“Look, your neighbor is a good-looking guy, yes. But he’s also a goddamn expert in his field. You’ve taken a class with him!”
“A guest lecture.”
“You’re new to the neighborhood. So here’s the dare—bake some of your amazing muffins.”
“Or your blueberry pie,” Wilma interjects. “Or the cinnamon buns!”
“Any one of those,” Trina agrees. “And you make enough for your two best friends to taste. And after that, you go over and introduce yourself. Give him the goods. Say sorry for the little mishap in the garden. And tell him what you study.” She grins, pleased with her own brilliance.
I stare back at her. As dares go, it’s not the worst, but it’s more daunting than any I’ve done before. Seeing me waver, she holds up the picture of Ethan Carter again. It’s the smile hidden in the corner of his lips that convinces me, and not the stark line of his jaw or the handsome set of his eyes.
A man who smiles like he does wouldn’t slam the door in my face.
“All right,” I say, sounding braver than I feel. “I’ll do it. But there’s no way you two will be here when I do.”
Immediate howls of protest.
“No, I mean it. Now come on. We have brownies to bake.”
“Brownies?”
“Yes. This is a high-risk mission. I can’t afford to experiment, not here, not now. Men like chocolate.”
“They do,” Trina confirms.
“Everyone does,” Wilma adds.
Steel in my spine, I march into the pristine kitchen and its five-thousand-dollar oven. “Bring out the mixing bowls,” I declare. “We have eggs to beat.”
The dramatic moment is undercut when we all stand there, staring at the beautiful knob-less cupboards. None of us have a clue where things are, not to mention how to open some of the melt-into-the-wall pantry doors. But just like we figured out our Orientation Week, we’ll figure out this kitchen—together.
It’s late afternoon by the time we have the perfect batch of brownies cooling on a tray. “They look delicious,” Wilma says.
“You can have one,” I say. “Actually, take a few.”
“You don’t have to say that twice.” Trina leans against the kitchen island, a plastic binder in her hands. “So these are your instructions?”
“Yes, the house-sitting manual. It has all the information about this place.” Winking, I snatch it out of her hands. “Including confidential information.”
She grins at me. “I didn’t see anything important. Well, apart from the preferred pH-value in the pool. But I promise I’ll take the information to my grave.”
A soft meow echoes in the kitchen. “Ah! There you are!” I crouch down, moving slowly toward the sleek, gray cat. “My roommate!”
The cat looks unimpressed.
“You’re a cat-sitter too?”
“Yes. That’s part of why they wanted someone here, to keep him company.”
“What’s his name?”
Giving up on trying to pet the cat—he’s flicking his tail and looks ready to bolt—I reach for the manual. “It must be in here somewhere. It was on the page with feeding instructions. Toast!”
“Toast?”
“That’s his name.”
We look at the cat, now stretched out on the carpet, his tawny eyes staring back at us.
“Rich people,” Wilma declares, as if that explains everything. “And speaking of rich people… it’s time for us to leave and for you to knock on a certain someone’s door.”
I give a mock groan. “I can’t. I’ve forgotten how to knock.”
“Bella, you promised.”
So I did.
Ethan Carter. I’m just going to go say hi to Ethan Carter, my neighbor. One of Seattle’s most impressive tech icons. A pioneer in the field of technical mechanics. Who just happens to be my neighbor for the next three months.
And who has seen me topless.
“I did promise,” I say. “And that means you have to go now, before I completely lose my nerve.”
Wilma jumps down from the barstool and Trina gives me a nod, the kind a team player gives to another in the heat of the game. “You got this,” she says.
“Thanks.”
Reaching over, she smooths my fringe into place. The curtain bangs had been a complete impulse decision just two weeks ago, but I like them. They frame my face. They’re a change. New hair, new me.
“You look gorgeous,” she says. “Nice choice of dress.”
Glancing down at the sundress I’d put on this morning, I have to agree. It’s probably the one thing I own that has spaghetti straps. “Thank you.”
“Text us the second after you’re done, and tell us everything,” Wilma says. “Oh! I almost forgot, I brought you those pills you asked for.”
“The herbal sleeping aids?” I ask. Across the counter, Trina raises an eyebrow at me. We’d had an