Rewarding Avery: Surrender Book Ten Read online

  Rewarding Avery

  Surrender, Book Ten

  Becca Jameson

  Copyright © 2022 by Becca Jameson

  Cover Artist: Scott Carpenter

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. And resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Newsletter

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Author’s Note

  Also by Becca Jameson

  About the Author

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  About the Book

  Avery

  I’ve known I’m a middle for a long time.

  It’s why I got divorced. I needed something…more.

  What I need is an older, sophisticated, stern man.

  What I don’t need is my much younger, smoking-hot neighbor to mow my lawn.

  The man’s a personal trainer. His muscles have muscles.

  I’m much too old for him and not at all his type—fit.

  And yet, he has the audacity to ask me out.

  He’s coming over tonight. Why on earth did I agree to this?

  * * *

  Andrew

  I’ve had my eye on Avery for two years.

  She’s cute, youthful, and adorable.

  She’s also independent, and she likes to stomp her feet when I help her.

  It’s time to take a chance and ask her out.

  Since she thinks she owes me for mowing her lawn, she can make me dinner.

  I should not be shocked to find out she’s a Middle.

  And I’m far from disappointed.

  I just need to convince her to give this younger guy a chance.

  Chapter 1

  Avery

  * * *

  “Oh my God. He’s doing it again,” I murmur to myself as I shove my desk chair back and push to stand. I don’t even bother to look out the window to verify that my too-sexy-for-his-own-good and far-too-young-for-me-to-think-like-that neighbor is mowing my lawn. Again.

  I rush down the stairs of my condo too fast. One of these days I’m going to fall, and the authorities will find me dead at the bottom of the steps a week later.

  When I hit the ground floor, I make a mad dash to yank open the back door that leads from my kitchen to the deck. As soon as I reach the edge of the deck, I cock one hip out and plant my hands on my hips, waiting for him to notice me.

  The cocky jerk eventually sees me, but all he does is smile and wave before continuing to cut my grass. I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but it does. I don’t know why I think of him as a jerk either, because he’s not.

  Andrew Danforth is a perfectly nice guy. Far too perfect and too nice and too… guy. That’s the real problem. I moved into this condo two years ago, and the moment I first saw him, my damn traitorous panties melted.

  I’m clearly certifiable for a number of reasons, but the most important one is that he’s far, far too young for me to be ogling. I’m confident he’s more than ten years younger than me. I’m forty-two, so that puts him somewhere in his late twenties. A baby.

  The truth is, it annoys me that I find him so attractive. I should be ashamed of myself for peeking out my window to catch a glimpse of him when he comes and goes. He’s just so… fine.

  The man is ripped. Chiseled from marble. It’s no wonder since he’s a personal trainer for some of the area’s most elite customers. It’s not my fault I can’t stop looking at him.

  I have my own lawnmower, but he’s more anal about his grass than I am, so he mows it with more frequency than I would. I haven’t mowed my damn lawn in at least a year because as soon as the blades are a quarter of an inch higher than he would like, he freaking mows both of our yards.

  Granted, we live in attached condos, so it’s not as if it takes him very long. But it’s the principle. There’s not a thing I could possibly do for this overly neighborly guy in return.

  I mean, there are things I could do, but they are indecent, and I flush just thinking about them.

  I suppose I could bake him cookies or some shit, but he doesn’t look like he’s ever eaten one. Meanwhile, I look exactly like a middle-aged woman who has eaten more than her fair share.

  Magazines label girls like me as curvy, and I don’t usually mind because I’d rather eat delicious foods while watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek than work out or go for a jog. I don’t even have a dog because I don’t want to take him for walks.

  Andrew finally finishes mowing and turns off the loud engine. He smirks as he saunters toward me in his tight navy T-shirt and black shorts that permit me to see the fine muscles of his tanned legs as well as his arms. His arms are so muscular they don’t hang fully straight at his sides.

  It should be illegal.

  “You have to stop mowing my grass,” I bark at him.

  He swipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I keep telling you it’s not a problem at all. I’m already out here. It takes like two minutes to add yours. Plus, I enjoy yardwork.”

  Who in their right mind enjoys yardwork?

  “Why don’t you let me mow yours sometimes instead, huh?” This is a horrible idea. I have no idea where it even came from. I would do a terrible job, it would take me ten times longer, and I would die of mortification if he saw me out here struggling to catch my breath.

  I immediately purse my stupid lips.

  Andrew chuckles.

  He better not be laughing at me. He is laughing at me. How could he not be? My suggestion was preposterous.

  “Shit. Did I wake you up?” He glances at his watch, his brow furrowed.

  It’s nearly eleven in the morning on a Saturday.

