All the Waters of the Earth (Giving You ... #3) (2 page)

The duplex was part of a larger complex. Because I was home a lot, I could probably tell you about everyone in the complex—the elderly couples who watched television together, the college kids who had one too many parties, and the newlyweds with a baby on the way.  But my unit was off to the side and shared a wall and a laundry room with the unit next door, which was a rental. Someone moved in over the weekend but I hadn’t met them yet. It was probably a bachelor, what with the dark furniture and big television.  I’d only seen the moving truck—and the movers, jean-clad and wiry, but young, sweaty, and cute.  

My patio adjoined the neighbor’s, and looked out over the pool. I loved to swim—I really loved being in the water—and I used the pool often.  We were lucky in California that the time of year did not hamper our ability to go swimming and I could go in the pool now even though it was early December.

Thinking about my current writer’s block, I decided that maybe I just needed to get out of the house and take a break. Rob wouldn’t be back from school for a while. Sometimes doing mindless, automatic things like laundry or swimming helped with the writing.  Good ideas came to me then.

Downing the last of my drink, I went into the bedroom and put on a pink string bikini. As I said, I was very much a girlie girl. I lived so close to the pool, that I didn’t need any cover-ups—just a towel and my oversized sunglasses.

Grabbing my keys, I slipped on my high heeled sandals and threw open the door to a man standing there, with his hand raised to knock on my door.

A very handsome man.

The most handsome man that I had ever seen.

Thick, ebony hair. Sapphire blue eyes. His face had the curves and the edges of a romance hero, with high cheekbones, hollows in his cheeks, and a shapely jaw.

He was dressed in Mr. Businessman attire—a crisp white shirt, perfect, thick, and lush; a gray and blue silk tie that matched his eyes, not too shiny, not too matte; and a dark gray suit that enhanced his frame. He was tall, but of course everyone was tall next to me. Short girl problems.  That said, he was probably a foot taller than me, or more, with muscular legs, a flat waist, and broad shoulders.

For a second, I couldn’t react.  Or rather, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  My fictional hero at my door.  I almost laughed.  That didn’t happen to me.  I mean, really, despite the evidence, there was no fucking reason why this man should be at my front porch. He was the kind of man I wrote about in my books. 

But I knew for certain that those men didn’t really exist. They were just figments of my imagination. Real men have bellies and are too short or too lanky and wear cargo shorts and Star Wars t-shirts and need to manscape. They don’t show up at your door looking like Gideon Cross.

He looked at me, equally startled, and then his vibrant eyes went up and down my curvy body, taking in my tiny pink bikini and high-heeled sandals. Well,
guapo
, nice to meet you too.  He rocked back on his heels, bringing a hand to the back of his neck, and stared down at me.  Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.  I was mesmerized by his partially open mouth displaying a glistening tongue and perfect white teeth.  Putting his hand down and shoving it in his pocket, he opened his eyes wider.  Then he seemed to recover, took a step back, and started talking in a great baritone voice.

“Hi, I’m Jake Slausen. I moved in next door. I’m staying here while my place gets remodeled. So, I guess I’m your neighbor. Nice to meet you.  What’s your name?” 

He was chatty.  Aren’t most romance heroes quiet?  But
God
, the sound of his voice.  Sexy chatter in a deep voice that I could
feel
in my body.  He made me not want to do anything that would make him go.  I wanted him to stay on my porch forever, even if I was in a string bikini.  
Especially
if I was in a string bikini.

And him?  He looked equally flustered—a red tint to his cheeks and a shortness of breath that told me he noticed my curves.  But I answered his question.

“Lucy Figueroa,” I said, shaking his hand. His hand was warm, firm, and strong.  I noticed that he held my hand just a second longer than most people did.  I wanted to get to know that hand better.

I wondered what it would feel like between my legs.

Probably pretty damn fine.

Shaking off my naughty thoughts and remembering my manners, I continued, “I was just heading for the pool. Have you been down there yet?”

“Not yet. I have to get back to work.”   Regret washed over his face.  He looked genuinely disappointed that he couldn’t go.  “I stopped by here because I forgot my walk-through papers and I needed to return them to the management office.  I thought maybe I’d left them in the laundry room because it was the last part on the list.  I went to check it—we share it right?” I nodded. “Well, I went to check it and I found my papers but I also found these and I figured that they were yours.”

And he held out his other hand with a funny look on his face that was embarrassed, amused, and if I wasn’t mistaken, turned on.  There dangling, in those hands that I wanted to meet, were a pair of my red lace thong panties.

No way.

“Those yours?” I asked, trying not to be too embarrassed.  Talk about meet cute.

His cheeks burned as red as my panties and he laughed. “No.  Not my style.  Well, I mean they
are
my style.  I mean, I like them but they aren’t . . .”

I took pity on him and grabbed my undergarment with a grin. “Thanks.”

Then we stared at each other. I bit my lip and jutted out my hip. He ran his fingers under his jaw and then behind his neck again.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Lucy. Good to get to know my neighbors.  I work long hours but I’m sure to see you around.  Let me know if you need a cup of sugar or anyth—”

“I’ll have to bring you some tamales,” I offered, coming up with an excuse to see him again. “Christmas is coming.  My mom and I make them for the holidays.”

