Filfthy (4 page)

“Age is nothing but a number, Delilah. If I say he’s a child, it’s because he acts like one.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head. “That man takes every rule life’s ever thrown at him and throws it out the window. I’ve never met someone so disrespectful. And arrogant. And the women. So many women, in and out, all hours of the day and night.”

She fans herself, like the room’s suddenly grown too warm.

“I think he’s doing what anyone would do in his position. He’s young and attractive and successful and filthy rich,” I say with a shrug.

“That’s precisely the problem.” She lifts a clenched fist to the air. “He can’t control himself. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, with no regard to anyone else. He’s a damn bull in a china shop.”

“Wrong analogy.”

“Kid in a candy shop.”

“Eh. Closer.” I smirk. Still feels strange defending him, but I’m having a grand old time watching Rue get all flustered when she talks about him. “Aunt Rue, you have the hots for him, don’t you?”

Her expression falls. “Absolutely not, Delilah. I’m a seventy-five-year-old woman. I don’t look at men that way. Not anymore.”

“Oh, come on.” My head tilts to the side.

This woman was a bona fide playgirl in her younger days, complete with a penthouse apartment in L.A. and a bank account the size of Alaska. Men dreamed of dating her. Women wanted to be her. The woman had not one but
two
little black books and a collection of engagement rings stowed away in a safety deposit box in an undisclosed location. The world was her oyster and she answered to no one.

They’re more alike than they are different, though I’ll hold off on mentioning that to her anytime in the near future.

Aunt Rue’s phone buzzes on the counter, and the screen lights up with a text. I reach for it, handing it off, and her shoulders seem to relax when she reads her message.

“Oh, goodness.” She pulls her visor off and runs a hand through her mussed-up hair. “I completely forgot. I have dinner tonight.”

“With . . . ?”

Turning to me, she purses her lips as the corners inch up. “His name isn’t important right now. I’ve got to jump into the shower. We’re eating at four thirty.”

“
His
?”

She rolls her eyes, refusing to act excited, but I see it in her wrinkled baby blue eyes. She maybe be seventy-five, but she’s not dead. There’s still plenty of mileage left on that old heart of hers.

“So much for not looking at men, eh?” I tease.

“Oh, you hush.”

“Don’t stay out too late now.” I toss her a wink and relish the fact that her little rage against Zane has come to a halt for the time being.

Defending him felt incredibly unnatural, though I suppose I could cut him a bit of slack on behalf of the beautiful flowers and apology he hand-delivered earlier.

Maybe he’s not a
giant
asshole. Just a regular-sized one.

I return to my guest suite, passing by the bathroom where my “schoolmarm” swimsuit hangs on a towel rack.

Yanking it off, I toss it in the trash.

I can’t look at it now without thinking of him. He’s everywhere. Under my skin. Invading my thoughts. His smooth-as-velvet voice playing in my head like an earworm. I can’t even look out the window without seeing him.

That man tries my patience something fierce, and I barely know him.

Anyway, Aunt Rue has nothing to worry about. Flowers or not, he’s not weaseling his way into my heart. Or my pants. And I’ll be damned if I let someone like Zane de la Cruz break my heart this summer.

Or ever.

Z
ane

T
he For Sale
sign in Rue’s yard is the most obnoxious shade of puke orange I’ve ever seen. A photo of Taylor Forbes grinning, arms folded, is printed across it along with his name in big white letters.

Under a dusky evening sky, two solar-powered spotlights shine bright, illuminating his virtual presence.

Orange Grove Luxury Realty.

His damn name is bigger than anything else on that thing. The asshole walks around like he’s a local celebrity, and every time I see his smug face, it takes all I have to keep myself in check.

What’s worse is thanks to some family favors, he’s become the official real estate agent of the Gainesville Cougars. But I’ll be damned if I ever use his services.

Seems almost every other day his Bentley cruises the streets of Laguna Palms. He comes and goes as he pleases. Helping himself. Making himself right at home. Laying claim. Just last year, the association voted to give him an all-access pass on account of him selling so many houses in this development.

