Her boyfriend sees me before I see him, because I hear him ask, “Who’s that?”
“Danny,” she says. “He’s moving in upstairs. Danny, this is Kyle.”
When I turn back around, he’s standing on the other side of the railing, on the terrace itself, dressed in a too-tight heather gray T-shirt and a pair of baggy Bermuda shorts. His short-cropped hair is mussed from sleep and he blinks owlishly at me, as if he’s still waking up. With his tanned skin and blond locks, he’s about as all-American as you can get, and so damn sexy, it hurts. Physically; I feel lust grip me somewhere below my balls and squeeze hard, threatening to never let go.
Damn, he’s one fine mother.