3.2

Georgina

"What the hell?" I'm changing out of work clothes getting ready to go for a run when I hear music blaring from outside, barely muffled by the walls of the house. Something country, but I can't quite hear the words. It's the neighbor. I know it's him without even having to look. No one else in the world is that obnoxious.

Or that sexy.

I put that thought right out of my head, because his obnoxiousness definitely overrides his hotness. After wrangling on my sports bra, I pull on a tank top and grab my sneakers from the closet, pausing in my bedroom. I give the thumping of the music another thirty seconds before I'm officially annoyed. Sure, it's not like it's two in the morning, but this neighborhood has always been quiet. Or at least it was, before Bongo Dude moved in next door.

When I yank open the sliding glass door and stomp out onto the balcony, the music assaults my ears. It's definitely country.

And that's definitely the hot neighbor I can see over the wall riding a lawnmower around his expertly manicured lawn - shirtless.

It takes me a second to hear the chorus of the song and to place it: She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy.

I nearly choke.

That could not be directed at me, could it? I'm not sure whether to be flattered, amused, or annoyed.

As he rounds the end of the lawn, he looks up at my balcony and holds his can of beer up in a mock “cheers” gesture – because of course he's riding a lawnmower and drinking at the same time.

Then he grins. Unmistakably cocky and smug, his grin is what pushes me over the edge. The same guy who, upon meeting me, called me “sugar tits” is now riding a lawnmower around shirtless while playing She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy?

He's totally trying to bait me.

That grin of his suggests he thinks he has.

I roll my eyes dramatically, as if he can see my expression from up here, but it seems like a necessary gesture in response to his ridiculousness. Then I whirl around and close the door behind me, standing with my back against it for a moment as a laugh threatens to erupt from my chest.

He's juvenile. Completely and utterly juvenile. I shouldn't be laughing – the things he said to me, telling me he wanted to throw me over his shoulder and pull my panties down my thighs, would have been far beyond inappropriate even if I were a "normal" woman and not the President's daughter. But the fact that I'm the President's daughter definitely makes them worse.

Even so, it's not the most awful thing in the world, seeing him with his shirt off yet again. I flush warm at the memory of what I imagined him doing last night when I had my fingers between my legs.

That does not mean I'm attracted to the jackass out there on a riding lawnmower. I know his type. He's the kind of guy who's used to getting away with frat boy antics, the kind of man who thinks he can whip out an arrogant little grin and women will fall all over themselves for him.

I'm not one of those girls.

I tell myself that again as I peer through the blinds like a nosy old lady, straining my neck to get a glimpse of him in his yard.

Yep. I'm definitely not one of those girls.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm running down the road, trailed by Blair and David at a safe distance, my pace a little faster than usual - which has nothing to do with the fact that Bongo Dude was outside shirtless in his yard and I might have a little pent-up frustration to run off.

Absolutely nothing.

We're not more than half a mile into the run when I hear the rumble of a motor, and turn to see Bongo Guy.

In the middle of the street, coming up behind us, driving the riding lawnmower like it’s a car. Still shirtless, even though it's not exactly a warm summer evening in Colorado.

I pause as Blair and David stop and reach for their weapons. Rolling my eyes, I put my hand up. "Seriously, I'm a million percent certain my neighbor is not trying to assassinate me by running me over with a lawnmower."

"You never know, ma'am. Protocol," David reasons. I can't tell if she's actually serious, but at least she and Blair refrain from drawing their weapons.

I turn, ignoring the fact that a shirtless man is following me on a lawnmower, and resume jogging, but at a slower pace.

"Need a lift?" Bongo Guy asks, grinning widely. He takes a swig from his can of beer.

"From the guy who's drinking while driving?" I ask, glancing over at him. I'm glad I'm running because I can return my gaze to the road ahead instead of ogling his bare naked, excessively muscled chest.

"I’m fairly sure a lawnmower doesn’t count," he protests.

"Um, it counts."

"I've only had one beer," Bongo Guy says. "Promise." He crosses his heart with his finger and looks innocently at me - as innocently as someone who's so obviously not angelic can look.

Focus, Georgina. The last thing I need to think about is how obviously not angelic this man is. "Should I even ask why you're riding a lawn mower down the road?"

"Should I ask why you're being followed around by a couple of suits who are obviously packing?" he counters, referring to them as "suits" even though they're in running gear.

I open my mouth about to speak the words, “I'm the President's daughter!” except that I don't. I hesitate. I don't know why I don't just come out and say it. No, that's not true. I know exactly why. It's because this is the first time in as long as I can remember that someone hasn't recognized who I am.

Being the President's daughter is a privilege, of course. I have opportunities most people don't have, and I'm grateful for that. But it also means that's all anyone sees when they look at me. I'm labeled as my father's daughter and that's it. Hardly anyone wants to know anything about me beyond that. Sure, there are the people who know me for my work with the foundation, but personally? Not so many.

So the fact that this guy doesn't seem to have a clue who I am is, oddly enough, liberating – even if he's crude.

"Sightseeing," Bongo Guy says.

"Pardon?"

"The reason I'm riding the lawnmower. I'm sightseeing."

"Sightseeing what? Old houses?”

"Nah. I'm partial to another view."

