So Toxic(Bad Boy Next Door Book 4)(73)

I bite my lip as he traverses the tree, wincing each time he pulls himself up to the next level. But before two minutes have passed, he’s high above, kitten in hand.

Chloe lets out a loud meow, as though she’s suddenly afraid.

“Got her.” He tucks my kitten into his breast pocket and makes his way to the ground.

Chloe’s nails hang onto his shirt when he pulls her from his pocket. “Let go, cat. I prefer claw marks on my back.”

On his back? I bet.

Chloe’s fur puffs out and her toes spread wide as he hands her to me.

I curl her into the crook of my arm and turn toward my house. “You must be a cat person. Thanks for saving my pus—Chloe.”

“No ma’am. Thank you.”

I continue up my walk to my front porch.

As my hand lands on the door knob, he calls out, “Hey.”

My gaze meets his over my shoulder.

His long sleeved shirt strains across his pecs as he drops a single nod. “Cats are fine, but I particularly like sugar gliders. And yours looks especially nice.”




My fingertip trails across the glass, down the apple of Clarissa’s cheek and over her dimple. I set the photo of my sweet girl back on the shelf, letting out a sigh.

The crack in my heart widens another inch.

It kills me that her daddy chose a different life over the one we shared. That she’ll grow up in a broken home because of my failure to keep his attention.

That my love wasn’t strong enough to hold him.

No time for a meltdown today.

I suck up a shuddery breath, pushing thoughts of Matt from my mind.

Plus, a month is too long for my daughter to be away from her momma.

But—what is it they say about making hay?

Hay must be made while the sun rains. Or make straw from the stubbled ground. Or—oh who cares? I need to use the time I’ve been given by the court ordered visitation schedule to get some words into this novel.

I squirm in my seat, fighting the urge to get up and find something else to do. Anything but write. My hands hover over the worn away letters of my keyboard.

I flex my fingers.

I’ve got this. I am a professional. I can write about things I don’t feel. It’s my job. I will not let them—my ex-husband and my—no…his woman, rob me of my dreams.

The roar of an engine winds up and grows louder as it approaches.

And here I was, ready to type the first words of this stupid story—something witty and amazing that was going to come to me as I write.

Instead of pressing any keys, I push my fingers between the mini-blinds. A motorcycle slows out front. Adam guides the bike closer to the curb. His plaid shirt has the sleeves ripped out, small strings blow across strong shoulders covered in tats that trail down his muscular arms, bronzed from the summer sun.

His gaze slides to my house, seemingly zeroing in on the window I’m staring out of at this very moment.

Shit.

I yank away from the blinds, but my fingers catch in the cords that run between the slats. The whole damned thing clatters to the top of my desk, dragging the curtains with it. The lamp faints and knocks over my coffee. A hot river of Irish cream dark roast races toward my computer.

I grab the laptop, barely saving it from my clumsiness. My hand whacks the lamp’s metal shade, turning it so it shines on me like a spotlight. My eyes go wide.

I’m completely exposed—caught in the act of spying on my neighbor.

I freeze.

Fuck.

Adam pulls up at the end of his drive, gazing at me through my naked window, while he opens his mailbox. He takes some envelopes from it and stuffs them into his front pocket.

He salutes me with a smirk as he rolls up his driveway.

Why me, God? Why?

I flop into my chair, wishing I could drop off the face of the Earth.

My phone vibrates.

Oh, thank the Lord.

A distraction is exactly what I’ve been waiting for, and this is better than my cocky neighbor with all his muscles and tats—and—and facial fur.

Leigh’s text is short and to the point, just like her.

-Open an account on DATE.COM.-

I ignore her suggestion as I mop up the last of my coffee with the edge of the already stained curtain strewn across my desk. Then I check to make sure no one is outside to see me climb atop my desk in my panties and t-shirt to affix the window coverings back into their proper place.

You’d think they’d make these things a little more reliable.

Once I have my privacy again, I continue not doing what I need to do in order to pay the rent.

Writing is a creative process. It’s feast or famine, depending on how the words flow and how book sales go. I’m in the middle of a drought, and my food stores are running extremely low. I have to get this story written.

I type the first paragraph of my next novel—for the sixth time.