Page 3 of Three Wickedly Bad Neighbors and a Very Grumpy Girl (Three Guys and a Girl Volume 2, #8)

? Chapter Three

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A very

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“T here’s Gray Wallace over there,” the supermodel says.

I follow her perfectly manicured nail and nearly jump out of my skin as I take in Gray.

The man is shirtless and performing some crazy feats with his body, like one-arm push-ups and those planche things where he holds his whole body up parallel to the floor.

For a moment, I forget to breathe—not because his body is razor sleek and pumped with an extraordinary amount of muscle, his skin glossy and exuding prime health, but because he is defying gravity with nothing more than the tips of his fingers while the rest of his body rests midair.

The tips of his fingers.

Oh my gosh. Does he want to break his fingers and his wrists, possibly also his shoulders and his nose if he face-plants, just to show off for the women standing around him and visibly swooning?

He’s now doing a one-arm handstand, and he can just as well one-arm handstand himself right off this private property, with his groupies following. He lowers himself and springs upright onto his bare feet, barely out of breath.

My gaze clashes with his eight-pack abs, then moves further up to his thick, corded neck, flanked on either side by broad shoulders.

By the time I reach his face, I conclude his visage is as ridiculous as his body. A sharp, chiseled jawline, specked with a well-ignored five o’clock shadow, supports full lips that seem to be in a perpetual grin tinged with lazy arrogance.

His dark, tousled hair is in need of a cut, but his eyebrows and the thickness of his eyelashes gleam as silkily as the waves on his head.

When he turns his hazel-colored eyes my way and winks at the supermodel next to me, she giggles.

I don’t even bother rolling my eyes. She could do so much better.

I tuck two fingers into the collar of my robe, pulled high around my throat. Why is it suddenly hot?

I’m just about to march over to him when the supermodel leans down and shouts in my ear again.

“And also Sullivan Crawford, over there, in the kitchen.”

Okay, so there are two of them. From where I’m standing, through the open sliding doors, I have a clear view into the kitchen, which has been upgraded with modern appliances and glossy white finishes.

And of course, another shirtless guy. Sullivan is as tall as Gray, well over six feet.

If I had to guess, I’d say they’re both six-three.

A lock of dark hair hangs over his forehead, matching the layer of stubble on his structured jawline.

Under the bright fluorescent light, his thick eyelashes are so long they cast shadows on his sculpted cheekbones.

Glimpses of his eight-pack abs dip into his jeans, hung low on his tapered waist. The rest of his abs are concealed by a dish towel draped over one of his insanely broad shoulders.

He’s using two fingers to massage the center of a juicy orange, and the women around him are losing their minds.

Hmm, why? He’s just making a mess, if you ask me.

Now he’s whipping cream by hand with lightning speed before dipping his finger into the fluffy cloud and slowly sucking the cream off.

I have no idea why everyone around him is giggling and sighing when all he did was taste his concoction.

By the way his silky brows draw together, he’s decided the cream needs a sprinkling of sugar.

He performs some crazy knife tricks, and within seconds, he’s finely chopped a tray of strawberries and pecans, turns to flambé something in a pan, and then spins a dessert bowl on the tip of his finger. Okay, then.

Just like with Gray, his gaze lands on mine and the supermodel’s direction, and I catch a glimpse of his midnight blue eyes as he offers her a smile that apparently makes her weak, causing her to balance on me. Gosh, these guys give new meaning to showing off. And no, I’m not impressed.

Also, I don’t know what he’s on about, but I don’t think food should be played with like that. It’s... sinful. I fiddle with my gown again. It’s very hot. No wonder everyone is shirtless or dressed in barely-there garments.

“Thank you. Now please excuse me while I go and take care of these—”

“And also, Porter Robertson,” the supermodel says, catching my arm again before I march away.

“What?”

“Porter, the third ringleader,” she says, smiling and pointing to another man. “They’re a trio. And the hottest guys you’re ever going to see,” she adds.

A trio? There are three of them? Well, no wonder. Everything bad comes in threes, so I shouldn’t be surprised. My gaze falls on Porter Robertson.

But my god, why is it so very, very, very hot in here? I’m too young for this to be a menopausal hot flush.

Number three is currently solving a Rubik's cube with utter speed while blindfolded.

My gaze remains fixed on his hands as he deftly spins the cubes.

His fingers are long, strong, and anything but pampered and manicured.

A valley of strong veins adorns the back of his hands and travels into his forearms, visible from his rolled-up shirt.

At least this one is wearing a shirt, although the buttons aren’t tied, and shocker, his abdomen is filled with four layers of brick-like muscles, so he is barely wearing a shirt. Clearly, they have an aversion to being properly clothed.

Like Gray and Sullivan, Porter is just as tall. His dark hair, though, is cut short and close to his scalp, and with the blindfold covering his eyes, all I can see is the structured slant of his jaw, his full lips, and the scar that runs over his chin.

Seconds have gone by since someone blindfolded him, and now he’s tossing the completed cube to red-haired man with a drink in his hand, and everyone cheers.

But it doesn’t end there. The same man throws an ax at Porter, and I forget to breathe when Porter catches the ax by the handle and tosses it at a dartboard; the edge of the blade lands right in the middle—bullseye.

More cheers erupt, but Porter is unfazed and barely smiles.

He rips off the blindfold, and I’m met with gray-colored hunter eyes that immediately land on the supermodel beside me.

Go figure. His thick dark brows fall to the center of his forehead as his gaze rakes her up and down, and she nearly passes out.

I don’t think the supermodel can stand all the attention from these three bozos.

If there were only one culprit, I could confront him directly, but there are three, and they are all scattered, doing stunts that the people around them clearly think are impressive. Not me. I don’t think house crashers are impressive at all.

My best option is a chair. I’m just about to commandeer my stage when the supermodel stops me.

“Oh, you have to tell me where you got your slippers. They’re freaking amazing.”

“It’s vintage,” I say before I climb onto said chair and clap my hands. That doesn’t work, so I place my fingers between my lips and whistle, long and piercing. That gets their attention.

“Would the reprobates Gray Wallace, Sullivan Crawford, and Porter Robertson please come forward?”