  “Of course not. I’ve been grading papers for hours,” I lie. I just got up thirty minutes ago. All I’ve done so far is eat Lucky Charms and get myself situated at my desk. I wish I had been grading papers for hours. I’d be done by now if I hadn’t slept in so late.

  That cocky smirk returns. “Well, I like to get the mowing done early in the day before it’s too hot, ma’am, and—”

  I shake my head viciously and lean toward him. The sexy sweat-covered man doesn’t even smell like he’s been working. All I smell is freshly cut grass. “Oh no. No no no no no. No, you don’t. Do not call me ma’am.” I shudder. “I may be old, but I’m not your grandma.”

  He flinches, his eyes going wide. “Old? You’re not old at all. I was just raised in the South, so my mother would have my hide if I didn’t speak respectfully.”

  I keep shaking my head. “Don’t do that. Don’t ma’am me. It’s weird.”

  He nods. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend you. Like I said, you’re certainly not old. We’re surely close to the same age.”

  “Ha.” Is he serious?

  “Age is just a number anyway. The important thing is that you’re obviously young at heart.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  I follow his gaze and glance down at myself.

  Shit. Shit shit shit. I’d darted downstairs and out
the door so fast that I’d paid no attention to what I looked like. I take a deep breath. It could have been worse. At least I’d removed my oversized NSYNC concert T-shirt and put on actual clothes. But this isn’t something I’d normally wear out of the house.

  It’s a comfortable cotton romper. The kind with spaghetti straps that I simply stepped into and pulled up over my ample boobs. It has a ruffle across my chest and around the hem at my thighs. It was hot pink and black striped. At least they’re vertical.

  I’m not wearing a bra. I hate them so I don’t wear one at home. Unless I’m going to have company. Or… step out onto the damn deck.

  I cross my arms, trapping one of my loose messy braids against my chest in the process.

  Deciding to pretend I’m perfectly comfortable in my skin and totally don’t mind my sexy-AF neighbor seeing me in this outfit, I lift my chin. “I happen to like bold colors, and this is comfortable,” I defend.

  He chuckles and holds both hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging you. I think it’s cute. I’m just pointing out how young you are.”

  I narrow my gaze. “Well, I’m not. I’m forty-two. What are you? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?” Why on Earth am I having this discussion with Mr. Sexy?

  “Thirty-five.” He winks.

  Winks!

  Is he flirting with me? He can’t be flirting with me. That’s absurd. Granted, I’m slightly relieved to know we’re only seven years apart in age, and not the more than ten I presumed.

  Wait. What the hell is wrong with me? It doesn’t matter if he’s seven, ten, or two dozen years younger than me. He’s not my type. I’m looking for a man closer to fifty. Someone with a stern look and graying hair. Someone who can keep me in line. A man who would have snagged my hand and stopped me from running out the door wearing a romper.

  I hug myself tighter, hoping he can’t tell that my nipples are stiff peaks. “Look, the point is that I have no way to repay you for mowing my lawn, so you shouldn’t do it.”

  “And I’m telling you that you don’t owe me anything. I’m just being friendly. Neighborly. It’s what people do. You’re a single woman living alone. I should look out for you. It’s called being kind.” He lifts a brow.

  I groan. “Well, thank you,” I force myself to say because I’m being a brat, and this man doesn’t even know what a brat is. “But I still don’t like feeling indebted. I would bake you cookies, or brownies, but from the looks of you, you’ve never eaten something with sugar in it. Or butter. Or refined flour, for that matter.”

  He laughs, tipping his head back. His dimples come out, and suddenly he’s maddeningly sexier than he already was. He’s still smiling when he drops the next bomb. “Go out with me.”

  My eyes bug out. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me. Go out with me. How about next Saturday night? I’d suggest Friday, but I’ve noticed you seem to have a standing engagement on Friday nights, so how about Saturday?”

  My skin is fair. Nearly translucent. I’m a natural blonde with pale blue eyes. So, I’m familiar enough with myself to know I’ve turned a dark shade of red in large splotches all over my cheeks and my chest.

  My ears are ringing. Did this guy/man/child/person just ask me on a date? Surely not. But he did say it twice. “That’s crazy. I’m too old for you.”

  He shakes his head, still grinning. “We just established not one minute ago that we’re not that far apart in age. And you might remember me pointing out that I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do,” I shoot back.

  Andrew chuckles. On top of everything else annoying about him, I now have to add that he has the confidence of a much older man.

  And then another thought comes to mind, and I swallow, my face draining of all color. “Are you making fun of me?”

  He flinches, his eyes narrowing. He steps closer, shortening the distance between us. Thank goodness there’s a wooden railing around my deck that keeps him from stepping all the way into my space. He sets his hands on it though and leans toward me, leaving only a foot or so between us.