“That sounds good,” he said absently, still looking up and down my body.  It made me shiver even though it wasn’t cold outside.  And then he took a step backwards and brushed up against the large potted ficus that sat on my front porch, tripping slightly. Pushing it aside, he turned to leave and said with a smile that made my insides get all squishy, “Well, I’ll be seeing you. I have to go back to the office.” And then he turned and left.

Yes, I did want to be seeing him again and I wanted it right this minute.  I couldn’t help but think that his job was really inconvenient, because it got in the way of me getting to know him better.  I stared at him as he left and then I closed my door slowly, went down the hall, and deposited my red panties in my bedroom.

A pulse of excitement ran through my body from top to toe. Of course I was short so this didn’t take too long. But this thrill that I felt? I hadn’t felt it in a long time.  Maybe since high school?  Since my rat bastard ex?

And this guy was my new
neighbor
?

Life was about to get more interesting.

I needed to cook up a plan to get to know him better. He seemed just perfect—perfect looks, perfect manners, perfect voice. I wonder if he was perfect in bed, too.

Retracing my steps to my front door, I took my towel, sunglasses, and keys to the pool, now on a mission to think about not only the plot to my new book, but also this new romance hero, living next to me.

I was up to my elbows in masa. Seriously.

Rob sat on the floor of the living room, the annoying music of Minecraft droning on, playing with his Xbox. He once tried to explain the point of Minecraft and I never got it. Endermen?  Steve?  But it seemed harmless and actually creative, so I let him play. 

Twelve year old boys like videogames and I struggled with the tension of wanting to be a cool mom who let him do what he wanted, such as rot his brain in front of the television, versus wanting to be mom the enforcer who’d tell him to ride his bike or read a book. As a single parent, I was both, and I couldn’t decide which one was more important. Sometimes he needed a friend. Sometimes he needed a parent. Although I tried, it felt impossible to do both well. Today was cool mom, since he was OD’ing on the Xbox. What can I say? I did my best.

Carlos Castro, my ex-boyfriend who got me pregnant, still lived in town and he saw Roberto every other weekend. I took full advantage of the weekends I didn’t have Rob, getting drinks with the girls and dancing.

Not that I didn’t love my kid. Just every parent needs a break.

Carlos worked for his parents, who owned a chain of flooring shops.  He was a manager. He made decent money and normally paid his child support, but our relationship wasn’t good. We were always civil in front of Rob. Sometimes we were civil to each other when Rob wasn’t around. But sometimes it got very ugly when we were on our own.

I didn’t really want to think about that right now. I was too busy making tamales. 

My friends, Georgie and Sara, were in the kitchen, dealing with the corn husks, while my mother tended to the seasoned pork. Georgie was short like me, but she let her hair frizz, unlike me. She worked as a bookkeeper for an automotive parts dealer and told the best jokes. Sara, taller, more regal and elegant, almost always wore white. She was quiet, but when she talked, whatever she said was important and made you laugh or think. She always had the best clothes because she worked at Macy’s and spent all of her money using her employee discount. My mother was just like me—same height, same high maintenance, same looks, just twenty years older and a grocery store cashier.

Although we chatted while we cooked, we were all intent on our tasks. Tamale making was serious business.

My mother made tamales regularly, but for me, it was a once-a-year event—only at Christmas.  I tried to make a ton to freeze for later. I always enlisted help, because there were so many steps in the process. That said, it was fun. For example, even though it was barely ten o’clock, all of us were on our second margarita.  It was a party!  At least the type of party where you all had a job to do and needed to coordinate to make it work well. So we drank, we cooked, we assembled, we chatted, we laughed, and we had a good morning.

It was Saturday, five days after I had met Jake, my neighbor. In that period of time, I’d become obsessed with seeing him again.  I mean, he was going to be the inspiration for my next book, right?  So I needed to observe him. It was research.

Yeah, that was it.

I’d spent the entire week trying to come up with ways to talk to him or run into him.  In so doing, I’d deduced the following.

He lived an incredibly regimented life. I heard his door open every morning at five-thirty. Then the door opened at six-fifteen. Then it opened again at seven and never opened again until after seven or eight every night at the earliest.

As far as I could tell, this meant that he went for a run every morning, first thing. When he left to go for a run, he wore a tight, white t-shirt and long, black athletic shorts.  He went out looking sleepy and came back bright-eyed and covered in sweat.

That only made him look better.

Then he went inside his duplex and I presume that he showered, ate breakfast, and went to work, working twelve hours a day until he came back home. He always wore a pristine suit, even wearing the jacket, very formal, no shirtsleeves for this guy. His cufflinks winked in the early morning sunlight.  And his long hours? Man, that type of schedule was so dreadfully boring.

I didn’t know what he did that made him work so much, but I hoped that he loved it, or at least got paid well for it. Based on the look on his face, though, I concluded that he was tired by the end of the day and very done with life and what he was doing. He didn’t look happy, the bright-eyed spark from his morning exercise gone.

I made these deductions through careful observation and analysis.

Okay, I could tell this by peeping out the little hole in my front door.

I was reduced to being a stalker.

He hadn’t had any visitors the whole week he was there. I hoped that he was single. For, you know, research purposes.  And he was very quiet, with no music, or even television blaring.  I needed an excuse to see him.  Thus my tamale delivery plan.