Chapter Four

Vaughn

The respectable-looking guy on my doorstep hands me a small, iconic blue shopping bag and a matching envelope containing a receipt. I say thanks for the quick delivery, tip him, and shut the door. Dylan’s dragged himself to his room, so I take a seat on the couch to inspect the goods. In the bag I find a blue box, a blank white card, and another small blue envelope. Too much? Maybe. But it’s also perfect. I hustle to the kitchen for a pen, then compose an apology.

Thank you for being my guardian angel. And for the sofa. I’ll trade you keys. Sincerely, Vaughn.

Satisfied, I tuck the card back in the envelope, place it in the bag, and make my way down the driveway, across our narrow side yards, and up the steps to my neighbors’ front door, all the while mentally reviewing the possibilities. Maybe she’s not home? Maybe she’s still asleep? Maybe she’ll slam the door in my face? I wipe my palm on my jeans and ring the doorbell. When I hear the click of the lock I dial up my best apologetic smile and get ready to talk fast.

But as soon as the door swings open my rehearsed greeting dies on my tongue, because it’s not Kendall or Dixie looking up at me with polite inquiry. This girl’s got shoulder-skimming ginger-blond hair and fair skin. Clearly, she hasn’t spent much time in the California sun. She’s buried her petite frame under boyfriend jeans and a slouchy blue KU jersey that verifies her non-native status. Her eyes widen as she returns my stare, and I’m guessing she recognizes me from the underwear ads, or the cologne commercial, or the music videos I’m featured prominently in, playing opposite a Disney star turned pop sensation.

“Oh my God. You’re…you’re…”

Not exactly a household name. Not yet. “Vaughn,” I say, and extend my free hand to greet her. “I live next door.”

“Wow. Definitely not in Kansas anymore,” she murmurs, and then realizes she’s left me hanging and grabs my hand as a flustered pink invades her cheeks. “I’m…um…uh…shoot. I knew this a minute ago.”

I laugh, because she’s already laughing at herself. “I know you’re not Kendall or Dixie, if that helps?”

“Amber,” she supplies, and slides her hand out of mine. “Sounds like you’ve already met my sisters.”

“Yes. Speaking of which, is Kendall around?”

“She is. Sorry, please come in.” She steps back and gestures me inside. “She’s in the kitchen. Let me get—”

“That’s okay.” I flash her a don’t-trouble-yourself grin and sweep past her. “I know the way.” I was raised better, and I can practically feel my mom thwacking me upside the head, but I don’t want to give Kendall a chance to have Amber run interference for her. I want to see her. I want to hand-deliver the apology.

“Ohh-kay…” Amber trails after me.

I stride into the kitchen and stop short. Last night is a bit hazy, but this morning a breathtaking backside in snug red shorts is aimed my way in vivid color and clarity. The owner of said backside is leaning over, checking something in the oven while humming “Bootylicious.” Without turning around, she asks, “Who was at the door?”

“Vaughn,” I answer.

My voice jars her. She jerks upright and spins to face me in a startled-cat move. The oven door slams shut, and the sharp bang echoes in the whitewashed calm of the kitchen. Suddenly, I’m face-to-face with her. Kendall. My guardian angel. A part of me wondered if those blue eyes I recalled from last night would seem as laser-beam intense in the cool light of day, or the curving mouth as unintentionally inviting, but the truth is my tequila-soaked mind didn’t do her justice.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to sneak up on someone who’s reaching inside a three hundred and fifty degree oven?” she demands, fluttering a hand over her heart as if to calm it. The move draws my attention to the very nicely filled out Winnie the Pooh T-shirt I wasn’t sure my dirty mind hadn’t dreamed up. It’s no dream. She’s real—every bitable curve, every lick-able expanse of skin, every exasperated crinkle in her brows.

“Sorry.” I know the sincerity of my reply is severely undermined by the fact that I’m checking her out like some kind of pent-up pervert, but the pajamas leave too much on display for me to settle for a view of the floor or the wall. Although she’s looking now, too, and her eyes lose a little of the irritation as she inspects my shower-damp hair and freshly shaven jaw. They turn warmer as her stare roams across my shoulders and down my shirt, following the buttons like a path that ends at the front of my jeans. Her attention lingers there as if she can see beyond the curtain of my shirttails to the hard-on twitching to life behind my fly. I wasn’t at my best last night—not even close—but at least this morning I’m showing her I clean up well. The way she bites her lower lip tells me she’s noticed.

I clear my throat. “I wanted to thank you for the sleepover.”

“Oh, hey. Why am I still standing here?” Amber’s voice interrupts the awkward silence that follows what might not have been the smoothest opening line. “I have to go…um…make sure Dixie isn’t doing any…thing.”

Kendall makes an absent little sound of acknowledgment. As Amber’s quick footsteps fade away, the girl in front of me drags in a long, deep breath. The kind of breath that tells me she’s fortifying herself for whatever’s coming next. The kind that fills the lungs to capacity and expands the chest.

Do not look at her tits. Do. Not.

Too late. My gaze goes rogue and settles on her tank top. “Did I mention how much I like your PJs?”

“Are you still drunk?” She crosses her arms over her chest, blocking Pooh from my view.