It’s been two days since I dropped off the flowers and apologized to Delilah like some kid who broke a window with his baseball.

I don’t make a habit of apologizing, and I’m not particularly any good at it, but it seemed like the right thing to do after the pool incident.

I give people shit.

That’s what I do.

But it was never my intention to hurt her feelings.

I take a seat in my living room, glancing out the window toward Rue’s driveway. There have been hardly any comings and goings from that direction, at least not that I’ve seen, and I’ve been watching more than I probably should.

Coach wants me to reflect more. To quiet my mind. To sit in silence with no TV, no phone, no noise. He thinks it’ll help me focus and keep me calm. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit, but I’m willing to give it a shot if it’ll help get my career back on track.

I did a lot of damage the last few years. Made a lot of mistakes. Did things I’m not proud of.

My wakeup call came bright and early on a Sunday afternoon after one hell of a weekend bender. Coach called and told me he and the owner had a meeting about me. They were concerned about me ruining the reputation of the Gainesville Cougars, and with the team being so new and with millions of dollars being pumped into marketing, they were considering letting me out of my contract early.

The arrogant asshole in me huffed in response, telling him I could get signed to another team the very next day if I wanted. All it’d take is one call to my agent. But Coach responded with a pause and a sigh, telling me no team in their right mind would sign a liability like me. I didn’t say it at the time, but I knew he was right.

This silence gets under my skin. Makes me think too much. Even the ticking of the clock in the foyer makes my teeth grind.

Rising up from the sofa, I move to the back door and dig out my running shoes. Hammering out some quick stretches, I jog in place for a minute before heading out the door.

Striding down the block, I pass Rue’s house, forcing myself to stare straight ahead and not look for a flicker of light through the windows. I jog up the hill, past Mrs. Donovan’s orange trees, and keep going until I’ve long passed Harry Rittmer’s prize-winning peony bushes.

I’m too fucking young to live here.

Rounding the corner, the first thing that comes into focus half a block down are a pair of neon pink jogging shorts. A dark ponytail bobs up and down as she takes even strides. Picking up my pace, I catch up a moment later, tapping her shoulder once.

With puffy red cheeks, she turns my way, her expression fading as she yanks earbuds from her ears and slows to a stop.

“This better be important,” she pants, checking her watch and then placing two fingers on her neck. Dark tendrils of hair are matted to her face and her lips are just as flushed as her face, but she’s hot as hell, and the old me would have no problem peeling off those sweaty layers and having my way with her right here, right now, behind the peonies.

“Haven’t heard from you since the other day,” I breathe. “Haven’t seen you around much either.”

Her brows meet. “I’ve been busy.”

“I felt like my apology was rushed the other day,” I say, pointing to a wrought iron park bench under a tree behind her.

She checks her watch, letting her fingers drop from her neck. Her shoulders fall and she takes hesitant steps toward the bench.

The tinny beep-beep of a golf cart steals our attention, and I glance to the street to find Ethel French putting by. She wears an ear-to-ear grin and gives me an emphatic thumbs up, but I shake my head no.

“What’s that about?” Delilah asks.

“That’s Ethel,” I say. “She saw us at the pool the other day. Thinks we like each other.”

Delilah’s tongue darts out as her nose crinkles.

“Exactly what I told her,” I say, taking the spot beside her. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry if I came across . . . in a certain way. I’ve been going through some things. Trying to make some changes. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m surrounded by a bunch of oversized, foul-mouthed meatheads, and none of us have the ability to think before we speak. We tend to rub off on each other . . .”

“Zane. It’s fine.”

Our eyes lock, our breaths coming to near halts. Or maybe it’s me who’s forgetting to breathe. Delilah wears the kind of beauty that should be outlawed. Natural. Inherent. Inside and out. She reminds me of a small town prom queen who never quite figured out what to do with those kind of looks.

But forget about the exterior. Her sass. Her feistiness. That’s what grabs me. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. She’s not throwing herself at me. For all I know, she finds me repulsive.

