Like most Bradfords, he’d never had a problem finding a woman to warm his bed. Sex was easy, uncomplicated and could be used to scratch an itch. Finding a woman that he genuinely liked and wanted to spend time with outside the bedroom was a bit difficult for him. He just wished-
“I think we should focus back on Danny and his wife,” Trevor announced, completely screwing him over.
Bastard!
“She’s not my wife,” he said evenly, forcing himself to eat another bite of the mushy rice.
“Not yet,” Jason pointed out.
“For Christ’s sake, she’s not even my type!” he snapped, not bothering to point out that he liked taller woman with a hell of a lot more curves than Tinkerbelle had.
Tinkerbelle was pretty, he’d give her that, but she was also too short, probably five-one if that. She was petite, even smaller than Haley. She had blonde hair when he preferred black. Her breasts were small, probably C cups when he preferred large breasts that he could spend hours devoting his attention to and to be honest, she had this kid sister aura about her that just made him want to torment her.
“Doesn’t matter if she’s your type of not. You know how this works,” Trevor said, taking a bite of his meatloaf and noticeably trying not to cringe.
“Because she’s my neighbor?” he asked, not bothering to hide his snort of disgust. When his cousins sent him a “duh” look, he explained, “I’ve had plenty of neighbors that I enjoyed pissing off and I didn’t marry any of them so clearly Great Grandpa’s theory on Bradford men is bullshit.”
“You’ve had neighbors before,” Jason agreed, before he added, “but you’ve never gone out of your way to make any of their lives a living hell.”
“That makes her special,” Trevor added with a wink before Zoe said something that sent them all running from the table in search of a trashcan.
“That’s not rice,” she said, worrying her bottom lip. “That was baked macaroni and cheese.”
Chapter 3
“You can’t be serious,” Greg, a man that she’d gone out with a total of three times before he’d finally announced that he couldn’t date her because she reminded him of his kid sister, said as he carefully placed his coffee back on the coaster, well aware that she’d kick his ass if he stained her great-grandmother’s table.
“Oh, no I’m completely serious,” she said, looking over the notes that Mr. Tate had provided her with so that she could “improve the proposal.” She shook her head, refusing to compare their small library to the Louvre. Honestly, Mr. Tate was such a sweet man, but he had a romantic streak a mile wide, always seeing things as he thought they should be.
“You do realize that you’re telling a police officer, one on duty,” he clarified before continuing, “about your plans to murder your neighbor, right?”
She blinked at him before asking, “And your point is?”
With a frustrated growl, he reached over and grabbed another sandwich off the small platter that she’d made when he’d called to tell her that he’d be swinging by on his dinner break. They both knew that he was really making sure that she hadn’t snapped and killed the bastard living across the hallway and to grab a quick bite.
She’d learned a long time ago that it was best to keep plenty of deli meat and beer on hand for when her guy friends stopped by. It was either that or hear them bitching about being hungry until she gave in and baked them some cookies. Since baking meant cookies, brownies and cakes, her weaknesses, she made damn sure that her house was always well stocked for company, guy company. Unless she was stressed, then she baked like it was going out of style.
“He can’t be that bad,” Greg said, sighing heavily as he reached for more sugar.
“I now have thirty ways to kill him,” Jodi explained as she refilled his cup of coffee.
“You need to get the hell out of here before you do something stupid,” Greg said as though she wasn’t painfully aware of that fact.
“I can’t afford to move,” she said, focusing her attention on the notes once again and after she read the next paragraph, rolled her eyes in disgust.
“You have a good job, Jodi. It even pays more than the museum. You should be able to afford to buy your own house by now,” Greg pointed out, looking around the kitchen until he spotted the bag of chips that she’d taken out and forgot to put on the table while she tried not to wince.
He had no idea that Jerry had screwed her over financially when he’d walked out on her. If she honestly didn’t believe that he’d grab the rest of the guys and go beat the shit out of Jerry, she probably would have told him. She didn’t want anyone else to pay for her stupidity even if that meant that Jerry got the ass whooping that he’d more than earned.
“Why don’t you ask your Dad for help?” he suggested.
“I can’t,” she mumbled pathetically even though she technically could.
Well, there wasn’t anything technical about it. If she needed money or a place to live, her father would gladly give it to her. If her mother were still alive, she would have already dragged Jodi back home and babied her until she was able to get back on her feet. Some days she was sorely tempted to give in and admit defeat, but then her pride would rear its ugly head and demand that she keep trying.
“Well,” Greg said, getting up so that he could grab the chips off the counter, “you’ve gotta do something. Maybe go back to school.”
She had to snort at that. “So I can be even more overqualified? No thanks,” she said, adding the request for the wall of plaques declaring the members of the City Council heroes and hating herself for it.
“Maybe you could-” he started to suggest only to get cut off by his radio.
“Echo ninety-four, please respond to a twenty-five at 178 Harrison Road.”
Jodi cocked a brow in question even as she stood up and quickly packed the rest of the sandwiches for him.
“Shoplifter,” he said with a heavy sigh as he took the large paper brown bag from her and shoved the large unopened bag of chips inside.
“Well, you have fun with that,” she said dryly, sitting back down in front of her laptop when all she wanted to do was grab the pint of Ben and Jerry’s that she had hidden behind a bag of broccoli and go kill a few hours and a few hundred brain cells with reality television. Anything was better than writing this drivel.