“His?”
She rolls her eyes, refusing to act excited, but I see it in her wrinkled baby blue eyes. She maybe be seventy-five, but she’s not dead. There’s still plenty of mileage left on that old heart of hers.
“So much for not looking at men, eh?” I tease.
“Oh, you hush.”
“Don’t stay out too late now.” I toss her a wink and relish the fact that her little rage against Zane has come to a halt for the time being.
Defending him felt incredibly unnatural, though I suppose I could cut him a bit of slack on behalf of the beautiful flowers and apology he hand-delivered earlier.
Maybe he’s not a giant asshole. Just a regular-sized one.
I return to my guest suite, passing by the bathroom where my “schoolmarm” swimsuit hangs on a towel rack.
Yanking it off, I toss it in the trash.
I can’t look at it now without thinking of him. He’s everywhere. Under my skin. Invading my thoughts. His smooth-as-velvet voice playing in my head like an earworm. I can’t even look out the window without seeing him.
That man tries my patience something fierce, and I barely know him.
Anyway, Aunt Rue has nothing to worry about. Flowers or not, he’s not weaseling his way into my heart. Or my pants. And I’ll be damned if I let someone like Zane de la Cruz break my heart this summer.
Or ever.
Chapter 4
Zane
The For Sale sign in Rue’s yard is the most obnoxious shade of puke orange I’ve ever seen. A photo of Taylor Forbes grinning, arms folded, is printed across it along with his name in big white letters.
Under a dusky evening sky, two solar-powered spotlights shine bright, illuminating his virtual presence.
Orange Grove Luxury Realty.
His damn name is bigger than anything else on that thing. The asshole walks around like he’s a local celebrity, and every time I see his smug face, it takes all I have to keep myself in check.
What’s worse is thanks to some family favors, he’s become the official real estate agent of the Gainesville Cougars. But I’ll be damned if I ever use his services.
Seems almost every other day his Bentley cruises the streets of Laguna Palms. He comes and goes as he pleases. Helping himself. Making himself right at home. Laying claim. Just last year, the association voted to give him an all-access pass on account of him selling so many houses in this development.
It’s been two days since I dropped off the flowers and apologized to Delilah like some kid who broke a window with his baseball.
I don’t make a habit of apologizing, and I’m not particularly any good at it, but it seemed like the right thing to do after the pool incident.
I give people shit.
That’s what I do.
But it was never my intention to hurt her feelings.
I take a seat in my living room, glancing out the window toward Rue’s driveway. There have been hardly any comings and goings from that direction, at least not that I’ve seen, and I’ve been watching more than I probably should.
Coach wants me to reflect more. To quiet my mind. To sit in silence with no TV, no phone, no noise. He thinks it’ll help me focus and keep me calm. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit, but I’m willing to give it a shot if it’ll help get my career back on track.
I did a lot of damage the last few years. Made a lot of mistakes. Did things I’m not proud of.
My wakeup call came bright and early on a Sunday afternoon after one hell of a weekend bender. Coach called and told me he and the owner had a meeting about me. They were concerned about me ruining the reputation of the Gainesville Cougars, and with the team being so new and with millions of dollars being pumped into marketing, they were considering letting me out of my contract early.
The arrogant asshole in me huffed in response, telling him I could get signed to another team the very next day if I wanted. All it’d take is one call to my agent. But Coach responded with a pause and a sigh, telling me no team in their right mind would sign a liability like me. I didn’t say it at the time, but I knew he was right.
This silence gets under my skin. Makes me think too much. Even the ticking of the clock in the foyer makes my teeth grind.
Rising up from the sofa, I move to the back door and dig out my running shoes. Hammering out some quick stretches, I jog in place for a minute before heading out the door.
Striding down the block, I pass Rue’s house, forcing myself to stare straight ahead and not look for a flicker of light through the windows. I jog up the hill, past Mrs. Donovan’s orange trees, and keep going until I’ve long passed Harry Rittmer’s prize-winning peony bushes.
I’m too fucking young to live here.
Rounding the corner, the first thing that comes into focus half a block down are a pair of neon pink jogging shorts. A dark ponytail bobs up and down as she takes even strides. Picking up my pace, I catch up a moment later, tapping her shoulder once.