A cozy, humorous alien‑next‑door romance full of heart and cosmic chaos

Jay thought her upstairs neighbor was just a harmless nerd with a terrible hat and a suspicious relationship with brown‑tinted glasses. Then she saw him in black leather and realized two things:

1. he’s definitely not harmless, and

2. she’s in trouble.

Jay’s week has gone from “annoying” to “cosmic disaster.” She’s been kicked out of her band, her boiler has died dramatically, and she’s starting to suspect the things crawling out of her refrigerator aren’t from this planet.

She’s right to be suspicious.

And Fred? Fred is a whole new category of complication.

Behind the disguise is a man with silver eyes, a galaxy’s worth of secrets, and a job with the Galactic Federation that was never supposed to involve falling for the woman downstairs.

When a rogue portal opens in Jay’s kitchen, Fred’s cover unravels. So does his plan to keep her at arm’s length.

Falling for a civilian from a low‑tech world wasn’t part of the assignment. Taking her home with him definitely wasn’t. But Jay has a way of knocking him out of orbit—and Fred has never been good at walking away from something worth keeping.

A feel-good sci fi romance with no explicit scenes but plenty of romance.

For readers who enjoy:

• • Alien‑next‑door romance with humor, heart, and cozy vibes

  • Protective alien hero with a secret identity

  • Quirky musician heroine whose life is falling apart (and getting weirder)

  • Rogue portals, interdimensional pests, and Galactic Federation chaos

  • Sweet, feel‑good romance with no explicit scenes

  • Perfect for fans of lighthearted sci‑fi love stories

 

✨Read a Sample now:

 

CHAPTER 1

Jay slammed her apartment door and kicked it for good measure. Rotten, rotten day.

It had started with her mail getting snatched out of her hands by the wind, scattered across two lanes of rush hour traffic. In seconds, envelopes were crushed under speeding tires, plastered to wet windshields, and whisked away into the gray afternoon. One soggy flyer had landed in a puddle at her feet. She'd picked it up, watched muddy water drip from the curling corner, then dropped it in a trashcan with a groan. She'd settled her gig bag on her back and taken off at a fast clip, hoping nothing important had been in that batch of mail.

She'd been late to practice, and the lead singer of their perpetually "undiscovered" band had been in a nastier mood than usual.

The bar they used was closed for the afternoon, chairs stacked on tabletops, the air stale with last night's beer. They had two hours before their opening act. Amber had been waiting, arms crossed, hair looking like it had been sawed off with a knife and doused with an entire bottle of peroxide. The thick rings of eyeliner around her narrowed blue eyes did nothing to soften the sour set of her perfect red lips.

"How nice of you to join us, Jaynie." Amber tossed her hair back as Jay ran in, dripping with rain. "Let me guess—you finally found a boyfriend and you're recovering from a torrid night of lovin'."

Her sister Red snickered from the corner, fingers working through a lazy chord on her guitar. "Now, Amber. You know our Jaynie doesn't believe in sleeping around." Red—Reeda Baker—was a voluptuous, magnetic presence who had been the one to get Jay into the band in the first place, talking up Jay's "awesome" guitar playing until Amber relented. Lately, that enthusiasm had curdled into mockery. She had no patience for Jay's quiet attitude or her habit of going straight home after gigs instead of staying to bask in the bar lights.

Krystal, behind the drum kit, ducked her head when Jay tried to catch her eye. Not the type to rock the canoe, Krystal. Not when the water was this choppy.

Jay shook her head and reached for her guitar.

"Oh, don't bother, honey." Amber's smile was pure satisfaction. "We've decided to audition someone else. Too many guitars—I'm thinking keyboard, maybe a sax player. Sorry." Her expression was anything but.

Red snickered again.

A smile that wasn't quite real tugged at Jay's mouth. It was almost funny, it was so predictable. Almost. She tugged her guitar strap higher on her shoulder. "Fine. Have a nice life."

It wasn't worth feeling humiliated. She told herself that firmly as she stepped back out into the rain. The angry breath she sucked in said otherwise.

Her shoes squished against the sidewalk as she stalked home, head bowed against the downpour. She was half a city block from her building when a driver blew through a puddle and sloshed a wave of muddy water from her elbow to her soggy shoes. She swore in time to her stomping the rest of the way, focused entirely on the vision of a hot shower and a very satisfying pout.

It was not to be.

