Look At Me. Cara Lockwood
found herself thinking, and then giggled to herself at the ludicrous idea as she clutched her phone in her sweaty palm. Where did that come from? It had to be because she was newly single, she figured. Suddenly, everybody was a possibility. As she finished off her can of soda, she watched the new neighbor dump a box in the living room and then run an arm across his own sweaty brow. Then, to her utter surprise, he whipped off his tee.
Oh...my. Hello there, sexy. She hadn’t seen such an amazing chest before except on the giant posters of her gym. He had abs, yes, and that amazing little vee stretching down into his low-slung khakis. His well-defined pecs and chiseled arms seemed like they should be wielding a hammer.
She also noticed this bad boy had tattoos. A big one across his right arm and shoulder. What was it? She couldn’t make it out. She pulled up her phone’s camera and then zoomed in, trying to get a better look. Was the tattoo part of a wing? She wasn’t sure.
Okay, what bazillionaire lifted his own boxes and had tattoos? Chloe shook her head. The new neighbor was all kinds of mystery rolled into some serious eye candy. He patted his face with his own shirt, and Chloe felt like she’d suddenly been taken out of time. Everything she watched seemed to be on a slow-motion reel, even as her sexy new neighbor grabbed a bottle of water and took a deep swig. She watched his Adam’s apple bob and suddenly wished he’d dump the whole bottle on his head.
What’s wrong with you? This isn’t a male revue, for goodness’ sake. Chloe tried to mentally shake herself, but she still sat at the window anyway, transfixed. She clutched the phone in her hand. Should she take a picture? She was tempted. Then the dazzling neighbor moved away from the window and out of sight.
Dammit. Where did the bad boy with the abs go?
She pushed forward, trying to see, and her spaghetti strap slipped again from her shoulder. She wore no bra, since it was too hot for one in her opinion, and the fabric of her shirt slung dangerously low, but she didn’t pay it any mind. She was too focused on getting one more glimpse of her Nordic god neighbor.
Where had he gone? She couldn’t see him at the windows anymore. The door to the roof creaked open then, and she saw him head out on the slate tile of the patio. Now he was even closer, a perfect place to take a picture. Should she? Her friends would never believe such a hunky man had moved in. And what if he was famous? An actor, maybe? From Chicago Fire or one of the dozens of regular shows that filmed in downtown Chicago?
She held up her phone, debating whether to take a shot, when he suddenly glanced up and their eyes met. For a second, she froze from sheer shock. Surely he wasn’t actually seeing her. Nobody saw her up here. But he gave a slight nod of his head, a little smile, and she realized he had seen her. He held his hand up in a wave.
Horrified, Chloe scrambled to hide her phone, but the sudden movement sent the smartphone slipping out of her sweaty grasp. She watched helplessly as her phone—brand-new—toppled out of her open window. She leaned out of the window, but it was too late. Her prized possession was taken by gravity. It flipped downward to the alley below, missing his shiny new Maserati by inches, landing between it and the moving truck with a sickening crack on the asphalt.
She glanced back up at the neighbor, who seemed surprised, but was watching her—not the phone. He was transfixed, frozen, and that was when she realized—too late—she was hanging out of her window, practically falling out of her tank top, the fabric so low she was flashing the man her nipples.
Chloe, mortified, pulled up her shirt, ducked away from her window and retreated to her kitchen, her heart pounding.
That’s just great. Throw your phone out the window. Flash the neighbor. Maybe he’ll throw you some Mardi Gras beads.
The heat of embarrassment burned her cheeks. Maybe he’s gay and doesn’t care. At least, she could hope for that. After a few minutes, Chloe felt like an idiot standing barefoot in her kitchen. She wondered if he was still there. Carefully, she tiptoed from her kitchen, and then kicked herself. He can’t hear me, she scolded, and tried to catch a glimpse far from her window. But when she looked out, she didn’t see the bad boy anymore. She slunk closer to the window, trying to hide herself behind a side curtain. Nope. The deck below her sat empty except for the potted plants.
Then she remembered her phone, dropped four stories onto the ground below. She needed that—it was her lifeline!
She didn’t have time to change. What if someone stepped on it? What if someone stole it? She roused herself out of her stupor and moved to her front door. She jammed her feet into flip-flops and headed for the staircase. She swung open the back door ready to jump into the alley and nearly collided with...her new neighbor.
He was holding her mangled and decidedly cracked phone in his hand. “Uh... I think you dropped this?”
Standing in front of him, she realized now how very tall he was. His muscled shoulders were all power. And he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. And she was more than aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Uh... Yeah. I...” I just flashed you a second ago. Sorry about that. “Uh... Thanks.” She grabbed the phone, with its shattered face and bent corner. It still lit up when she touched it. That was good, at least.
“I’m... Jackson Drake.” He extended a strong hand.
She took his hand dumbly and shook it. His palm was smooth and big. The man had big hands, bear paws almost. What was it that they said about big hands? His sharp blue eyes never left her.
“Looks like we’ll be neighbors.” A slow smile curved his lips. He had nice teeth, too. Model-white.
So he did own that whole building. What was a billionaire doing...fetching her phone? She happened to glance at his wrist and saw the gleaming Rolex there. Yep, definitely rich.
“And you are...?”
Idiot. Didn’t even tell him your name. “Chloe... Chloe Park.”
“Nice to meet you, Chloe. Do you mind if I call you by your first name? I feel like after today, we need to be on a first-name basis.” He grinned a sly, wolfish smile.
Still, her face flamed at the reference of her spilling out of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to having neighbors. I’m not even in the habit of shutting my blinds. That building has been abandoned for so long.”
“Don’t change on my account.” He took a slight step closer. His bare chest filled up most of her field of vision. She wondered if his skin felt as smooth as it looked. Something told her he wasn’t gay. Gay men didn’t flirt like this with her.
Chloe again lost the ability to speak. Pretty soon, he’d start thinking she was slow. Chloe felt a tingle at the back of her knees. “Park...” he said, blue eyes never leaving hers. “Is that Korean?”
“Dad’s Korean. Mom’s Irish. You know, a living representation of the melting pot. They live in Seattle, but I see them a couple of times a year...” What was she yammering on about? She always did that when she was nervous.
“Hey! Drake!” called one of the movers carrying a large box. “This going to the first floor or...?”
Jackson hesitated, seeming to want to linger. Or maybe that was just because he didn’t want to deal with moving. Moving day was always terrible, no matter how rich you were, Chloe supposed.
“Well, I see you’re busy, but, uh...thanks for the phone. It’s my lifeline.” She held up her battered phone. If her lifeline still worked, that is.
Jackson nodded. He couldn’t be more confident in his own skin, standing at her back alley door. But then, why wouldn’t he be? He was gorgeous and rich. He was probably used to women falling at his feet. Or falling out of their tops, she thought ruefully.
“Until...next time then. Chloe.” He nodded once at her, and she was held there, for a second, trapped in his ice-blue eyes. Eventually, she remembered she was a sweaty, unshowered mess and wasn’t wearing