Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Jesus Christ.
I soap up and rinse off fast, soap and water sluicing away the mess, but nothing can scrub her out of my brain. All I see behind my eyelids is Iris, skin flushed, eyes wide, lips parted in the kind of smile that makes me want to ruin her for anyone else.
I want her so goddam bad.
That’s the understatement of the year.
By the time I drag myself out of the shower, toss on sweatpants, and collapse on the edge of my bed, I’m still wired. Still thinking about her. There’s no peace.
I stare at my bedroom ceiling, veins still humming with leftover adrenaline and Iris-induced desire. My mind replays the way her voice gets all soft when she talks to her plants. The way she grins at me, like she thinks I’m funny and interesting and more than just the grumpy guy next door who can barely look her in the eye.
My chest squeezes. I roll onto my side and groan, pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead just to get a grip.
I’m so fucking gone over my stunning neighbor.
I want her with a hunger that's gone beyond craving into something primal. My body aches for her. Some nights, I lie awake staring at that shared wall between our apartments, wondering if she feels this invisible current humming between us, pulling like gravity.
I have to stop this. For real this time.
Starting a relationship with Iris? Disastrous. End-of-days, flaming-dumpster-fire bad. She’s barely out of college, all soft curves and brighter than daylight, and I’m just old, grouchy, and too set in my ways.
So, I tell myself I’m done. No more staring across the balcony. No more “accidental” run-ins in the hall, no more daydreaming about what she’d sound like screaming my name.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to bury this obsession for good. Distance, distractions, a goddamn exorcism. Whatever. Because letting myself want her? That’s the kind of craving that never ends well.
CHAPTER FOUR
IRIS
The Worthington Hills Saturday market is in full, shameless bloom. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s a full-on sensory assault. Sunlight everywhere, bouncing off every glossy tomato and wild flower bouquet. The air smells like kettle corn, cinnamon, and sunscreen. People are everywhere, crowding the main walkways, weaving between booths like bees hopped up on lavender lattes. I’m basically swimming in a sea of strollers, reusable bags, dogs in little bandanas, toddlers with sticky hands, and the occasional retiree absolutely crushing their power-walk.
Vendors are shouting, hawking jams and artisan bread and organic pet treats nobody’s dog actually needs but they buy anyway. There’s a guy with a saxophone playing “Careless Whisper” for spare change, and I have to sidestep a basset hound wearing a cowboy hat just to get to the next row. I love it. It’s chaos, but the good kind. The alive kind.
My basket’s already loaded down with heirloom tomatoes and a new aloe vera plant I’m going to add to my collection, but I’m still wandering the stalls, hunting for my next treasure.
Mostly, I'm trying not to think about Hunter Hartwell. You know, the six-foot-something wall of muscle and brooding sex appeal who’s been living in my brain rent-free for weeks, despite totally ghosting me. It’s pathetic. But I’m determined to get over this embarrassing obsession. That’s why I’m here, deep in the chaos of the market, determined to fill my head with anything except him.
Who cares if his hands are the size of dinner plates, and his eyes could make a nun spill her darkest confessions? I'm here to occupy my mind with something other than my smoking hot neighbor and to forget about the way my body lights up every time I think about his stupidly broad shoulders.
Today is about self-care. Not sex dreams about my neighbor. I mean it.
Truth is, I haven’t seen Grumpy since Wednesday. Not that I’m counting. Not that I checked the hallway every time I left my apartment or woke up at midnight and paced the living room, hoping to hear that familiar, deliberate tread outside my door.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. My pathetic little crush, which I’d assumed would die a natural, dignified death, has metastasized instead. I keep replaying that first interaction in my head—his voice all low and gravelly, his eyes pinning me like I’m a puzzle worth solving. I can’t even walk past his front door without thinking of his stupidly broad shoulders and the way he managed to look both bored and ready to eat me for dinner at the same time.
I reset my stance, squaring my shoulders. I’m a self-sufficient, capable woman, I remind myself. I don’t need a damn man. Hell, I’ve never needed one. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. The thought charges through me, hot and sure, and I let it settle, fierce and stubborn, right behind my breastbone. Maybe I want him—but I don’t need him. Not for a single fucking thing.