No one lingered in the downpour outside the tall, narrow old building she called home. The hallways of the four-plex were deserted. Drenched to the skin, she unzipped her gig bag and lifted her Fender out of the damp padding, setting it carefully on its stand to air. She stripped off her squishy socks and shoes, hurried to the bathroom, and cranked the hot water to the max.

She knew exactly how long it took for the water to get hot, so she stripped and didn’t bother to check the water for once. She needed heat! She hopped in, eager to be warm.

Her scream rocked the building.

She leaped out of the shower and snatched up a towel, gasping. The boiler must be broken again—not a drop of hot water in the place. With a growl, she stomped to the stove and put a kettle on. A sponge bath and a hot cup of cocoa would do. Maybe a grilled cheese and a cup of tomato soup? She was hungry and could use some comfort food.

She had a spoon in one hand and a mug in the other when the doorbell rang.

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling, set down both utensils, and moved to the door. "Who is it?" she called, unwilling to answer wrapped in a towel.

"It's Fred. I heard a scream. Are you all right?"

Jay closed her eyes and breathed through her nose.

Fred was the nerdy artist from the apartment upstairs. She wasn't entirely sure what he did up there all day, but his ugly gray shirt was perpetually paint-spattered, and his baggy blue-and-red-striped pants held matching pizza stains. He might have been bald for all she knew—he always wore a large, floppy scrub-style cap that covered every trace of his scalp. It was an aggressive shade of red and purple. His square glasses had brown-tinted lenses and frames that had probably been fashionable in a decade she hadn't lived through. He smelled like chemicals.

Still. He heard a scream and came running. That counted for something.

When she took a beat too long to answer, his voice came again, sharper this time. "Jay? Are you all right?"

She sighed. "I'm fine. Thanks for checking on me."

"I'd like to check inside, please." His voice was firmer than she would have expected, and genuinely worried.

She did not want to let him in while she was wrapped in a towel, but he sounded ready to break the door down if she stalled—probably convinced there was an attacker in there with her. Worse, he might go away and call the police. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the throw off her secondhand couch, wrapped it around herself, and opened the door wide.

Fred blinked at her, then stepped inside and took a quick look around. He flattened himself against the wall like a cop, thrust the bathroom door open with one hand, and peered inside. He used the same technique on the rest of her tiny apartment. That took approximately ten seconds.

Jay was fighting a smile when he strolled back out, looking sheepish. "Cold shower," she offered to his questioning look. She glanced at the hissing kettle and gestured him out of the narrow corner that served as her kitchen. "I was going to dump some warm water over my head and settle for cocoa." She hesitated. He'd sent interested signals her way before, and she wasn't trying to encourage anything—but the man had come to check on her without knowing it was only a cold shower emergency. "Would you like a cup?"

He looked at her carefully, the way a puppy looks at an offered treat after being kicked one too many times. "If you're sure?"

A small, guilty frown pulled at her brows as she filled two mugs. "Sure. Go ahead and mix the cocoa. I like three scoops." She grabbed a big bowl and took it and the kettle into the bathroom, then collected some clothes from her room. "I won't be long."

It was strange having a man in her kitchen while she cleaned up, and stranger still that it was Fred. Her upbringing had been conservative, and she still lived by those values even at twenty-two—no sleepovers, no revolving door of visitors…as Red had so cuttingly pointed out.

Well, there weren't many decent, family-oriented men to be found in smoke-filled dive bars. Not that she'd been looking too hard lately. Sadly, she’d kind of given up.

The reminder of her afternoon had her scowling when she came out of the bathroom. Fred took one look at her face and slugged down his cocoa—then hissed in pain as it scorched his mouth.

"Don't kill yourself!" Jay winced and handed him a cold glass of water. "Let it cool first."

"Sorry," he muttered, after he'd recovered. "You looked annoyed. I thought I should probably leave."

Jay glanced at the door—still wide open—and relaxed onto her bar stool. "I am annoyed, but not at you. It was nice of you to check on me." She nodded toward the radiator. "Any idea when the boiler will be fixed?"

He accepted the subject change without blinking. "No telling. I already called the landlord."

"Thanks. Maybe he'll get to it in the next week or two." Their old building was constantly on the fritz, but the rent was low enough that the tenants put up with it. Jay had a gas space heater and had long since mastered the art of warming water on the stove. She was good at creative solutions.

Fred stared at his steaming mug, occasionally shooting her a nervous look, clearly at a loss for neutral conversation—until his eyes landed on her Fender. "I hear you playing sometimes. I like it."

