Talking in Your Sleep.... Samantha Hunter

to have blood pumping to those particular body parts again, though it would be nice if he had someone with whom to expend that excess energy.

      The late-afternoon sun was setting low, and it still hit him as odd, but appealing, to be seeing summer sunsets in December. The news back home said the northeast was getting its first real snowstorm. Ambulances would be busy putting in extra hours; accidents, fires, all increased with the snow and ice. The kids would have a white Christmas, but for himself, he was content to have a sunny one. He heard the wail of sirens several times a day, and it never failed to make him look up for a second and wonder.

      The beaches were a few miles from his neighborhood, and Warren had left a map in the car. San Diego was pretty easy to navigate, and he hopped in the car, taking the coastal highway a few miles north. He pulled off to the side and watched some late-day surfers decked out in neoprene paddle out into the water. He meant to look into taking some lessons—surfing seemed fun, and that was what he was here for: fun, recovery, relaxation. Hopefully a month of all three would get him back in shape to return to New York, and to his job. He got out of the car and started walking down the beach, falling into an easy jog.

      He passed a group of young women in bikinis, their gazes following him as they watched him over the tops of their sunglasses. One smiled and offered a little wave. He nodded back and stopped jogging for a moment.

      “Hey, why not?” He posed the question to himself under his breath and approached the beach bunnies, smiling at the girls as he neared.

      “Hey, ladies.”

      “Hi there.”

      The one who’d waved had somehow claimed dibs, since the others backed off and let her take the lead. She was pretty—the kind of girl the Beach Boys sang about, what every New York man imagined California girls would be like. Blond, young, tanned all over.

      “You talk like the guys on the The Sopranos.”

      “No, I don’t.” He laid on his New York accent a little heavier since they seemed to like it, though in truth it sounded more like the accents of the Italian kids he’d always hung out with, and still did. City accents weren’t so much defined by where you were, but rather who you were, your ethnicity. As it turned out, Rafe was Italian-Irish, but he had more Italian speech patterns than Irish because of the neighborhood he’d grown up in.

      Not that the beach bunny would care about the subtle distinctions of New York dialects. Or that Tony Soprano and his crime family actually lived in Essex County, in New Jersey.

      They giggled again, and he was hopping from foot to foot, suddenly antsy instead of interested, ready to take off. The girls—and there was a world of difference between these girls and women his own age—were in their midtwenties, but seemed much younger. He was only thirty-three, but it seemed like a century from where they were. This had been a bad idea.

      “You here on vacation?”

      “Nope, just a regular working Joe, I’m afraid.” He scowled—why did he lie?

      Bunny pouted. “Too bad. You could blow off work and come party with us.”

      “Us?”

      “All three of us, honey, if you’re up for it.” Her tone and the look she gave him left him in no doubt of what she meant. The prospect left him astoundingly cold. No doubt it would be the solution to his lack-of-sex problem—it could also potentially kill him—but he wasn’t interested.

      He had a certain sexy voice replaying in his mind like a TV jingle that wouldn’t stop. His neighbor. Her voice seemed to get him going more than these girls.

      “Sorry, gotta long day tomorrow, and have to get home. You ladies have a good evening.”

      He tipped an imaginary hat and walked away, thankful for an easy escape, and mentally kicking himself for stopping in the first place. Falling back into a run, he headed toward where he’d left Warren’s car parked. He’d just been offered a deal most red-blooded, single men would have seriously considered. Instead of jumping at the opportunity, he was running in the other direction. Insomnia was neutering him.

      Twenty minutes later he was driving through Balboa Park, taking a shortcut he’d found over to his neighborhood. Pulling into the driveway, he saw his neighbor, Ms. Talk-Dirty-To-Me, unloading something from her car. He was going to talk to her and deal with at least one of the things keeping him awake at night.

      Taking the opportunity, he stopped by the curb near her driveway, got out and jogged up to where she was lifting bags out of the trunk. He checked her out—she had that natural look he liked on a woman, no makeup, pretty reddish-brown hair. A blue business suit disguised curves he could tell were hiding under its severe cut.

      Her hair was clipped back tightly in a bun, though a few silky strands teased her neck, curling naughtily. His breath caught a little. What the hell? Was he having naughty-librarian fantasies about his neighbor? He cleared his throat, keeping his voice normal and friendly.

      “Hi. Need a hand?”

      He winced, hoping the simple question didn’t sound like a pickup line.

      Her gaze shot to him and then bolted away—she was working overtime not to make eye contact. Clearly she recognized him, but she was pretending not to. Why was she acting so weird?

      “No, thanks.”

      “I’m your new neighbor—for a month, anyway.”

      “Yes, I know.”

      Wow, she was rude. Annoyed, considering it was her nighttime activities that were keeping him awake, he persisted, not willing to be pushed away so easily.

      “Here, let me get that one—it looks heavy.”

      He reached to get the last paper sack, and she tried to beat him to the punch—the result being a large tear in the bag they both grabbed for, through which several canned items fell to the pavement, one narrowly missing his bare foot.

      She was clearly agitated now. “I told you I didn’t need you to do that—now look at what you did. These are all dented!”

      He was going to apologize, hoping she found the accident more charming than angering, like something out of a romantic comedy. No such luck. She appeared truly distressed. Was she obsessive-compulsive in some way and couldn’t tolerate dented cans?

      “Does it taste different if the can is dented?” he joked, bending to help her pick them up, then stalled when her hand shot upward in a “stop” signal, halting him.

      “These were to be donated to people at the local food bank. I don’t want the families receiving them thinking someone would only donate damaged goods.”

      Her tone was scathing and Rafe stepped back. He had truly been trying to help. However, she had told him to back off, and he hadn’t.

      “I’m sorry. I’ll tell you what, I’ll take these and replace them with new ones. Do you need them tonight?”

      She was quiet for a moment, not meeting his eyes as she stood. “No, that’s fine. Thank you. I can get some new ones in the morning.”

      “You and your boyfriend do a lot of charity work?” he asked, looking at her hand and not seeing a ring. “I can buy some groceries to contribute to the cause. To make up for being such a klutz.” He tried the charming smile that he’d used at the beach. It didn’t work on this woman. She glared.

      “My boyfriend?”

      She seemed confused, and that made him question his certainty.

      “I assumed you were…involved.” He decided to plunge forth with the conversation, taking the opportunity to address the issue he’d come to talk to her about. “I heard you two talking…you know, last night.”

      He put some slight emphasis on the words, trying to make obvious what he was really saying, but not wanting to embarrass her if he could help it. Though he’d like to see how she’d blush, what the effect would be on