Strange. No way Dex and Leah broke up. These must be family members…or contractors…or maybe people who work at his dive shop?
I obediently take a step backward on the sidewalk and gesture for them to pass in front of me. I hold my hands up in an apology. The brunette rolls the window down and pokes her head out of the car. “I am so sorry,” she calls out. “Please excuse the honking. It was”—she throws a glare toward the passenger side of the car—“very rude.”
I chuckle, understanding that she wasn’t the one to honk the horn. I can’t see her eyes clearly, but the blonde’s face is fixed in my direction and I get the feeling that she’s thoroughly checking me out. I’m not sure why this is immediately off-putting. I don’t mind when women notice me.
But not like this.
Not like I’m property and she’s considering putting in a bid.
“It would’ve been far more rude to hit me,” I call back. “So the heads-up is appreciated.” I flash her a wide smile.
“Pedestrians first.” The brunette gestures me past with her hand. “Please.” She slides back into the car, but I can see her full cheeks bunch as she smiles through the windshield. I wish she’d take off her dark sunglasses. The little jolt in my chest tells me she’s pretty. And not in the obvious, thirsty-for-attention way her friend is coming off, but in the subtle mystery way that is kicking up all kinds of curiosity in my male brain.
Somewhat reluctantly, I hold up my palm and jog past Dex’s driveway. I laugh at the loud whistle behind me, knowing one of them, probably the blonde, is commenting on the view of my ass.
I’m barely through my front door when I see the disaster that is my normally tidy sitting room. It’s the very first thing you see when you walk into my rancher. I try to keep it pristine—first impressions and all. At the present moment, you can barely see the floors amidst the bags upon bags from Hobby Lobby and Michaels. I step out of my running shoes and call out, knowing exactly who the culprit of this mess is.
“Lennox!”
She appears immediately from the hallway, a steaming mug in her hand, looking dogeared and a little crazed. She’s completely changed her look in the last forty-eight hours since I’ve seen her. Her hair is dyed black with violet streaks in multiple shades. Her bangs are cut in a straight line. I have a feeling the shopping bag graveyard that is now my living room is the aftermath of this new edgy look.
“What the fresh hell is all this?”
She touches the corner of her eye and then points to me. “I am a visionary.”
Oh, Christ. “Why are you a visionary?”
“We are more than sexy cowgirls, Finn. We can do better than that.”
I blink, trying to absorb her odd remark. I consider asking her what the hell she’s talking about but decide to side-step it instead. “Your hair is cool.” I pat her shoulder as I walk past her to the kitchen to grab a cold bottle of water. Soft footsteps trail behind me. “How’d you get here?” I ask Lennox as I twist off the cap. Still struggling to cool down, I’m tempted to dump this cold bottle of water all over my face and chest. “I didn’t see your car.”
“I pulled into your garage.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You’re really at home here, aren’t you?”
Lennox and I don’t technically live together, but we might as well. My photography studio is in my basement. It only works because it’s a walk-out basement, meaning there’s plenty of natural light I need for headshots and family portraits. I think my lower level was originally built as a mother-in-law suite. It has a private access door through the back gate. You can access the studio without needing to access my home. Lennox knows this but also knows no boundaries. My entire house has become her domain.
She shows me her teeth through a snarky grin and holds up her mug. “You want coffee?”
Pressing my palm flat against my chest, I check my still-racing heart. “Not at the moment. The run was grueling. I’m one sip of caffeine away from cardiac arrest.”
Lennox’s eyes drop to my knees and she scrunches her face in confusion. “What’s wrong with your knees?” She points to the kinesiology tape wrapped around both of my knees, tracing my quads and outlining my kneecaps.
“It’s for extra support. I’ve logged thirty miles this week on concrete sidewalks. I’m trying to avoid my tendonitis flaring up.”
She twists her lips in that familiar way that tells me she’s about to say something sassy.
“What?” I begrudgingly ask.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just start having sex again than trying to physically outrun your testosterone?” She cackles.
“Ha.” She’s not wrong.
“How long has it been?”
I roll my eyes at her. “A couple months.” Three months, twelve days. Or, in other words, about one hundred body-punishing runs.
“How long is this going to go on?”
“I don’t know. Until I feel like it.” Until I stop seeing the worst in women. I’m not exactly open about it, but Nora did a number on me. After what we went through, now all I see are red flags in women. I remember one night after Nora and I ended things, I brought home a new girl I actually liked. She was a bit of a wallflower—polite and soft-spoken. Maybe I liked that she was my ex’s polar opposite. I had high hopes. But the morning after, when she thought I was sleeping, I caught her checking my phone. I didn’t say anything. I just pretended to sleep and let her scroll through my messages, my apps, and my pictures. I had absolutely nothing to hide, but I was not about to put myself through that shit again. Deal breaker. I never called her again.
I want a woman confident enough to ask me questions and believe my answers. If she’s wondering if I’m sleeping with multiple women at the same time—just ask. The answer is no. If she’s interested in something serious—just tell me. Maybe she’d be surprised to know that I am too. I’m twenty-eight. By now, I’m sick of the mind games, paranoia, and jealous fights over nothing. I want a woman who is honest, earnest, and trusts me enough to just be real…
And I am thoroughly convinced this woman doesn’t exist in Las Vegas. It’s kind of why I gave up. Once I was single again, I started being exactly the manwhore bachelor all these women assumed I was, until even that got old.
“So, why are you a visionary?” I throw my thumb over my shoulder, reminding her of the mess she made in my living room.
“Noir,” she says with a bright-eyed eager expression.
“Yeah…I’m going to need a little more of an explanation than that.”
“Film noir. With a touch of bondage.”
I take a few glugs of my water. “What?”
She squints one eye. “You know, like handcuffs…toys…lots of leather…”
An uncomfortable realization sinks in. “Is my living room full of women’s sex toys right now?”
“Nooooo.” Lennox laughs awkwardly then widens her eyes and nods empathically. “And I found some of these cool black roses at the craft store. I’m thinking all black and white. Black flowers, white sheets, a torn white wedding dress that’s ink-stained draped over a chair. Wedding lingerie in the same style.”