Between Her Pages (Book of Love #2)

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 thought they 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…a lot," I say, dragging out the word for emphasis. "She liked to turn her hose on 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?"

"Maybe just don't terrorize the kids?" I suggest. "Everyone knew Letty was old and set in her ways. She was mostly harmless unless she got her hands on a hose. Well, I mean, until she tried to bite that officer, anyway. But they won't hold her against you."

"Good to know." His gaze drifts down my body before he meets my gaze again. "What about you, Rebel?"

"What about me?"

"You going to hold it against me?"

There are several things I'd like to hold against him right now. His rabid aunt is not on the list.

"We'll see," I say instead, hating the way my cheeks burn.

He can probably tell I'm cherry-red. I swear, it's a moral failing.

God did not build me with the ability to hide anything—not my thoughts, not embarrassment, not even my dirty secrets.

They all just show on my face like it's a dang scarlet letter.

We stand in silence for a moment, just staring at one another.

I'm not ashamed to admit I like the way he keeps looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing in the vicinity.

And let's be honest: Mr. Jacobs across the street has a dragon sculpture with a massive schlong and a marble statue with boobs, so there is actual competition here.

"So…" Mason finally says, drawing it out with a smirk on his face.

"Can I—?" I start at the same time, prepared to offer to help him move boxes.

Neither of us gets to finish what we were saying before I hear a warning growl behind me.

"Oscar, don't you—"

Too late.

My little demon of a dog darts through the open door and leaps down the steps, hurtling toward Mason at the speed of light.

Mason clocks him, his eyes going wide.

"Halt!" I shout.

Oscar skids to a stop at Mason's feet, snarling like he's a damn dragon instead of a four-pound Yorkie in a sweater vest and his villain era.

"Uh, hey," Mason says, looking at Oscar like he isn't sure if he should stand his ground or flee.

Oscar barks in response.

"Oscar, I swear if you don't stop trying to eat every man you come across," I growl, marching across the yard to snatch him up. He tries to wiggle free before he remembers that I have boobs and snacks. He settles with a final warning bark at Mason, licking my face like he's proud of himself.

"Oh, don't give me that," I mutter, holding him up in front of my face. "You're rude and mannerless, and one day, you're going to get eaten."

"Ah, I try to avoid snacking on dogs. Bad for digestion," Mason says dryly.

"Lucky for him." I roll my eyes, stroking the little monster between the eyes. "He probably deserves to be eaten at this point. He hates people."

"Doesn't seem to hate you," Mason observes, a soft smile on his face as he watches Oscar try to wriggle his way in between my boobs.

"That's because I rescued him. Someone tossed him in a dumpster downtown. I found him and brought him home with me," I explain. "He likes me and…well, basically just me." He tolerates my brother and my best friend, but only because they bribe him with snacks.

"What the fuck?" Mason's brows pull down. "He was in a fucking dumpster?"

"Yeah," I whisper, cuddling him close. "I don't know how long he was in there, but he was scared out of his mind. No one else could get close to him for days, but he came right to me. He's my little grouch."

"He's cute."

He is not cute. He looks like Shredder from the Ninja Turtles, only with a sweater vest and a bow-tie. But he's my little mutant spawn, and I love him. "Don't let him hear you say that. He will use it against you."

"They usually do," Mason chuckles, shaking his head.

"Well…I guess I should get him back inside before I have to bake apology cookies for whoever he tries to bite next," I say.

"And I should get these boxes in." Mason's gaze drifts across me again. "It was nice to meet you, Olive."

"You, too. Um, if you need anything, I'm just right next door. Stealing mail."

"I'll remember that, Rebel."

The way he looks at me says he means it.

I turn, scurrying back toward the safety of the house before I do something drastic and a touch unhinged—like offer to lick the sweat from his abs.

"You told your new neighbor that you were stealing mail?" Sarah Tolliver, my best friend, asks, sweeping her long hair up into a bun as we restock shelves at the Book of Love, the spicy romance bookstore where she works.

I spend most of my free time here with her. Lilah Davis, the owner, pays me with free books. As far as I'm concerned, that's like winning the lottery.

"It seemed funny at the time," I mutter.

"There is seriously something wrong with you."

"Yes. His abs. He had eight of them, Sarah. Eight!"

She laughs softly, flashing me a knowing smile. "You like him."

"Maybe," I mumble, not denying it. "I don't know him well enough to know if I like him or not, but talking to him yesterday didn't suck."

"So…go borrow sugar or something. Stalk him through the peephole and accidentally bump into him while you're both going to your cars." She shrugs. "There are nine hundred excuses for you to run into him again now that he lives right next door."

She isn't wrong, but anytime I try to date, it turns into a disaster. It's Mt. St. Helens bad.

The first guy I talked to post-grad school was great, or so I thought.

We talked for weeks before we decided to meet up.

Halfway through dinner, he went to the bathroom and never returned.

My second date tried to do cocaine on my coffee table.

My third date stood me up. So did the fifth.

The next one got into a bar fight and got carted away in cuffs.