Chapter One
Olive
There is a god. He's currently hefting moving boxes in the driveway next to mine.Shirtless.
"Holy…" I do not run, but I may speedwalk to the edge of the porch to get a better view. And…oh, hello, abs, nice to meet you. I did not know they came in eight packs in real life. I thoughtthey were an urban legend, like Bigfoot or finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
My gaze runs up and down his body, shameless. Jesus. He looks like he just popped out of one of the books overflowing from my shelves. His jeans stretch across thighs thick enough to save lives. In another world, he could have been a lumberjack.
This is good news for me. My former neighbor was an elderly woman who liked to wander around in a robe and curlers, yelling at the neighborhood children to stay off her lawn. If I see this man in a robe, I'm throwing a viewing party.
He turns in my direction, his massive arms piled with boxes. His gaze lands on me, his lips quirking into a panty-melting smile behind his beard. Damn. His eyes are blue, like crazy blue. "Oh. Hey."
Crap. Busted.
"Um, hey." I hurriedly smooth my hair down and then scramble for the mailbox like that's what I was out here doing. It's all lies, but he doesn't need to know I was enjoying the free show.
"Do you live here?" he asks, his voice a deep rumble of sound.
"Nope. I'm just stealing the mail." I wave it in the air like I'm declaring victory.
He stares at me for a long moment—just long enough for me to wish I had a filter—and then chuckles. "Uh…I fucking hope you aren't serious because telling my actual neighbor that I let a hot librarian steal her shit is going to be all kinds of awkward for me."
He thinks I'm a hot librarian? I can work with this. It's better than the truth, which is that I'm a curvy biochemist with no filter, a smutty book addiction, and absolutely no shame.
"I'm just kidding," I say, smiling at him. "I'm Olive Medlock. This is my place."
"Oh, thank fuck." He grins at me, his expression colored with relief. "I was trying to decide how I was going to avoid lying my ass off about the mail for the next decade. I'm Mason, by the way. Mason Hudson."
Even his name is sexy.
"So, you're moving in?"
"Who me?" He hefts the boxes a little higher, mischief in his gaze. "Nope. I'm just stealing your neighbor's shit."
"Cool." I lean up against the post. "Do me a favor while you're at it? She has this hideous green robe with poinsettias all over it. Steal it, burn it, whatever. Just never let her patrol the yard in it again. It's a crime against fashion and humanity."
I'm dreaming about his laugh tonight. If chocolate and sex had a baby, it'd be that laugh. It booms across our yards, hitting me low in my abdomen.
"I'll keep an eye out for it," he promises.
"The neighborhood thanks you for your service."
He flashes me another of those panty-melting smiles.
"In all seriousness, are you her kid? Grandkid?" I don't think he's a random stranger. The house never went on the market after Ms. Letty got carted off in an ambulance for trying to bite a police officer, and half of her stuff is still in there.
"Nephew," he mutters.
"Ah. Is she…?" I don't think there's a polite way to ask if someone kicked the bucket, was arrested, or put in a home. It seems like a rude question. But she's been gone for over a month now, and I'm endlessly nosy.
"Aunt Letty moved in with her son," Mason explains. "I guess the Chief decided she needed more care after they were out here last time. I just bought the place."
"Yeah, they were out here a lot." I grimace. "Like…alot," I say, dragging out the word for emphasis. "She liked to turn her hoseon the neighborhood kids if they got too loud. And they're kids, so…" I trail off with a shrug, letting him fill in the blanks.
The sad truth is that the police were here so often because she was a holy terror who refused to believe that the sidewalk and street in front of her place were public property. It wasn't even dementia or anything. She was sharp as a tack. She just ran on spite and a burning hatred of children, like the old lady from Hansel and Gretel.
"Jesus," he mutters, his eyes widening as he glances around. "Think I should bake cookies? Hold a barbecue? Send apology fruit baskets?"