Jay looked fondly at the cherry-red electric guitar propped on its stand, still airing out from the rain. "Thanks. I try to keep the volume down when I know people might be sleeping."

"I don't mind. You could bring it up to my place sometime, play while I work. The acoustics are better up there."

She looked at him doubtfully, wondering if he could tell an acoustic from a screeching cat. "Er—thanks. I'm pretty comfortable down here." She caught his disappointed expression and winced. She was not good at letting people down easy, and Fred was the kind of man who would fall in love and stay that way forever. He needed someone else. Someone who appreciated berets. Someone who would introduce him to the color black—a significant improvement over his current, colorblind wardrobe. The image that formed in her mind made her grin, and she quickly hid it behind her mug.

"What?" Fred asked, suspicious.

She grabbed an idea out of thin air. "I was just wondering if you liked poetry."

A small knot formed between his brows. "Not really."

"Too bad." She shrugged. "There are a couple of really interesting poets who meet at the library on Wednesdays. I met one when I was browsing the music theory section—she was pulling books on classical art. Rainbow Star, or Red Star, something like that. She invited me to join. Said they discuss music lyrics, feminism, and the role of the female musician in modern culture."

His raised eyebrow was eloquent on the subject of her matchmaking skills. His lips twitched. "I'll go if you come along and introduce me." It was a challenge, delivered with a slow, knowing smile.

Jay blinked. She hadn't expected him to step out with guns blazing. A thousand internal lectures about not judging people by their fashion sense immediately began to niggle her conscience. She looked around for something to focus on and came up empty. "All right," she said reluctantly.

The surprise on his face was priceless.

A glance at her calendar confirmed her fear. Wednesday. Of course it was Wednesday.

"You'll go out with me tonight?" he asked, the disbelief in his voice almost endearing.

She raised both hands quickly. "As buddies. Friends. Just so you can meet the poet."

"I won't be comfortable going alone," he said, stubborn. "You know what those feminist types are like. All in black, death-staring any guy who doesn't have pierced eyebrows. Please say you'll come."

The hopeful look in his eyes was her undoing. There went her peaceful evening of moping. She sighed. "Okay. But if you don't get her phone number, you owe me a full pint of Stone Cold's cookie dough ice cream. I don't work cheap."

He grinned. "Deal. What time do I pick you up?"

She blinked. "I'm five seconds from your door, and we'll be taking the bus—unless you've been hiding a moped in your apartment. I don't think they make skateboards for two." His usual mode of transportation would have her flat on the pavement in under a minute.

"Cole will let me borrow his car."

Jay laughed. She couldn't help it. "Cole is not going to lend you his baby." Their neighbor was a massive man with long dreads, a deep bass voice, and a '63 Impala he treated like a member of the family. She didn't know him well, but she seriously doubted he was going to hand over the keys. If Fred was very lucky, Cole might drive them himself.

Friday nights, you could set your clock by the sight of that low rider pulling away from the curb, full of laughing women headed somewhere with a good sound system. Cole had a quirky sense of humor and a build that seemed to make women temporarily lose their minds, though he spent most of his time in his apartment. Jay had been meaning to work up the nerve to knock on his door and borrow some of his CDs for months. The deep drumbeat that seeped through the wall was exactly the kind of thing she wanted to play along to.

Fred just grinned. "We'll see."

---

Fred left Jay's apartment walking on air.

He'd been trying for months to get his green-eyed darling to notice him, and the best he'd managed were a few doubtful looks and polite refusals. At least he knew he wasn't alone in that—she rarely had guests, and none were male, except for the occasional door-to-door salesman who clearly had no idea what he'd stumbled into.

It was hard to figure out why a trim, quietly pretty brunette didn't have a line out the door. Well—she spent long evenings playing with her band, then went home instead of lingering for the after-hours glow. He'd snuck into a bar or two to listen to her play, lurking in the back where she wouldn't notice. He always waited up until he heard her come in, sometimes at two or three in the morning. Then there was the part-time job at the coffee house. Maybe it made sense that her social life was thin. That didn't make it easier to watch someone as worth-knowing as Jay go unnoticed.

He wasn't kidding himself, though. She was sharp and warm and quietly funny, and it wasn't going to be long before some other man figured that out.

Fred intended to win her first.

By sheer luck, he caught Cole in the hallway, just locking his apartment door.

Cole took one look at Fred's expression and smiled slowly. "You look like you stumbled out of a fever dream. Did you get hit on the head, or did our little chili pepper downstairs actually spare you a smile?" His voice was a deep, unhurried bass.