So much for cleaning up nicely. Apparently I’m not going to qualify for nice guy status that easily, but even so, the accusation leaves me a little defensive. “I’m not the least bit impaired this morning, angel.” She’s the one lounging around in a tank top and sleep shorts at nearly noon. Is it my fault I notice? I also noticed her checking me out in return a second ago, so I’m not the only one aware of the electricity crackling between us. I take slow and deliberate stock of her this time, letting my gaze linger on her bare legs, the V of her shorts, and the way her crossed arms plump her breasts over the neckline of her top. “But if you want to put me to a test, I’m game.”

Her chin goes up a notch, but not before I catch a flicker of uncertainty in her expression. She moves to the other side of the breakfast bar like she wants some extra protection, and I immediately feel like a dick.

“You know what?” She opens a nearby drawer and digs out my keys. “I’ll take your word for it. But here’s the thing. Next time party central gets out of control, I might not be available to do my famous flying tackle and magic disappearing car key trick. I’ve got different plans for this summer, and I need to focus on them, so, sorry, but—” She tosses the keys across the counter.

I snag them before they sail off the edge of the granite. “No sorry due to me, angel. We’ve got this backward.” I’m supposed to be here apologizing and thanking her, not getting bent out of shape because she’s not offering to share her bed with me like Dixie, or getting so tongue-tied she forgets her name like Amber. I’m very used to both of those reactions, but it seems Kendall’s not like her sisters. I look away for a moment to gather my thoughts, and when I look back at her she’s not exactly reserving judgment—it’s too late for that—but this is my chance to do the right thing. I take it. Placing the gift on the counter between us I say, “I’m sorry about last night.”

She blinks at the bag and then slings a questioning glance at me. I shrug and pocket my keys but don’t miss how she tracks the movement. Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of my hand sliding into my jeans.

I can tell by the way she swallows that she is, too, but she shifts her attention to my face and points at the bag. “What’s this?”

“My way of thanking you for coming to my rescue last night. A lot of people would have chosen not to get involved and just let whatever was going to happen, happen. Others would have called the cops. You did neither. You saved me from some really bad decisions that could have caused a fuck-ton of consequences, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”

For one unguarded moment her face just…lights. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s not just her tentative smile or the glow of pleasure in her cheeks. It’s not even the thrill of the gift. No, it’s like what I’ve said really matters to her. Then, all of a sudden the glow shuts off. She straightens and pushes the bag toward me, and I know she’s about to reject the gift. “Forget—”

“It smells really good in here.” I cut her off by blurting the first thing that springs to mind. Whatever she’s baking smells fantastic.

“Shit!” She rushes over to the counter, grabs the potholder next to the stovetop, and pulls something out of the oven. Something browned to perfection as far as I can tell, but Kendall makes a worried sound and inspects it closely.

“That looks amazing,” I say. “You like to cook?”

“Mostly I like to eat,” she replies with absolutely no shame, a rarity among the usual crowd I’m surrounded by. It’s refreshing.

I can’t stop my smile as I come up behind her and lean over to inhale the scent of steaming peppers, onions…I don’t know what all, but it’s making my mouth water. Then I get more than I bargained for, because I also inhale a sweet, earthy scent, equal parts bubble bath and sex. It clings to her skin and makes me fantasize about her soaking in a steamy tub, getting herself off. That affects me in other ways. The moment she stills, I know her focus has shifted, too. She’s staring at the pan, but her thoughts are on me.

“What’s on the menu?” I ask, shamelessly fishing for an invitation to today’s brunch.

“Back it up, mister, you’re crowding the cook.”

I guess I am, and I half anticipate an elbow to my gut, but instead she looks up and slays me with an unguarded grin. She wasn’t expecting a playful moment.

“Can we start over?” It’s an impulsive request. I know I can’t get a complete do-over, but if she’ll give me a chance, I can definitely do better. “Like, I’ll say ‘Hi Kendall, I’m Vaughn’ and you’ll say…?”

The shine of amusement fades. She slides out of my grasp and steps away. “I’ll say, ‘Hi Vaughn. It’s nice to meet you, but I think it’s best if we stay on our sides of the fence. I’m only house-sitting until August, then I’ll be gone, and our paths will never cross again. By fall I’ll be a vague memory of a crazy night you had over the summer. Take care of yourself and have a great life.’”

Her breezy tone doesn’t quite match her expression. She’s politely insisting there’s no point in us getting beyond “Hello neighbor.” I’d really like to know why she feels that way, so I settle myself on one of the barstools at the counter and prop my chin on my hand. “You honestly think you’re so easy to forget?”

“For drunks, yes.”

Seriously? I mean, seriously? Last night was me in full fuckup mode. I won’t deny it. Hell, I’m not trying to deny it. But I came here this morning for more than my stupid keys. I came to apologize for pulling her into my drama, and rather than accept it, she calls me a drunk? That’s some serious shade to throw at someone she barely knows. For several seconds we stare at each other. I wait for her to blink, look away. Give an inch. But she doesn’t. I’m not getting anything close to a do-over. Fine. I still know my manners. She’s entitled to the thank-you and apology.

I push the blue bag toward her and stand. “This is for you. I’m sorry about last night. Thanks for keeping me safe.”

Then I walk out, because there’s nothing left to say.