want to hold you up any longer. Liam needs to get his walk in before it gets too hot outside.”
Now, if I didn’t hate Nate and he didn’t hate me, I might think he not only noticed the way Angela dismissed me but didn’t like it either. I might think that he very politely sent her on her way not because he’s concerned for Liam’s walk but because he’s concerned for me.
It’s a good thing I know better.
“So . . .” Nate says once Angela is out of earshot. “You’re a gardener now?”
“Small talk? Really?” I’m so not in the mood for this. He can fool everyone else, but he won’t fool me. Not again. “What do you want, Nate?”
He drags a hand through his thick black hair and groans. The low, deep rumble sends vibrations running through the ground and the worn-out rubber on my feet. I’m ashamed to admit that I feel it between my thighs.
“Listen, Collins. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. That’s fine,” he starts, and I have no idea where he’s going with this. “But I respect your parents and if you’re going to be my neighbor, the least we could do is figure out how to be civil toward one another. At least enough that we’re not spraying each other with water.”
God.
Even when he’s trying to make a truce, he’s still an arrogant, insufferable asshole.