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    Rewarding Avery: Surrender, #10
    Rewarding Avery: Surrender, #10
    Rewarding Avery: Surrender, #10
    Ebook130 pages1 hour

    Rewarding Avery: Surrender, #10

    By Becca Jameson

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    About this ebook

    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.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBecca Jameson Publishing
    Release dateJan 18, 2022
    ISBN9798201858315
    Rewarding Avery: Surrender, #10
    Author

    Becca Jameson

    Becca Jameson is the best-selling author of the Wolf Masters series and The Fight Club series. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two kids. With almost 50 books written, she has dabbled in a variety of genres, ranging from paranormal to BDSM. When she isn’t writing, she can be found jogging with her dog, scrapbooking, or cooking. She doesn’t sleep much, and she loves to talk to fans, so feel free to contact her through e-mail, Facebook, or her website. …where Aphas dominate.

    Read more from Becca Jameson

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      Book preview

      Rewarding Avery - Becca Jameson

      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

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