Social Neighbor (The Social Series Book 1) (18 page)

“What do you mean?” I snatched my work back from him and looked over the pages, which was dumb because I doubted I’d see anything new there. I’d combed over the book more times than I was capable of counting.

“Kids don’t do…this.” He waved his hand outward.

“Sure they do.” I sounded dispassionate even to my own ears. I hated to admit it, but he was right in feeling that something was off because I’d been feeling the exact same thing.

“No. They don’t. What kid wants to read a book where the moral of the story is that keeping a clean room makes everyone happy? Don’t you remember your childhood? Pop Rocks and forts and practical jokes.
And
filthy bedrooms!”

“Well, sure,” I said, lacking conviction. I flopped back on the couch and watched Graham carefully as he wheeled himself closer to where I sat.

“Oh my god. You’re one of those.” It came out as a shocked whisper. His eyes were wide.

“One of what?” I squeaked.

“A sheltered kid.” One thick finger pointed at me accusingly. I recoiled and sank further back into the couch.

“I wouldn’t exactly say we were sheltered. We were…well cared for.” The confession felt lacking, because Anthony and I
had
become very sheltered kids almost overnight.

“You had no fun,” he went on.

“Sure I did,” I countered.

“Did you ever build a fort out of your bed sheets?” He crossed his muscled arms over his chest and leaned back in his wheelchair.

Why does he do that? I can’t think when he shows off his arms like that!

“No. My mother is a very cautious person and stringing sheets all around would have gotten them dirty. I had a weak immune system.”

“Yeah, because you never got dirty! Did you ever eat Pop Rocks and then chug a Coke?”

“No. My mom said doing things like that could cause irreparable gastric damage.”

“Did you have walkie talkies?”

“No. My mother was afraid that a predator could get on the same frequency and lure me away. It’s a very practical thing to worry about.”

“No. It’s ridiculous. Did you ever steal something from your sibling or friend?”

“No. Why in the world would I do that?”

“To start a war. Did you ever sneak out?”

“No. Anything could happen and no one would know that I had left.”

“Did you ever go skinny-dipping? Get drunk? Prank the neighbor? Watch
The Goonies
at least once a year?” He shook his head disbelievingly. “That’s what I thought. No wonder you feel like a fraud! You
are
a fraud! How can you possibly expect to write a children’s book when you skipped out on your entire childhood?”

“I didn’t skip it. I read a lot and played with my brother. I was in soccer too.”

“How long”

“Um…one game or so. I got hurt.”

“A skinned knee is a rite of passage, not an injury.”

“I had a weak immune system,” I explained feebly, realizing that he’s absolutely right. How in the world could I possibly write a proper children’s book when my childhood consisted of reading and watching television from a preapproved list of shows?

“I suppose you’re right. Maybe
you
should write children’s books seeing as how you still behave like a child. Calling your sister names, it’s no wonder she acts like she does.”

“I could help you write your books as long as you help me around here.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You bounce your ideas off me and I’ll give you suggestions. In return, you’ll make me sandwiches and spend a little time with me. Everyday. Deal?”

“Deal. I could use help from a friend who can actually be helpful,” I admitted, thinking that this was a good thing. While I appreciated Matt’s praise, it wasn’t going to make my books any better.

“Flor?”

“Yeah?”

“I still have zero interest in being your friend.”

Oh, this Goliath is so much trouble.

If I was going to be helping him out while he recovered in exchange for his help with my series, I needed to ignore his masculine beauty and keep reminding myself of all the reasons he was awful. “Wall ball. Wall ball. Wall ball,” I chanted as I let myself back into my apartment for the night.

Graham

Bewitched

“S
o, you said you would give me suggestions for my books. I brought my pen and pad. Fire away.” She sat on the couch with her little notepad resting on her knee, pen in hand. Her hair was piled high on her head in some kind of bun with wayward tendrils falling here and there.

I wanted so badly to brush that hair away from her face and kiss her senseless. I missed the taste of her on my mouth and looked forward to the day I’d have the opportunity—the
invitation
—to taste her again.

“I’ve been thinking about that and I have a plan. It has taken a lot of sifting through memories to come up with it.”

“What’s this?” Her eyebrows scrunched up as she studied the list I’d handed her.

“A time machine!” I smiled, feeling pretty damn proud of my idea. “That list in your pretty little hands is what I’m calling The Stone Kid Experience! We start today.”

“Start what?” she asked as her eyes scanned the long handwritten list I’d been putting together since the day before.

“Kid shit. Things they actually do because they are kids and it’s important.”

“Pop Rocks and Coke?”

“Imperative.”

“Build a fort?”

“Absolutely imperative. That will be your home base for hide and seek.”

“Make a rubber band ball?”

“Classic kid shit.” I nodded confidently as she read off each item.