Fred's chest swelled. "She invited me to a poetry meeting at the library."

Cole stared for a full beat—then burst out laughing. "There's a girl she wants you to meet, isn't there." It wasn't a question. His grin turned wicked at Fred's scowl. "Scrawny, pale-faced, man-eater. I can feel it. She's trying to unload you, man! Novel strategy, though. I'll give her that."

Fred crossed his arms. "Laugh it up, Casanova, but loan me your car first."

Cole stopped laughing. "No. Fred. No!"

"You owe me."

"Don't do this," Cole said, looking as stricken as if Fred had asked for a kidney. "I'll rent you a limo. Yeah! Let me find my phone." He turned, genuinely prepared to flee.

"Cole."

He didn't have to spell it out. The favor owed was significant—large enough that a car loan wouldn't come close to settling it. Cole's shoulders sagged. He stood there for a long moment, one hand on his doorknob, then slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. He looked at them with real grief before placing them in Fred's palm. "Ride her easy. She's temperamental. She needs—" He stopped. Looked at the keys one more time. "My poor baby."

"I'll take good care of her." Fred's hand closed around the keys. He had a date to get ready for.

CHAPTER 2

Jay opened the door without checking the peephole, recognizing Fred's jaunty knock. The sight before her made her blink.

It was an improvement. Sort of.

For once, his famous hat was missing. She discovered, to her genuine surprise, that he had long, straight hair that fell to his shoulders. The dark, slightly greasy locks were clipped back with a plain barrette. He was wearing a baggy white t-shirt printed with "Elvis Lives" in bold black letters, and an extra-large black fanny pack strapped over it, making the shirt bag out. In honor of the occasion, he'd changed his pants—out of the stripes and into a pair of paint-stained jeans that looked like they'd been stomped on, left out in the rain, and then handed to a pair of junkyard dogs to finish off. They slopped over his unlaced sneakers and pooled on the floor around his feet.

"Hi," she said faintly, her eyes locked on his shoes.

"Hi." His voice cracked on a high note. He dug in his pocket and jangled a set of keys on a dice keychain. "Cole let us have the car."

She dragged her gaze up to his enormous wraparound sunglasses. Pure willpower kept her from choking. "Yeah. Great." She turned to lock her door and took her time with it, breathing steadily until she was reasonably confident she could face him again without insulting him.

Fred held the building door for her and offered his arm with a flourish as they descended the concrete steps. Cole's pink low rider sat at the curb with the top down, gleaming under the streetlights.

The full absurdity of the situation hit her all at once. Jay started laughing.

Fred stopped and looked at her, smiling. "What?"

"I feel like a princess in a very strange fairytale." She tried to tailor it, but there was only so much tailoring to be done.

His lips quirked. "Hello, Rapunzel. Let down your hair tonight." Before she could object, he snatched her hair stick.

"Hey!" She reached up, but it was too late—the long mass had already tumbled down around her shoulders. "It's going to get in my way." She reached for the stick and watched, frowning, as he tucked it into his belt pouch.

"One night won't kill you," he teased, opening the car door for her.

She rolled her eyes, straightened her cropped leather jacket, and settled her jean-clad self into Cole's white leather seat. The floor mat showed a shadow print of African dancing girls with wild drummers. A pair of fuzzy white dice dangled from the rearview mirror.

Fred grinned as he flexed his fingers and gripped the pink leather steering wheel cover. "I've been looking forward to this."

He started the engine and threw it into gear. The car lurched forward—and slammed to a stop.

Jay gripped the seat and stared at him, grateful for her seatbelt. "You do know how to drive a stick, don't you?"

"Sure." He frowned in concentration and lurched forward again, narrowly missing a fire hydrant. "I've had a couple of lessons."

Jay opened her mouth. But by then he'd pulled out into traffic, and it was far too late to make a break for it.

By the time they reached the library, she had a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe and the edge of the seat.

"Are you all right?" Fred asked as he came around to open her door.

"Fine. I'm fine." She gave him a smile that was all teeth and carefully pried her fingers from the leather. Hopefully Cole would forgive her for the permanent nail marks. If not, she was referring the bill to Fred.

How was she ever going to find this man a date? A steady girlfriend seemed like an optimistic goal—though maybe if she aimed him at the metaphysical stacks and stood back..? She was fairly certain she'd seen her life flash before her eyes twice on the way over.

She was either driving or catching a cab on the way back. No exceptions.