  He’s not laughing. His expression is dead serious. “I would never make fun of you, Avery. Why would you think that? I’ve lived next door to you for two years. I’ve watched you come and go hundreds of times. I’ve wanted to ask you out most of that time, and suddenly now I’ve decided to go for it. Why not?”

  My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.

  “There’s a lightness about you. You’re a free spirit. I love the way you smile and giggle when you don’t think anyone is looking. That cute little wave you give me when you climb into your lime-green car stops me in my tracks every time.”

  I swallow, but he’s not done.

  “Like I said, you’re obviously young at heart, and I’d bet money you’re fun to be with—when you’re not growling about letting someone mow your lawn.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a sexy smile. “So yeah. I’m asking you out. Please say yes so I won’t feel like a fool for laying it all on the line here.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “As a heart attack.” He’s white-knuckling the wooden railing.

  Holy shit. Holy. Shit.

  Finally, he lifts up a hand. “How about this? You make me dinner tonight, and spend two hours with me. If you don’t want to take the risk of going out in public with me afterward, I won’t ask you again.”

  “You think I don’t want to be seen in public with you?”

  He shrugs, his brows lifting as if to say, what else am I supposed to think?

  “You…” I lick my lips. “You’re like a chiseled statue of male perfection. I don’t know why you don’t have a different date every night of the week. The fact that you notice when I go out and when I don’t tells me you’re home to see that sort of thing.” I narrow my gaze. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  He gives me a slow smile. If I’m not mistaken, his tanned skin flushes. “Women who hit on me at the gym or wherever tend to be extremely shallow, Avery. I grew tired of being pawed at like some sort of sex object about a decade ago.

  “You, on the other hand, don’t strike me as shallow at all. You’re a breath of fresh air. Like I said, a free spirit. Happy. Comfortable in your skin. And… if I’m a quote ‘chiseled statue of male perfection,’ then I’ll raise you that and say that you’re a beautiful porcelain doll who’s probably too sweet and naïve for her own good.

  “I bet you know exactly what I’m talking about when I say women can be shallow. Men are shallow, too. With that blonde hair, those pale blue eyes, and that smokin’ hot body, I’m sure you’ve been on the receiving end of more annoying catcalls than you can count.”

  I’ve suddenly lost the ability to make use of the English language.

  I’m struck dumb and still blinking at him when he shoves off my railing. “I’ll be here at six. I don’t have any food allergies.” He starts to walk away and then tosses over his shoulder, “And, for the record, I do eat cookies and brownies.”

  I watch him as he pushes his mower toward the shed behind his side of the condo, every muscle flexing, sweat soaking the back of his shirt in a line down his spine. His thick brown hair is ruffled and messy. He hasn’t shaved today, and his twenty-four-hours-after-shaving look makes my knees wobbly.

  What the hell just happened?

  The man just steamrolled right over me.

  Dinner? Now, I have to cook for him and make dessert?

  While he’s in his shed, I spin around and rush back into my kitchen, shutting the door and leaning against it while I try to catch my breath.

  This can’t be happening. I don’t date men like Andrew. Hell, I don’t date men at all. I play with men at Surrender or one of the other clubs in the area on Friday nights in order to shed some of the previous week’s stress, but I don’t date them.

  I would date someone if I happened to find the ideal, perfect man for me. And he happened to be single. And a Daddy. And he happened to be older and stern and sophisticated and graying and fir
m with me and no-nonsense and strong.

  Of that list, Andrew is… strong.

  This is the worst idea in the world. But I take off running up the stairs two at a time. So much for grading papers today. I have to pick out something to wear tonight—something far more appropriate than my current romper—and then make a list, and go to the grocery store. Then, I have to spend the rest of the day cleaning my condo, cooking, and baking.

  For what? A guy who checks off one box: He’s strong.

  Chapter 2

  Andrew

  * * *

  I hope to God I have not sent my sexy little neighbor into a complete tailspin. I’ve never seen anyone look as shocked as she did when I asked her out. I don’t understand why she was so legitimately stunned. Now, I’m wondering if she has low self-esteem.

  It’s not warranted, if it’s true. She’s a looker. I know I’m not the only man who does a double take every time I see her. And damn, but she’s got her own style and personality.

  I don’t mean to exactly spy on her, but our back patios are connected. There’s a tall, solid, wood-slatted wall between them, but that doesn’t give us much privacy.

  If I’m sitting on my deck reading or just enjoying the weather and she’s on hers talking on the phone, I can hear her. Not that I’ve listened in on specific conversations. Her voice is muffled enough to keep her chats private, but her voice. God, I love listening to her. She has a light, fun, easy-going voice that makes my dick hard.

  Granted, she only uses that magic, lyrical voice with other people. When she speaks to me, she’s usually defensive and ticked because I’ve done something nice for her. I don’t know why it gets under her skin. Nor do I know why I find it endearing. I love a challenge, and Avery Slater definitely falls under that category.