2
Lukas
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
Beer in hand, I’m stretched out on my couch watching ESPN, when the insistent racket starts. I shoot a glare at the door. Who the hell is ringing my bell at nine o’clock? Anyone I know would call first. That leaves a solicitor, politicians or religious fanatics. After a twenty-four-hour shift and the war I’d waged on the weeds, I have no patience for any of them. Intent on ignoring the intruder, I throw the remote on the coffee table and down a third of my beer in one long swallow.
The doorbell rings again.
Persistent sons of bitches. Well, they’ll get bored soon enough and move on to the next house.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
Goddamn it. I let out a growl. If they won’t go away, I’ll make them wish they had. I put down the beer and spring off the couch, stalking to the door. I fling it open mid-yell. “What the fu—”
The expletive dies on my lips.
Abby Simmons stands before me, a bottle of margarita mix in one hand, Jose Cuervo in the other.
Ah hell. I can’t yell at sweet little Abby. I’ll scare the poor girl to death.
I can’t imagine what she’s doing here. In the year I’ve lived next door she’s never once stopped by. It’s one of the things I like best about her, so I can’t be aggravated by her impromptu visit. With a friendly smile, I say, “Hey, Abby, what’s up?”
“Hi, can I come in?” Her tone is bright and cheerful.
I frown, studying her. Head tilted to the side, the color high on her cheekbones, her glassy brown eyes blink at me. Normally she wears her dark hair in a ponytail, but this evening it tumbles around her shoulders in a mass of thick waves. She looks…sweet, pretty even and, if I ventured a guess, drunk.
I have a sudden desire to force her back to her house. Drunk girls on their birthdays are a recipe for disaster. But I can’t turn her away. Even after a long shift, I don’t have the heart to say no to her. She’s too nice and my mom always taught me to be a gentleman to nice girls.
Besides, she probably just needs something. Salt perhaps?
“Sure, come on in.” I step aside, gesturing her in with a wave. She sways as though she wears four-inch heels. For the first time since she showed up, I glance down. My attention snags on her breasts, and I freeze.
Smooth, creamy skin contrasts with the black spaghetti-strap tank top she’s wearing, revealing a set of full breasts so perfect they make my mouth suddenly water. Ripe, plump flesh spills from her tiny top and hard nipples poke under the fabric. My throat goes dry. She’s not wearing a bra. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t throw me, but this isAbby.
I realize I’m just standing here, dumbstruck and staring.
I rip my gaze away from those breasts only to stall on a killer set of legs showcased to perfection in skintight jeans. Jesus. I break into a sweat. Why is she hiding that body under all those baggy, ill-fitting clothes she wears?
Pretty pink toes peek from under the hem of her jeans. I frown. She walked over in bare feet. This behavior is highly unlike the Abby I’ve been living next door to all this time.
I raise my gaze to meet hers. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. Why?” A big grin slides over her pink lips. Full, lush lips I’ve never noticed before since they’re not normally all glossy like that.
Stating the obvious, I point at her bare toes. “You don’t have any shoes on.”
She looks down, shrugging. “I brought drinks.”
“I can see that.” I say the words slowly, carefully. All my instincts kick into high gear as if I just heard the five-alarm bell. I’ve seen her in her backyard plenty of times on the weekends, and she sure as hell hadn’t been dressed like this, so why the change?
A bad feeling washes over me.
She giggles and crosses over the threshold, weaving as she makes her way into the foyer.
Okay, she’s definitely drunk.
What exactly is going on here?