And for that reason, I can’t bring myself to stop thinking of her.

To stay away.

“I stuck up for you to Aunt Rue the other day,” she says.

My head tilts. “Oh yeah?”

“She called you a child.”

I laugh. “That sounds like Rue.”

“She thinks you’re a filthy football player. And believe me when I say I’m not inclined to disagree with her. I’ve heard stories. Answering the door naked? Peeing on your lawn? Screwing women with your blinds open? Really?”

“I won’t deny I’ve done those things.” My palm glides along my jaw. “But I haven’t in a while. Not since last season ended.”

“Okay, I don’t know when football seasons end, but good for you for making some changes in your life.” Delilah’s arms lift over her shoulders, and she stretches once more as she eyes the sidewalk ahead.

“You sound like a therapist.”

“Th . . . thank you?”

“That’s not a compliment.”

Her mouth parts but nothing comes out for a moment.

“What are you talking about?”

“
Good for you for making some changes in your life
,” I mock her tone and inflection. “You don’t have to be condescending.”

Her hand lifts to her heart. “I sincerely apologize. It wasn’t my intention to sound that way.”

She moves closer to me, reaching her hand to mine and then stopping halfway to let it go. And it’s a good idea, because I’m not sure I could feel her touch right now and not want a little bit more despite the fact that she drives me up a fucking wall.

Delilah turns back to me. “You know, Aunt Rue wasn’t too happy that you brought me flowers. Almost landed
me
in some hot water.”

“It’s not like I brought you roses.”

“Still, Zane. It looks pretty bad when she asked you to stay away from me and you show up at her door bringing me flowers.” Delilah laughs through her nose, and I’m starting to think things
might
be cool between us. “Anyway, I told her she can’t tell people to stay away from me. It doesn’t work that way.”

“I will never bring you flowers again as long as I live. Promise.”

She starts to jog in place. “Smart man.”

“Is this it? You’re leaving?” I ask.

Her eyes widen. “Yeah. I figured we were done here. Did you need something else?”

I lean back, resting my arm along the backrest and jutting my lips. “Not really. We were having a nice conversation and then you just stand up to leave. Just seemed kind of abrupt.”

“Should I have asked for permission?” Her eyes are lit, her tone filled with sarcasm. “I mean, I’d really like to finish my jog before the sun goes down.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to be missing you in
those
shorts.”

She rolls her eyes. “You have an unhealthy preoccupation with my wardrobe.”

“I’d prefer to call it an eye for detail.”

Delilah bends one knee, hooking her hand across her shoe to stretch a hamstring. Balancing on one foot, she says, “Look, I appreciate the flowers and the apology, but I think it’s best we try to avoid each other the rest of the summer.”

“Are you serious?” I laugh, because she has to be joking.

Right?

Fists clenching the air, she says, “I hardly know you, Zane, and already you have this uncanny ability to get under my skin and bring out a part of me that I absolutely can’t stand. That can’t be a good thing, can it? You have to agree with me on that.”

It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s told me that.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” I say.

“So you’re accepting zero responsibility for acting like an ass every chance you get and for being an incredibly irritating individual?” Her expression twists. “I just want a nice, enjoyable, relaxing summer. I have a lot of my plate. I don’t want to have to deal with this unnecessary drama on top of everything else. I can’t imagine you do either.”

“Drama? Oh, gorgeous,
this
isn’t drama.” I rise, moving toward her. “This is nothing. This is child’s play. This is me giving shit to the girl next door. And a few minutes ago, that was me trying to make amends, which apparently wasn’t good enough because you clearly couldn’t get away quickly enough, and now you’re basically telling me to stay out of your face for the next three months.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“But that’s the gist of it, right?”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, arms folded at her hips. “Yeah.”

“Who’s the asshole now?”

I don’t stick around or wait for a response.

I jog off in the opposite direction with a big fat smile on my face because I know exactly what I’m doing.

This is a game, and I’m going to win.

It’s kind of what I do . . .