Flirting with Forever: A Hot Romantic Comedy(4)

I stopped that train of thought. There was no point. April would never approve it. Not unless I found some way to spin it into a story about sex. That was all they ever wanted me to write about.

Sex at any age? They’d probably approve that. But it was so much less interesting. As if the only way a woman could be happy was to get, and give, regular orgasms.

I loved sex as much as the next person—probably more—but I was getting tired of constantly writing about it. There was so much more to a woman’s life than what her vagina was doing.

And there used to be more to my career than writing about blow jobs.

But this wasn’t the time for a deep dive into my career woes. I’d just signed a mortgage, so my job was rather important, regardless of how I felt about it.

The boxes in the kitchen were stacked in a haphazard jumble, blocking my access to just about everything, including the fridge. I had a few bags of perishable food on the counter that needed to be put away, so I set to work pushing the boxes into neater rows.

My phone buzzed again, but this time it was Hazel, checking in on my progress. All three of my besties had offered to help but I’d assured them I’d be fine. There was an unwritten rule that after a certain age, you stopped asking your friends to help you move and just hired movers like a grown-up.

I took a picture of the chaotic kitchen and sent it to our group chat.

Me: Making progress!

Hazel: I suspect the exclamation point is meant to insinuate a false sense of enthusiasm so we won’t worry that you’re overwhelmed.

Me: Oh no, I’m overwhelmed. But I’ll be fine.

Everly: Are you sure? We can still come over.

Hazel: We could at least help put things away.

Sophie: Say the word, and we’ll be there!

I loved my friends so much. They were the best.

Me: Not yet. But if I can’t dig myself out in the next day or so, I’ll take you up on it.

Everly: That’s fair. So excited for you!

Sophie: Me too! I can’t wait to see it!

Hazel: Me too, to all of the above.

I slipped my phone back into the side pocket of my leggings. I loved that they were so willing to help, and I knew they meant it. But they all had their own lives. Busy ones. I felt like I needed to handle this move on my own.

At least I could walk to the refrigerator—and open it. I put the contents of my old fridge away and decided to go back outside and see how close the guys were to emptying the truck.

They were almost finished, just a few more things to bring inside. I took a deep breath of the cool early spring air. It was quiet, which was going to take some getting used to. But I was going to like it here.

A man came out of the house next door and I did a double take.

Tall, dark hair, square jaw roughed up with light stubble. His thick chest and shoulders gave that t-shirt a workout, and his arms were covered with tattoos.

He was so not my type. The opposite, in fact. I preferred a polished gentleman. A suit was like lingerie for men, as far as I was concerned. Facial hair was fine as long as it was meticulously groomed. I liked men who opened doors and pulled out chairs. Men who smelled good and wore shoes that were every bit as expensive as mine. Men who were professional and refined.

So why was I staring at this one like I’d never seen a real man before?

His jeans were worn and probably dirty. His t-shirt was plain gray. And the tattoos? Why cover up all that skin with so much ink? It was so unnecessary.

He glanced in my direction and his eyes flicked up and down, like he was taking me all in. But his expression didn’t change, giving me no indication whether or not he liked what he saw.

Not that it mattered.

Still, he couldn’t even smile? Most of the people in this neighborhood had been so friendly. Phil from across the street had stopped by twice, once when I’d picked up the keys and once when the moving truck had first arrived. But this guy didn’t offer me so much as a chin tip.

He got in his car—a black sedan that was as boring as his outfit. He looked like he belonged on a motorcycle, not in a family car.

I had to admit, I was mildly intrigued. Who was my mysterious, unfriendly, tattooed neighbor?

Without a second glance, he drove away, leaving me alone with my curiosity.





3





NORA





I stood up from my desk, reached my arms over my head, and stretched. My home office wasn’t completely unpacked, let alone organized, but it was functional. I worked from home about half the time, so this room, along with my bedroom, bathroom, and the kitchen, had been top priority.

The small spare bedroom that I’d turned into an office had a window facing the front, letting in plenty of light. I was going to need more shelving, but I’d have room for it. Once I took care of that, and put up some art on the walls, it would be a lovely work space.

The stretch felt good after sitting for the last couple of hours. Thankfully, my instinct had been right, and April’s weekend text hadn’t been an emergency. She’d sent me a list of ideas for my next column and we’d reviewed them in our regular Monday meeting. Now it was up to me to turn those ideas into something engaging—and clickable.

Always clickable.

That was becoming more of a challenge, especially because April seemed to be determined to pigeonhole me as a sex writer.

Sure, I wrote about sex. Some of my most popular articles when I’d been an independent blogger had been about sex. My How to Give a Great Blow Job article had gone viral and it was what had put me on Glamour Gal Media’s radar. When they’d offered to buy out my blog and take me on as part of their online media empire, I’d been thrilled. It had seemed like my dream come true.