“Really? Skinny-dipping?” she asked deadpan.

“Well, that one will have to be done in the bathtub or something. Or at my place,” I suggested with a wink.

“The kid experience, huh?”

“Okay, I’d being lying if I said that one wasn’t benefiting me too but still, it’s a must.”

“Fine. This one only says super glue.” She looked up in confusion.

“A wild card. Something with super glue. Doesn’t matter what it is, but no childhood is complete without super glue somewhere in the mix.”

“You’re a two year old. I’m not doing any of this.”

“Say what you will, but at this rate, I’ll be more qualified to write a children’s book than you are.” I sighed dramatically and shrugged.

“Whatever. All I’m saying is that on the immaturity scale, this list is off the charts.”

“Precisely.” I leaned forward and chucked her lightly on her chin.

“You’re impossible.” She continued to read down the list and seemed to contemplate my little challenge. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.”

Flor got to work curled up on the couch. Her lounging there, so focused on what she was doing, made paying attention to the television pretty damned difficult. I tried for some time to get into the action flick I had on, but it was no use. My eyes strayed to where she was sitting every minute or so.

My phone chimed and I looked down at the screen to see that Halley had sent me a new text message.

Halley: Would it kill you to check in with me?

Me: It may.

Halley: Good to know.

Me: I’m fine, Halley.

I chuckled as I sent the antagonizing text message to my sister. Flor looked up from the notepad in her lap and raised her brows.

“Care to share with the class?”

“My sister. She gets pissy when I call her Halley. I can’t resist and I don’t think it will ever get old.”

“That woman’s name really should have been Halley.” I laughed again.

“Why did you say you call her that?”

“Because she’s beautiful to look at but she’s icy-cold and can be as destructive as hell if she sets her sights on you. Now, if only I could figure out how to make sure she only came around every seventy some-odd years like the dirty snowball…” I scratched my temple, pretending to really think on it. Flor laughed full on, clutching her chest, and I swear to God it was the most beautiful, gratifying thing to hear. I fell silent and studied her smiling face, committing it to memory. I never wanted to forget that look on her face. I never wanted to forget the sound of her laugh. She glanced up to see me studying her appraisingly.

“You really should do that more.”

“What? Sketch?” she asked, looking down at the spiral sketch pad in her lap.

“Laugh. You should laugh. As often and as long as possible. All the time.”

I clutched my hand over my chest wishing it were her hand—wishing she wasn’t clear across the living room. “You’re beautiful all the time, but you’re breathtaking when you’re laughing,” I said as I looked at her hungrily.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked down to her sketchpad, a slight smile curving her full lips. Seeing that smile had made me feel like I’d won something precious and irreplaceable.

I couldn’t be sure because she hadn’t seen fit to reveal much of herself yet, but she didn’t seem as though she’d done near enough smiling in her lifetime. I silently vowed to give it my best effort to change that. I also vowed to find out more about Florence Randall, the woman who had bewitched me.

Flor

Savage

I
loved the glint of admiration in his eyes as he looked at me. I especially loved that I was the one who’d put it there. I would have been lying to myself if I’d said that I didn’t want him to want me. I wanted his feelings to mirror my own, pure desire and need so potent it kept me awake at night.

Desire mixing intermittently with frustration over him was the culprit that had robbed me of a full night’s rest for more than three weeks now. Had it really been that long since I’d first met him at the art gallery? Time seemed to simultaneously fast forward and stand still.

I often wondered if he ever felt compelled to relieve the tension in his body in private like I considered doing just about every time I left his apartment. The tingling at my center was especially distracting at night, knowing that he was just right next door. All I would have had to do was let myself in to his place, crawl in his lap and let him into me.

He sat across from me and gave me potentially the best compliment anyone had ever given me, and I delighted in the warm feeling it gave me.

“Thank you,” I mumbled with my eyes cast down, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” he demanded in a tone that matched his size and presence.

Somewhat reluctantly, I lifted my chin. His dark brown eyes bore into me. I could see his pulse beat where the thick artery below his jaw line descended down his neck to disappear beneath his shirt. The beat of my heart quickened and I swallowed hard.

My lips felt suddenly dry.

“Flor.” He said my name like it was a plea and promise, sending the flutters in my stomach into overdrive.

“Graham,” I whispered.

“Flor, if I could get up right now, if this stupid thing wasn’t stuck on my leg, do you know what I’d do?”

“What?”

“I’d get up, take you in my arms and kiss you for a week, a month, a year. I’d kiss you until you forgot your own name. I’d kiss you until we both forgot everything.” There was something sad about the way he’d whispered those words. I suspected that his brother had something to do with it, and right then, I wanted very badly to be the catalyst that caused a sudden case of amnesia for him.