The comment at the dinner table last night.
Lemon needs to find a husband—insinuating that I need a partner in order to have sex.
Otherwise, I'll be using my battery-operated boy toy for the rest of my life. Which honestly isn't the worst-case scenario. The worst-case scenario would be a battery shortage.
I turn my phone off all together.
I don't need a phone right now. I don't need to call my dad because there's a really hot guy who happens to be living one door over.
A man who thinks I have a nice ass, who was close enough to kiss me. A man who complimented me in a weird way that actually turned me on.
When is the last time any man turned me on? I mean a man that wasn't on the pages of a romance novel.
It's been freaking forever.
I take off my clothes in the loft I used to sleep in as a kid, then I carry them in to the dryer. Looking through my suitcase for a teeny-tiny bikini, I choose my favorite one.
It's April 2. Stout Lake is hardly warm enough for swimming suits and sunbathing. But I don't care.
It's my spring break and I'm going to milk it. I never had a Girls Gone Wild phase at college. I never did body shots in Cancun or a wet T-shirt contest in Cabo. But I am at the Rough family lake house, and there's a man named Anchor next door who thinks I'm kinda cute, though probably a little too intense. I can work on that.
I grab my tablet, pour myself a glass of my favorite white wine, and walk outside to the patio.
Heck, this is my vacation.
And you know what? It's time this Lemon stopped acting so damn sour.
It's time I had a little bit of fun.
4
ANCHOR
I know what she's doing.
I can see her from where I stand on my back porch, and I fucking love it. She's in this teeny-tiny navy-blue bikini with white polka dots, and her brown hair is loose around her face, with curls that make me want to run my fingers through them and draw her close.
She looks like the quintessential girl next door and it's driving me up the fucking wall.
I never get like this—spun up about a woman I've just met—but there's something about her confidence. She is effortless, comfortable in her skin. And she's not intimidated by me.
Look, I'm not trying to toot my own fucking horn, but lots of women try to impress me. That's something that comes with the territory of being a reality TV star, a millionaire, a guy who's had a New York Times bestseller, who sold a company and has been on the cover of a few magazines.
I'm not saying I'm some droolworthy model, but fuck, I've never had a hard time getting the attention of women.
But a lot of times those women get a little insecure, for lack of a better word. They forget who they are. Because they're so desperate to impress me.
Not Lemon.
Lemon is herself—through and through.
She knows how to carry herself around a man, which makes me wonder who she is exactly. Either she's really fucking experienced when it comes to guys or she just knows a fucking lot about men.
Either way, it makes you want to know a hell of a lot about her.
And now, watching her drink that white wine on her patio, reading that book, fuck, I'm turned on in ways I have never been before.
She knows I'm watching her.
So I tear myself away from the porch and go inside. If I can't win her over on that deck, I'm gonna win her over by cooking some good food while wearing a pair of low-slung sweats. If she’s wearing a barely there bikini, I figure two can play that game.
No one can resist a man who can barbeque. I’ve got a couple of steaks and I know how to cook them.
I fire up that grill. I season those ribeyes and put on some music in the house, making sure it's low-key and chill. The kind of music you can make love to. And then I pour myself an IPA. With the meat grilling along with some skewers of peppers and onions, and some stems of asparagus, I roast some baby red potatoes tossed in herbs.
I take out some plates, some cloth napkins. Fuck, this house was move-in ready, and it has everything I need to woo a woman. Sure, I’d like her in my bed, but fuck, I’d be happy with her sitting in my goddamn lap.
When the steaks are resting on a cutting board, I walk right the fuck over to the edge of the property and I ask her, “Hey, Lemon. You have any plans for dinner?”
She licks her lips, setting her tablet down. Then she takes a long sip of that white wine, finishing the glass entirely.