“You’ll still visit me every summer, right?”
“Always.”
I pull away just in time to hear the doorbell ring.
“I’ll get it,” I call out, running my palms along my sides and brushing my hair from my shoulders. Yanking on the front door, I step back, preparing to usher in Aunt Rue’s real estate agent.
But instead, I’m looking at a vision of tawny, taut muscles, dark tattoos, and a deliciously wicked half-smirk that could only belong to Zane de la Cruz.
Quickly stepping outside, I pull the door closed behind me and whisper, “What are you doing here?”
His smirk fades as our eyes lock, and he presents a bouquet of daffodils from behind his back.
“Flowers?” I slip a hand on my hip. “Are you crazy?”
“Just wanted to apologize for the other day at the pool.” He extends the bouquet my way, and I take the pretties. “I think yellow means sorry or some shit like that.”
I resist the urge to inform him that yellow roses mean I’m sorry. Daffodils symbolize new beginnings. I can thank my mother, Bliss, for that knowledge. That woman knows the proper flower for any occasion.
“Thank you.” I glance over his shoulder, watching the driveway for the Realtor.
“Anyway, I know we got off on the wrong foot.” His hand hooks the back of his neck as our eyes meet, and his mouth widens in a way that makes my heart skip a beat without permission. “I’m not always an ass. Only when I want to be.”
“Delilah?” Aunt Rue’s muffled voice filters through the front door. “Who’s out there?”
“You have to go,” I say before turning back to the door to answer her. “Just a minute, Rue.”
Aunt Rue has made it perfectly clear on numerous occasions that she does not care for the “filthy football player next door,” claiming he has a filthy mind and a filthy mouth.
Only as much as she talks about him, I’m beginning to have my doubts. I’d almost say she’s borderline obsessed with him, and having officially seen that disgustingly handsome mug of his and noted his penchant for doing things his own way, I can fully appreciate where she’s coming from.
The gentle hum of tires on pavement steals my attention toward the driveway, where a black Bentley comes to a soft stop and a man with sandy blond hair dressed in a gray suit grabs a briefcase from his backseat. The car door shuts with a high-quality click before he heads for the sidewalk.
“You have to go,” I tell Zane again. Glancing toward Taylor, I acknowledge him with a wave and friendly smile.
Zane hops down from the front steps, cutting through Rue’s manicured lawn to get back to his place. She’d kill him. She’d literally kill him if she saw.
“Hi, I’m Delilah. Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand when Taylor reaches the front stoop. “I’m Rue’s great niece, and I’ll be assisting with the selling and moving and all that that entails.”
“Wonderful to meet you, Delilah,” he says, holding my hand in both of his. His smile is warm, his blue gaze intense. “I’m Taylor Forbes.”
He smells like money.
Literal money. Clean and sharp like copper and starched cotton.
Like he rolled around in a Scrooge McDuck pile of money and then showered beneath a waterfall of hundred-dollar bills.
And he looks exactly like the kind of guy who would be selling million-dollar homes. Pretty, almost. Professionally styled. Too much confidence in his stride.
I size him up the way I do everyone else; an old habit of mine. He seems like the kind of man who would never settle for perfection, and even then, I can imagine that sometimes perfection isn’t quite up to his standards.
There isn’t a speck of dust on his jacket or a strand of hair out of place. His car reflects the sun in the drive, appearing to be freshly waxed and polished.
“Come on in.” I pull my hand from his and reach for the door, feeling him close behind me.
“Aunt Rue, Taylor’s here,” I call out, resting the bouquet of daffodils on a nearby console table.
“In the living room, sugar,” she yells.
Taylor looks around the spacious entry, removing his polished shoes and following me to the next room.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Aunt Rue rises, going to Taylor and cupping his face as if he were a child. “How are you doing? I haven’t spoken to your grandmother since she up and moved to Phoenix, that old traitor. Couldn’t take the humidity here, I suppose. How’s she liking the southwest?”
“She loves it,” he says. “She’s living in Sedona now. I fly out for a visit a few times a year. Beautiful place.”
“She’s good? She’s doing well?” Rue asks.