Rainbow Star—as it turned out—was delighted to see Jay. She looked rather more doubtfully at Fred. "Oh, is this your boyfriend?"

"No. Just a friend," Jay said quickly, with perhaps more force than was strictly flattering. Her nerves were too frayed for tact. "He's an artist."

Rainbow pursed her bright red lips and studied Fred with open skepticism.

Fred returned the assessment, taking in her head-to-toe black outfit with poorly concealed misgiving. Then, with a smooth dismissiveness, he turned aside and helped Jay off with her coat and pulled out her chair.

Thrown off balance by the courtesies, Jay sat down and surveyed the rest of the group. Five other women, counting Rainbow. She catalogued one caftan with a matching turban, one nose ring, two anti-men t-shirts, and a quasi-military blonde in army boots, orange-and-black camouflage pants, and a skimpy black halter top. The fabric was doing its absolute best and losing.

The blonde gave Fred the most hostile look of all.

To his credit, he averted his gaze and managed not to make a scene. Jay began to think he might actually get somewhere with this crowd, if she could get them to stop looking at him like he'd personally wronged them.

Rainbow tilted her head toward Jay. "Tell me—as a female musician, do you encounter a lot of opposition from male artists?"

"Dare we even say oppression?" the blonde cut in.

Jay laughed. "Honestly, the guys have been pretty supportive. I don't think they're any more competitive with women than they are with each other. Most of them genuinely respect a woman who knows her way around a guitar."

"Amen," Fred said heartily, with an admiring glance her way.

Rainbow frowned. "So you don't feel pressured out of the business by your male counterparts?"

"The only people who've pressured me out recently have been my female band members. Thanks to them, I'll be playing for loose change on a street corner if I'm not careful." Jay registered Fred's surprised look but didn't elaborate. She recognized the shape of this gathering—a rotating chorus of woe is life, men are the cause of all doom—and she had no patience for it. She believed in equal rights, full stop. What she couldn't get behind was the version that treated grievance as a lifestyle.

She slouched back in her chair and continued, "I can't say I'm any more oppressed than the person stuck in a nine-to-five office cubicle. I can buy a beer and drink it in public. I can wear what I want and skip marriage entirely if I feel like it. Nobody's stopping me. I have a hard time finding anything worth complaining about, really."

As the others worked to argue her out of her complacency, Jay and Fred exchanged a look. Behind his enormous dark glasses, his expression was hard to read—but he caught her dry glance and held it for a beat longer than necessary.

He made a show of looking at the cartoon mouse on his wristwatch. "Oh, no! I'm going to miss Diving for Dollars if we don't leave now. They've got the supermodel and the car salesman in this episode. I've been waiting all week."

Jay fought a reflexive frown at the mention of the tacky reality show—then caught on. She stood quickly and made their excuses. "He's my ride, so I should go too. Great meeting everyone." And probably never again.

Outside, she stepped in front of Fred and planted her hands against his chest to stop him. She'd misjudged the distance—she actually made contact, and to her surprise he was firm and solid under her palms.

Startled, he stopped. "What is it?"

"Fred…I need to drive."

He looked down at her, the dark glasses lending him a gravity he probably didn't feel. "You do?"

"Yes."

She took her hands off him and stepped back, but he moved forward, so she braced again. Had he always been this tall? He had a solid six inches on her, easy. She squared her shoulders. This was a matter of survival.

"Fred, give me the keys." She kept the tips of her fingers pressed warningly to his chest and held out her other hand.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled them out. Instead of handing them over, he dangled them just out of reach. "You want them? Race me." He made a sudden break and sprinted around her, his long legs carrying him to the low rider in seconds.

Jay ran after him and flattened herself against the driver's door. "Fred, this is serious! I cannot let you drive. Somewhere out there is a group of very angry motorists with your name on a hate list. Don't make this difficult."

The corner of his mouth turned up. "You think I'm going to kill us, don't you?"

"Was I that obvious?" She held out her hand again.

His smile deepened. "It'll cost you." He leaned forward slightly.

For a moment she was almost certain he was going to kiss her. Her eyes dropped to his mouth—actually a rather attractive mouth—and the firm line of his jaw. The feel of his chest was still fresh in her hands. But this was Fred. "What will it cost?" she asked, and her voice came out higher than she intended.

He straightened and handed her the keys, then reached around her to open the door. "You have to let me buy you ice cream."

Ice cream. She could handle ice cream. She climbed in and started the car, nearly wilting with relief.

