I carry it to the porch like I’m presenting him with gold-leafed chocolate. Admittedly, that’s something he’d like more.
His eyes narrow. “You really love torture, don’t you? Was your nickname in college The Tormentor?”
I hand him the dish. “Just try it. Before you know it, you’ll be begging for radishes.”
One dubious brow lifts. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“C’mon. You liked the green beans.”
He raises a finger. “I tolerated them.”
“I bet you’ll find these . . .” I hunt for the right word. “Lukewarm. I bet you’ll find them lukewarmly delightful.”
A laugh bursts from his chest. “All right. I’ll give it a go.”
He takes the dish, picks up the bag with the remains of the ice cream, then bends closer, dusts his lips across my cheek, and says, “The best part of my date was how it started and how it ended.”
My eyes float closed. A burst of longing ignites in me, a fuse about to spark.
When I open my eyes, I see everything I feel reflected back at me.
“That was my favorite part of your date too,” I whisper.
For a few seconds, we stay like that, gazes locked, eyes searching, longing wrapping around us.
Like a low, steady pulse of music.
Like a waft of smoke.
It’s longing stitched with wishes and wants, with desire and heat.
With things we can’t have because we’re out of sync.
He turns to leave.
The next morning, I find the empty dish on my porch, along with a note.
* * *
Yes, they were lukewarmly delightful. I eagerly await your next vegetable torment.
* * *
I clutch it to my chest.
So do I, Liam. So do I.
15
January
Dear Universe,
* * *
Why, oh why, did you send Liam Harris to live next door? Did you want to test my resolve? Force me to prove my mettle?
* * *
If you want to make this sweet torture up to me, please send me extra measures of resistance.
* * *
Thanks so much,
January
I try my hardest to stay strong.
Tactics include but are not limited to:
Waving like Forrest Gump when I see Liam riding his bike to work the next day.
But not shouting, I want to strip off your scrubs and lick you all over.
Flashing super-duper friendly grins every time I catch a glimpse of him.
But not wiggling my eyebrows and saying, Let me torment you in other ways.
And forcing myself to dip my head in a bucket of ice water and chant, Do not go over there just because you saw him in his garage wearing basketball shorts while sorting through the dryer, and your eyes nearly popped out of your head on account of that gorgeous view of the finest ass you’ve ever seen.
Biteable tush indeed.
Yup. I do that instead of flinging myself at him and suggesting we bang on top of the vibrating appliance.
Self-control, thy name is moi.
Work keeps me busy, as does back-to-school prep for Wednesday, who starts tenth grade on Monday. I finish the door for the family with the boy who thinks he’s a monkey, I win the gig for Nina Clawson’s boba tea shop, and I send estimates to potential clients.
I am killing it as Jackie of All Trades. Yay me.
But these sky-high levels of resistance also require support. A woman cannot survive a hot AF neighbor by willpower alone.
She requires friends.
By Sunday, I am climbing the walls for some girlfriend time, and it’s coming that evening in the form of board games and beverage night, which we have occasionally. Alva sends me a check-in text that morning, and I pounce on it.
* * *
Alva: For tonight, are you thinking Candy Land and Cocktails, or Scrabble and Sangria?
* * *
January: How about Monopoly and Margaritas again? I can always go for that.
* * *
Alva: Sold. Chips and guac with that?
* * *
January: Girl, those go together like dolphins and AAA batteries.
* * *
Alva: I love your dirty mind. Speaking of, how is Prince Single Daddy Everybody Wants to Bang?
* * *
January: Ugh.
* * *
Alva: That bad?
* * *
January: That good . . . He’s better than fuzzy socks.
* * *
Alva: Hold on a hot second. How long has it been since you’ve had sex?
* * *
January: Two years, five months, and three days.
* * *
Alva: And six hours and thirty-two seconds, but who’s counting?
* * *
January: Exactly. Not me.
* * *
Alva: It’s probably time for an intervention. Want an escort?
* * *
January: Yes, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Send one now, please.
* * *
Alva: On his way. Until then, I’m just going to gently remind you that comparing a hot man to socks means you have completely forgotten how to ride a bike.
* * *
January: I have. I won’t even try to deny it. But in my defense, I haven’t forgotten how to work the dolphin.
* * *
Alva: And is Prince Fuzzy Socks starring in your dolphin dreams?
* * *
January: He is the lead actor, the supporting actor, the cameraman, the tech crew, and the sound engineer. And I have no regrets.
