He didn’t know what to think about that. She was more than a faceless prude with killer legs and a stick up her ass. It all seemed contrary to the ideas he had formed about her, but he had actually enjoyed himself during that text exchange. It had been . . . fun.
An uncomfortable tightness wrapped around his chest and propelled him outside into his shop. This time he wore clothes. Even so, he forced himself not to glance, not even once, at her bedroom window.
He slid his helmet on and picked up his cutting torch. He didn’t know what he was creating, but that was usually his process. Equipment in hand, he simply went to work. Welding emptied his mind in a way that he so desperately needed. He felt clear-headed and free of all the usual shit weighing him down. He found a stillness in those moments that eluded him the rest of the time.
Sparks flew as he cut, bent, burned and manipulated the metal until it became something that resembled art. At least he hoped so. He hoped that when he was done, it would be fashioned into something someone would pay good money for.
An hour later he surfaced from the stillness to call it quits. He closed up his shop, locking it with a chain, and then walked across his yard, his gaze unavoidably drifting to her upstairs window. It was impossible not to look up on the walk back. She was still awake. Light bled out through her closed blinds.
Entering his house, he went for his phone to see if she had texted him any more.
Nothing. Not surprising.
Before he could consider it, he started typing.
So you only wanted to talk to me to complain about the volume?
He set his phone down and stared at it for a long moment. Waiting.
“Shit.” Shaking his head, he turned away with a grunt of disgust. He couldn’t leave well enough alone. The question was a lame excuse to keep engaging with her, to reach for the pleasure he had found texting her earlier.
For all he knew, she wasn’t anywhere near her phone. He wasn’t going to stand staring at his screen like some idiot pining for a girl to text him back. He moved into his kitchen to get a drink, but the sound of his phone buzzing had him turning back. He snatched it up.
I actually had a list of complaints.
He snorted and felt himself smile. Of course she did. He replied: What else?
Three dancing dots appeared as she started typing. Could you please refrain from parking your bike on my side of the driveway?
Huh. Yeah. He did do that. Just habit, he supposed. The place had been vacant for a while and he was used to hogging both driveways. He texted: Nothing else?
The three little dots appeared and then went away as though she changed her mind about commenting. He grinned and typed. Don’t be shy now. You’ve come this far.
Maybe wear more clothes . . .
He laughed and then glanced at their shared wall, wondering if she could hear him. So you were looking.
Just for a second.
Liar.
You’d like to think I stood there spying on you.
I saw your shadow.
You’re wrong.
Chuckling, he decided to let her cling to the lie. He next texted: Summers are hot in Texas.
Another text popped up. I’m perfectly aware of that. But I don’t walk around naked. He could practically hear the indignation in her words.
Maybe you should. I wouldn’t mind.
More dots appeared and then disappeared.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said under his breath, his thumb stroking the side of his phone. “Don’t go all shy.”
She took the bait. One naked neighbor is enough.
Two naked neighbors would be better.
Yeah, he was flirting. Only her next text proved that she was resistant to his efforts.
We don’t know each other. You haven’t even seen my face.
Easy to rectify. Open your door. Show me your face.
She took her time replying and he wondered if she was actually giving the proposition some thought. Something that felt like hope swelled in his chest. Finally, her reply popped up on his phone: I don’t think so.
Why? You got something better to do?
I’ve got a bottle of wine and a Cupcake Wars marathon.
Sounds boring.
You’re clearly not a fan of wine. Or cupcakes.
Oh I like cupcakes. I eat them all the time. He was not talking about cupcakes and she was smart enough to realize that.
I bet.
He couldn’t help himself. What are your cupcakes like?
Rest assured. You’ll never know what they’re like.
He was grinning now. In fact, he had been grinning this entire text conversation. He didn’t know the last time he had smiled for this long. He squashed his smile, but texted back: Now you have me intrigued. Is that your game?
I don’t play games.
Good to hear. Neither do I.
Dots appeared and then vanished. He must have thrown her a little with that bit of honesty. And it was honesty. He was always direct with his women. Not that she was his woman. The dots reappeared signaling she was replying back.
It seems like you play lots of games.
What do you mean?
I can hear you remember? Through the walls. Often.
Oh. That? That’s called fucking.
Do you just say whatever pops in your head?
Like I said. I don’t play games.
So you just say whatever you want?