Cold Stone had a big neon sign and a gleaming sixties exterior. Jay finally let her shoulders drop once she'd parked the still-immaculate Impala in front of the wide front windows. Her own driving skills were rustier than she'd like, and city traffic had done her no favors, but at least they were alive.

Fred came around to open her door. "My lady."

She laughed, a little shakily. "Something about this is backwards." She let him hold the ice cream parlor door and chose the booth directly in front of the parked car, where she could keep an eye on it. The red vinyl benches and newsprint tabletop were spotless, the black-and-white tiled floor respectably swept even at this hour.

A waitress in a pink poodle skirt and demure blouse appeared to take their order, a small earring winking incongruously in her left nostril. "What can I get you two?"

Jay ordered a parfait when Fred waved for her to go first, and listened as he requested a banana split with everything on it. "And separate checks, please," she added.

"No, don't." Fred's enormous sunglasses turned toward her with an air of quiet disapproval. "My treat."

"Fred—"

"I'll let you two work that out while I get started on the order," the waitress said, making a smooth exit.

"It would be rude to let you pay," Fred said, firmly. "I promised."

"Ok…but we're here as friends," Jay said cautiously, trying not to squirm. She wasn't accustomed to this kind of thing, to letting a guy down easy.

"Then as your friend, I'll treat." The matter, apparently, was closed.

Jay frowned. She'd been thinking of him as—well, neutered was probably the most accurate word. She wasn't proud of it, but there it was. Sex and Fred weren't words she'd naturally string together. Since she wasn't going to win this argument without being rude, she picked at something else instead. "Why won't you take off your sunglasses?" It was making her restless. She couldn't read half his expressions with a third of his face hidden behind those enormous things.

"Can't. Photosensitive." He said it with the cheerfulness people use when they don't want to discuss something.

She let it go and let her gaze drift to the glossy ice cream photos lining the walls—until Fred got up and wandered over to the jukebox. He read through the listings, fed in some quarters, and came back. The first song that came up was Is This Love by Whitesnake.

One of her favorites.

"How did you know?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I hear you sometimes. When you're not singing, you're playing CDs or running through scales. Anyone who paid attention would know."

The observation left her unexpectedly self-conscious. She was relieved when their order arrived and gave her something to do with her hands.

"Do you have family in town?" he asked.

She shook her head. "My parents are gone. I have uncles, but we don't talk."

He nodded. "Did your mother teach you to cook? I catch some pretty good smells coming from your apartment."

"No. Self-taught. Though it's not much fun cooking for one." She bit her lip the moment the words were out. When he didn't jump on them, she said carefully, "If you promise to leave your hat in your room, I might be persuaded to share a meal sometime."

He laughed. "You don't like my hat?"

"What's to like?"

The silence that followed stretched into something she hadn't quite planned for. Her offhand invitation sat on the table between them like an invisible gauntlet. She hadn't intended to get involved. She was lonely—fine. He was funny, and she wasn't out to break his heart. She needed to be clear about that. "Just as friends, you know."

Even through the dark glasses, his gaze was steady and intent. "I'd like that."

Jay pushed the last of her parfait around the glass and let it melt.

---

Cole was waiting when they pulled up in front of the building. He visibly relaxed when he saw Jay in the driver's seat, his eyes making a quick scan of the paint job.

"Just thought I'd say hello," he said.

Jay smiled and tossed him the keys. "I filled the tank on the way back."

He caught them cleanly, running a thumb over the keychain. "You're welcome. Good time?"

Jay stepped in before Fred could say anything damaging. "He didn't get her number, so he bought me ice cream instead. Not a date."

A slow smile spread across Cole's face. "Okay."

Jay nodded her goodnight and slipped inside before Fred could offer to walk her to her door.

Fred leaned back against the car and watched her go with the boneless satisfaction of a man who knew exactly how his evening had gone.

Cole raised his brows slowly, asking without asking.

"She invited me to share a meal with her," Fred said. "Her apartment. She didn't specify lunch or dinner."

Cole grinned. "You breached the wall! Well done." He slapped Fred on the back hard enough to shift his grip on the car. "Go lie down, man. You look punch drunk."

"Excellent plan." Fred pushed off the car with good humor, leaving Cole to his reunion with the Impala.

The backslap had knocked his shades loose. As he walked away, Fred shot one last, wickedly amused look over his shoulder—then pushed the glasses back into place. But not before a flash of silver caught the streetlight.

He was going to have excellent dreams.