Peering into the basket, I catch sight of radishes, and I flinch.
Ethan smacks my arm, chuckling.
January’s brow knits, and her daughter laughs. “I told you,” Wednesday whispers. “The new brown.”
Ethan points at me. “He hates veggies.” He peers into the basket. “He hates radishes the most.”
And the lovely brunette winces. “Shoot. Really?”
That’s a cringe. That’s most definitely a cringe.
“He really, really hates them,” Ethan says, digging me deeper into the hole.
Wednesday raises a hand. “I told her. No one wants veggies as a gift. Especially radishes or cilantro.”
“Do you hate cilantro too?” January asks, the cringe factor still high.
“It’s not that I hate cilantro, per se,” I say, trying for diplomacy.
“He thinks it tastes like soap. And it does,” Ethan says.
“I like soap,” I put in, as if that makes things better.
“Soap is good,” January says.
Wednesday smiles and offers Ethan a hand for high-fiving. “But who wants to eat soap?”
“Not me,” he says, then points to the back of the house. “I have a pool. Want to see it?”
“Sure.”
In seconds, they disappear, heeding the siren call of chlorinated water as I stand on the porch with a basket of veggies I won’t eat and my sexy new neighbor with her work boots, tattoos, and that smile I want to kiss off.
But I won’t.
Because she is off-limits. Kissing the smile off of one’s neighbor’s face isn’t neighborly behavior at all.
“Sorry about the radishes,” she says. “I guess they are the new brown, rather than the new black.”
“I completely appreciate the gesture though,” I say warmly, so she’ll know that flinching at the first sight of radishes isn’t what defines me as a person.
“There are flowers in there too,” she offers. “And a bar of homemade soap.”
“Because I smell?” I deadpan.
She chuckles. “I was worried you’d say that.”
“Oh, I can take a hint. But as I mentioned, I do like soap.” I peer into the basket, a smile tugging at my lips as I spot the daisies. “Ah, my favorite flowers. My mum likes these.”
“And the flowers remind you of your mom. I’m batting zero today,” she says, a little forlorn.
I furrow my brow. “I like my mum. So it’s a compliment.”
“Oh.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No? Yes? I don’t know.”
I laugh. “Sorry. The gifts are lovely.”
She laughs and gives an easy shrug. “Most men don’t admit to liking their moms. Also, you can feed the radishes and cilantro to the local raccoons if you’d like.”
“Actually, raccoons are also not the best market for offerings of cilantro.”
“They’re not?”
“No. They like nuts, seeds, fruits, eggs, insects, frogs, and crayfish,” I answer seriously.
She deals me an inquisitive stare. “Are you a raccoon-ologist?”
“Sort of,” I say. “I’m a vet.”
“I’m a carpenter.”
My eyebrows rise as I point to her pocket. “That would explain the hammer in your pocket.”
“Oh, no. The hammer is for when I lock you up in my basement.”
I play along. “I was hoping you’d be game for that. Want to go now?”
She laughs. “Actually, my daughter told me the best housewarming gift would be to offer to hang pictures or art for you. And, as is the case with most things in life, she was right.”
“Hold on. You’re saying I get soap, flowers for Mum, and your picture-hanging expertise?”
“You left out the radishes and cilantro.”
“No. I just didn’t get to them yet. They’re for the raccoons. I’ll leave them out tonight for the bandits.”
“Then I want a report tomorrow,” she says.
For a second, I simply stand there, enjoying, much more than I should, the unexpected, delightful view of my gorgeous neighbor.
My off-limits neighbor.
Must not consider her an option for the dating plan.
I glance around, trying to think of something else to do than stare at her lovely face. “Want to see the inside?”
“I would love to.”
I show her into the house as two guys leave the bedroom and pull a mirror from a box.
“Any idea where you want this, sir?” one of the guys asks.
I glance around, not quite sure. “You can just leave it against the wall.”
January lifts her chin, nodding at the guy. “Hey, Joshua. How’s Maggie? She just turned one, right?”
“She’s walking now,” the guy says with a pleased-as-punch grin.
“Excellent. I bet she’s a handful.”
“And we love it.” Then he addresses me, pointing to the front door. “We’re going to grab some more things. Almost done. You don’t have much.”
“I’m a minimalist,” I say.
“Cool,” the guy says, and strides out.
I turn to see January has a hand on the leather couch, and she’s nodding knowingly. “I notice you’ve got a whole man-pad vibe going on here.”
“You think so?” I ask, as if the thought never occurred to me.
“I mean, it’s hard to tell with all the black, white, and chrome. But if I had to guess . . .”
“Hmm. What do you know? Seems I do.” Then I shrug. “Honestly, I think it might be time to ditch it.”
