Page 51 of Playboy Pilot

A decorative sign greeted us on the other side. Welcome to Silver Shores. We’re glad you’re home safe. An older man wearing a gray jumpsuit was driving a scooter with a basket on the front and waved and yelled when we passed. “Hey, Cap. Welcome home.”

Carter waved back and smiled. “That’s Ben. He was a New York City garbage man for forty years. Still wears the jumper every day. He’d be the closest to the uniformed doorman you imagined I had.”

As we drove farther into the community, I looked around. It was nothing like I expected. Although it was clean and well manicured, it was the exact opposite of a sleek high-rise. Instead, the buildings were all simple two level condos, very standard and normal.

After a few blocks, we turned left and pulled into a parking spot. Carter smirked and pointed to one of the units on the first floor. “And that there, that would be my penthouse.”

“WELCOME TO MY HUMBLE ABODE.” Carter opened his arms wide as we entered the condo.

It was a nice size, not too small, not too big. Two plush, tan-colored couches sat in the middle of the open-concept space. Palm trees blew outside of the glass door in the back that led out to a small patio area.

“This is like a little hidden paradise.”

“Not exactly what you were expecting?”

“Honestly? It isn’t. I was picturing something like a high-rise on South Beach.”

“I know my life is pretty crazy, but when I’m home, I want peace, basically the total opposite from the fast-pace life I lead when flying.”

My stomach growled. “Goodness…sorry about that.”

“You hungry? I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Maybe a little. Yeah. That would be great.”

Carter opened his stainless steel fridge. “Let’s see what we got. Looks like there are some containers of food.”

“That stuff can’t be good. You’ve been gone too long.”

“No. This was just made today.” He pointed to a label. “See the date?”

Someone had stuck a sticky with today’s date on top of the Tupperware. It said, Hot stuff for my hot stuff. —Muriel.

He took another Pyrex out. That one had a label that said, Try this. It’s better than Muriel’s.

My heartbeat accelerated. “What the hell is this? You have women cooking for you?”

“My neighbors. They have my return dates on their calendar and drop off food. They have keys to my place because they feed my cat and change the litter box.”

“You have a cat?”

“Yes. Her name is Matilda. She hides when she smells a new person. That’s why you haven’t seen her.”

“Of course your pussy is a female.”

“I’m hoping that my pussy is standing right in front of me, because there is no other pussy I want.” The look on his face was totally serious when he said, “I can’t wait to eat it, too.”

Having to clench the muscles between my legs, I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “Who are these female neighbors?”

Shaking his head, he said, “It’s not what you think.”

“What is it, then?”

“They’re old enough to be your great-grandmothers, Kendall.”

Relieved, I squinted my eyes. “You have old ladies cooking for you?”

“Yes. They insist on it to pay me back for helping them out from time to time.”