I'm grateful for the fact that I'm running and already flushed right now, because otherwise I think my face would have just turned bright red. "Do you usually drive around in a lawnmower following women?"

"Actually, it’s the first time I've used a lawn mower for this purpose."

"But it's not the first time driving around and following a woman?"

"I used a tractor the other time."

I can't help but laugh. "Classy."

"It’s a long story."

"I assume it's one that involves beer?" I ask.

"Perceptive girl." His eyes crinkle at the edges as he grins. Even when I turn back to look at the road, I'm acutely aware of his gaze still on me.

"So following me around is your idea of a good time?" I'm running slightly faster now, wondering if his lawnmower can keep up. How fast does a lawnmower even go?

"Well, it's certainly better than following around Mrs. Johnson."

"Who's Mrs. Johnson?"

"The woman who lives across the street. You don't know your neighbors?"

"I know my neighbors," I protest, feeling slightly defensive. "I mean, I don’t ‘know them’, know them. I wave hello. I'm a nice person. I don't need to know their names."

"How long have you lived here?"

"A couple of years." Okay, now I'm totally defensive. "You're obviously friendlier than I am. With your nudity and riding lawnmowers and…whatever it is you spend your time doing."

"You don't know what I do?" He asks the question like he's pleased with himself.

"Something that gives you enough time to play the bongos naked and ride around the neighborhood, clearly." He grunts his response. I continue to run, my steps pounding a steady rhythm on the pavement. "Are you waiting for me to ask you what you do?”

“Most women want to know these kinds of things.”

I choke back a laugh. "You're full of yourself. And I’m not most women.”

“Clearly.”

I run in silence for a few more minutes before exhaling heavily. "Fine. What do you do?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t tell me?”

“It's top secret." He takes another sip from his beer and grins.

“Wait, don’t tell me. You’re a secret agent living undercover as an obnoxious frat guy.”

“Frat guy? You think I’m a frat guy?”

I shrug. "You’re the one with the bongos and canned beer and –”

“What kind of secret agent frat guy lives in a house like that?”

“One named Dick Donovan?”

He laughs. "It’s actually Adriano.”

“Adriano,” I repeat. "Huh. Dick suits you better.”

“Funny. Do I just keep calling you sugar or do you have a name?”

“You can stop calling me sugar,” I say. "It’s Georgina." I deliberately leave off my last name, although I’m not entirely certain that Adriano would recognize me as the President’s daughter even if I told him.

“Georgina with the bodyguards.”

“That’s right.”

“So you’re someone important,” Adriano says as I keep running.

I laugh. "That’s definitely debatable.”

“Or someone who needs bodyguards. So you're someone people want dead.”

“Is this your version of I Spy or something? You’re going to try to guess my identity?”

“You got something better to do in the next… how many miles are you going?”

“Five.”

“Shit, I don’t know if the lawn mower can go five miles.”

“That’s a real shame. Looks like I’ll have to run these five miles on my own. In silence.”

“Don’t worry. I've still got plenty of juice left in this baby.” He’s talking about the lawnmower, yet his words definitely sound sexual.

I try to put that thought out of my head, focusing my attention on my cadence and the sound of my feet on the pavement. One-tw. One-two.

Hot bare-chested guy a few feet away.

Focusing isn't my strong suit right now.

Adriano's words break through my thoughts. “So you’re someone people want dead.”

Do people want me dead? Not right this minute; at least I don't think so. “I didn’t say that.”

“Are you going to tell me if I guess right?”

“Are you going to tell me who you are?” I counter.

“Nah. I like it this way. So… have you ever hooked up with someone whose last name you didn’t know?”

I choke back a laugh. "Is that your lame version of a pick-up line?"

"I'm just trying to get to know my neighbor, Georgina No-Last-Name. It's a reasonable question."

"It's not a reasonable question."

He ignores me. "You don't look like a pop star or a model, so that’s out.”

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean? Are you following me just so you can heckle me?"

This time when I glance over at him, I see his cheeks redden. Is Mr. No Shame embarrassed? “I meant that you’re not all, like, super skinny and shit.”

“That's not helping."

“If you want me to tell you exactly how hot your ass looks in that running gear, I can. I was just trying to class it up a bit.”

I laugh. "That’s appreciated.”

“So you’re not a rock star or a model and you’re not super famous -”

“How do you know I’m not super famous?”

“You don’t have any fans following you.”

“This is a gated neighborhood.”

“Good point. But you don’t look super famous, which clearly means that you're in witness protection.”

“You’re suggesting that I’m being followed by bodyguards because I’m trying to not call attention to my brand new government-provided identity?”

“Well, when you say it that way, it just sounds ridiculous.”

We’re rounding the corner, and when Adriano slows down, I find myself slowing down and then stopping instead of running ahead. "Had enough of guessing?”

He looks at his watch. “I have to be somewhere.”

I raise my eyebrows. "Hot date?”

I don’t even know this guy’s last name, but the thought of him with another woman sets me on edge.

“Jealous?"

“Definitely not jealous,” I lie, giving a casual shrug. "Have fun on your date, Bongos.”

"It's trainin—uh, work," he says. He starts to back up his lawnmower and spin around as I turn to jog away. Then he pauses, looking back at me to call, “You’re a drug lord, aren’t you? Some kind of crime kingpin.”

I laugh. "You got me.”

“See you around, sugar."