Covet Thy Neighbor

me. “—temptations of the flesh.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Yep.”
    I mirrored his gesture, drawing a finger down his chest, but I kept going. “So how much temptation—” I followed the thin line of dark hair below his navel, grinning when he gasped. “—can your flesh handle tonight?”
    Darren bit his lip. “I can take whatever you’ve got.”
    “Hmm.” I kissed him. “Challenge accepted.”

Daylight was a bitch. My head wasn’t pounding, fortunately, but I could have done with a few more hours of blissfully enjoying all the aches and pains from last night without the hefty dose of unfamiliar guilt that accompanied the rising sun. Apparently all it took was a few sunbeams to crack open the What the fuck did I just do? and the This could get awkward .
    But it was just a one-night stand. What the hell? This kind of thing never bothered me. Okay, so he was my neighbor, which meant it would be impossible to avoid each other even if we wanted to, so sleeping with him was about as smart as fucking a roommate. So the awkwardness wasn’t terribly surprising, but the guilt was . . . new.
    Whatever the reason, that guilty, unsettled feeling had burrowed its way under my skin, and I braced for that moment when Darren and I made morning-after eye contact for the first time.
    As I rolled over and we looked at each other, naked and disheveled in the morning light, all that guilt came crashing down in full force. If fucking up was tequila, this was the hangover, pounding home the realization that last night? Yeah. I done fucked up.
    It took two, though.
    And judging by the upward flick of his eyebrows and the oh shit in his tired eyes, I wasn’t the only one who’d be wallowing in regret all damned day.
    He pushed himself up on to his elbows, then sat all the way up, each motion subtly increasing the distance between us. “Um. We . . .” His fingers tapped rapidly on the sheet covering his knee. “Do you, um, want some coffee?”
    “Sure. Yeah.”
    Not that I wanted to stick around long enough for coffee, but it gave us an excuse to get out of this bed. We parted ways as people do after one-night stands that shouldn’t have happened: awkward coffee, mumbled excuses, and a quick escape with noncommittal comments about “later” and “again.” We skipped the good-bye kiss too, which only underscored the point that was already much too clear: last night should not have happened.
    Even if I wasn’t completely sure why. One-night stands were fine with me. But . . . neighbors. Two guys who couldn’t avoid each other forever. And one was a minister, for fuck’s sake. Exactly the kind of person I avoided at all costs, all wrapped up in a body I couldn’t resist. Exactly the kind of person I had no business getting involved with unless I wanted to take years’ worth of emotional healing about twenty steps backward.
    I tried—yeah right—to get my mind off last night and this morning as I showered, poured another gallon or so of coffee down my throat, fed and watered the cat, and headed downstairs to the shop.
    There wasn’t much to do right off the bat. I kept my workstation immaculate. The waiting area needed just a little tidying—straighten the pile of magazines and portfolios, run through with the broom and dustpan—and the counter and desks were organized already. Not a damned thing to do, and two hours before my first appointment.
    I needed something to occupy my restless hands and brain, so I grabbed a clipboard, opened up the ink cabinet, and started counting cups and bottles.
    I was about halfway through our stock when the front door opened. I hoped it was an early walk-in, but it was just Lane. “Hey, man.”
    “Morning,” he grumbled, and sipped his coffee. “How’s it going?”
    “Good. You?”
    “Eh.”
    Typical. I went back to counting.
    “Uh, Seth?”
    I leaned back and glanced past the open cabinet door. “Hmm?”
    Lane eyed me. “You are aware it’s Friday, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    He gestured at the cabinet. “We’re going to use half of what’s in there before you have a chance to order on Monday.”
    “I know. I know. I just need . . . something to do for a few minutes.”
    “Dude, we’re self-employed,” he said, chuckling. “You don’t have to look busy.”
    “No, I just need to be busy. Something to”—I tapped my temple with my pen—“keep my mind busy.”
    “Oh.” He furrowed his brow. “Okay. Uh, you all right?”
    “Yeah. Yeah. Just a lot on my