Then I tore my eyes away just to see I wasn’t the only one staring.

When I’d gotten dressed that morning, it’d been for comfort. For cleaning. For not seeing another living soul. My black leggings and tee weren’t bad—though they smelled like the chemically citrus cleaner—but they certainly didn’t match the level of attractiveness I was looking at.

There was only one other woman, and she was stunning. A total smokeshow in biker boots paired with a white crop top and a pretty pink skirt—an odd mix that worked.

An intimidating man sat next to her, his hand wrapped around her exposed thigh.

It was weird to call a man beautiful, but the one standing against the house with a cigarette in his hand was just that. Beautiful.

A scarred man sat in one of the lounge chairs, and though I’d bet he could look even more intimidating than the first guy, the smile on his face was anything but.

A man sat next to him, running a hand over his tattooed head.

And one last younger guy stood next to the grill, spatula in hand and a curious gaze aimed my way.

The gorgeous woman and the guy manning the grill seemed around my age, but the others all looked in their thirties. And all the men wore the same leather vest Ward did.

I’m the answer to a which-of-these-things-doesn’t-belong puzzle.

Ward walked us into the yard before the gate slammed ominously behind us. He removed his hand from my back to gesture to each person as he made introductions. “This is Ophelia, Judge, Haze on the grill, Scythe, Glitch, and Jury is over there being a broody bastard.”

The man with the barely smoked cigarette flicked it to the side before giving Ward the finger.

“Everyone, this is Mac. She just moved in next door.”

They tossed a chorus of greetings my way that I returned with an awkward wave and muttered, “Hey.”

“Sit,” Ward ordered quietly.

I pulled my gaze away from the beautiful people to take in the rest of the area. He’d told me the day before that he had a hell of a setup, and he hadn’t been kidding. An outdoor couch, loveseat, and a couple of plush chairs surrounded the fire pit on the far side of his patio. An oversized grill was up against the fence that separated our yards. Next to it was a long table with cushioned chairs where Judge and Ophelia sat.

When I didn’t move, Ward tugged one of the chairs out and touched my shoulder. I jolted before sitting as he tossed my lunch down on the table. “What do you want to drink? Got Coke, water, club soda. I can make you a nonalcoholic margarita—” I must’ve visibly perked up at that because he raised his chin. “Got it.”

“No, water is fine.”