“You’re just staying in?” she asks.
“What else would I do?”
“I don’t know.” She dabs cream blush on the perfectly round apples of her cheeks. “Go do something. Anything. Open yourself up to the possibility that something amazing is about to happen at any given moment. And, Del? Nothing amazing ever happens when you sit at home.”
“Daphne Rosewood, giver of sage advice.” I toss her a wink and get ready to waltz myself to the kitchen. “That’s a good one.”
For a hair of a fraction of a second, I consider accompanying Rue to the meeting, but I scratch that idea just as quickly as it came to me.
I kind of do want to see Zane again.
But, Jesus, he had my pants around my ankles in five minutes flat the last time I saw him. And my core has been in a constant state of arousal ever since.
I don’t make good decisions around him, which is exactly why our interactions should be limited.
He’s like a trigger.
I see him, and I want him, and I melt into a powerless puddle of arousal when his voice vibrates low into my ear.
And damn it.
I kind of, sort of, like him now. Or maybe I just like the way I feel when I’m with him?
Zane de la Cruz might wear a smile and a hard-on just for me, but it’s not my heart he’s after.
And that’s why a summer fling with someone like him is a heartache waiting to happen.
Chapter 16
Zane
“Zane, over here.” I glance to my right to see Ethel French standing on her toes, waving a piece of paper at me.
The Laguna Palms clubhouse is hopping tonight with homeowners. A long table dressed in red, white, and blue rests at the front of the room along with two ballot boxes clearly labeled with Ethel and Hank’s names.
“Hey, Ethel.” I approach her stand and she hands me a pamphlet outlining her platform.
“Wow,” I say, flipping through the glossy pages. “This is like the real deal. Very presidential. Look at you, Eth.”
“I’m sure I can count on your vote,” she says.
I glance at Hank. He stands in the corner, arms crossed and peering down his nose at everyone. Despite the fact that he’s clearly not the world’s most approachable guy, there are a decent amount of homeowners standing on his side of the room.
“Going to be a close one,” she says.
“Nah, you’ve got this,” I say. “I have a good feeling.”
“Feelings don’t win elections.” Ethel swats me on the shoulder. “Votes do.”
I grab a ballot and a pen and give her a wink. “I’d vote for you twice if I could.”
“You’re a good kid.” She smiles. “I don’t care what anyone says.”
“Thanks . . .”
“Say.” She leans closer. “You seem lighter.”
My brows meet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s something different about you. Something I haven’t seen before.” Her wrinkled gray eyes squint at me. “If I had to put my finger on something, I’d say you’re in love.”
My face scrunches. “Hate to burst your bubble, Ethel, but I’m not in love.”
“Then it’s the early stages,” she says. “You know, years ago, I used to run a successful match-making business in Dallas, Texas. I’ve seen it all. The good. The bad. The real. The fake. And whatever’s going on with you, Zane? It’s real as heck.”
Her serious expression makes me laugh. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. If I wear the face of a satisfied man, it’s only because I’m finding a release in the form of one smoking hot girl next door.
That’s all it is.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
“I’m going to go vote,” I say.
Ethel gives me a thumb’s up as I check the box beside her name, fold the ballot, and deposit it in the box. Before I leave, I make damn sure Rue Rosewood sees me, giving her a smile and a wave, and then I get the hell out of there.
On my walk home, I pass Rue’s house. It’s dark save for the landscaping lights and a little bit of lamplight in Delilah’s window.
Grabbing some small rocks from around the bushes on the side of the house, I toss one at the glass. Then another. Five rocks later, I see the curtains rustle as Delilah comes to the window.
Sliding it open, she rests her elbows in the ledge. “You’re ridiculously cheesy, you know that? You could have, like, called or texted or rang the doorbell. What do you think this is, an eighties movie?”
“Texting is overrated,” I say. “And ringing the doorbell after eight o’clock is prohibited in Laguna Palms except in the case of emergencies.”