God, I sound lame. Words like that should never leave the lips of a twenty-four year old, but someone needed to come over here, and it was either Rue or me. And a little old lady has no business wandering into a party like this at two in the morning.
Hercules bites his bottom lip and winces. “Oh. Sorry about that.”
“I flew in a few hours ago,” I say. “I’ve been traveling all day. My head is pounding. I’m sleeping on a ridiculously hard mattress with really flat pillows that overwhelmingly smell like Aunt Rue’s lilac perfume, and all I want is a little bit of sleep, but all I hear are drunk people screaming and music pulsing.”
He laughs, studying me.
I tug on the hem of my pajama top. “The green is just a coincidence.”
“So you didn’t come here looking to hook up, then?” He tilts his head, but his smiling eyes tell me he’s teasing.
“Not. At. All.” I hand him the beer-soaked rag, and he blindly tosses it in the sink behind him with stunning accuracy. “I haven’t seen a lot of people in yellow tonight. What’s your story?”
He shrugs. “Just coming out of a long-term relationship. Wasn’t sure if there’d be anyone here tonight worth wearing green for.”
“Cautious. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Something like that.” Hercules lets his gaze fix on mine a little longer before exhaling and gently hitting his hand against the counter beside me. He offers a bittersweet smile and steps back. “All right, well, Zane will be here in a sec.”
With that, he is gone, and I feel bad never having asked his name. He was the least asshole-ish man here tonight, and I wish I could’ve thanked him for not treating me like a piece of meat.
Once again, I’m alone in the kitchen, and I’m half tempted to start cleaning up because standing here twiddling my thumbs is only making me more riled up with each passing minute.
With my back against the island, I watch the clock.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
People flit in and out of the kitchen, passing through, grabbing drinks.
I yawn and check the clock again.
I haven’t even met Zane de la Cruz, and already I’m convinced he’s a giant asshole for throwing a ridiculously obnoxious party on a weeknight, no less, and for keeping me waiting, which I’m positive he’s doing on purpose.
And the stories.
Oh, lord, the stories.
He’s the one getting Aunt Rue so worked up all the time. I have to hear about it every week during our Tuesday night phone chats.
Aunt Rue claims he’s been nothing but trouble since he moved into their little gated community, and as the president of the Laguna Palms Home Owner’s Association, or HOA as she calls it, she gets the pleasure of dealing with him every time he refuses to trim his hedges to the covenant-required height or the time he painted his front door in team colors or the time he answered the door with nothing but a sock on his privates and a smirk on his face when Aunt Rue interrupted his three o’clock three-way.
She says he won’t play by anyone’s rules but his own, and it’s a miracle the Gainesville Cougars haven’t kicked him to the curb already.
No wonder she can’t stand him: he’s made it his personal mission to live a life of hedonistic defiance.
I blow a strand of hair from my eyes and unhook my arms. I can’t stand here doing nothing a minute more. Stacking red Solo cups into other red Solo cups, I dump them into an overflowing trash can at the end of the island. Next, I move to the chips, crumpling up the empty bags and tossing them as well.
Some miscellaneous plates and silverware fill the rest of the island. I stack them neatly and place them in the left side of the kitchen sink before searching the cabinets for a bottle of cleaner for the spills on the counter.
Lastly, I stoop down to the mess on the floor, a clean rag in hand, and sop up the spilled beer and wine covering the dark wood floor courtesy of the crazy exhibitionists.
A man clears his throat. “I was told the maid wasn’t coming until noon.”
I look up, my gaze landing on a bulge the size of Texas hiding behind clinging, sun-faded, olive-green chinos.
A tan hand reaches down, palm open wide.
Swallowing the dry lump in my throat, I place my hand in his and allow him to pull me into a standing position. My lungs gasp for air as I attempt to find my balance as a delicious, woodsy scent invades the space around me.
This man oozes sex appeal. He doesn’t even have to do anything but stand here, looking at me the way he is, and my knees buckle.
No one, and I mean no one, has ever done this to me.
I’m quite embarrassed actually, and my cheeks are giving it all away.
My stare lands on a crisp white-shirt that clings enough to show off washboard abs, and then I lift my gaze to the bare flesh of his sun-kissed chest, accentuated by a V-neck only someone looking like this could pull off outside of a fraternity setting.