Bad Neighbors

By Red L. Jameson

ZOE
Distant
It started with a broken condom. Sounds like a nightmare, but I would never take it back. Now, I have my insanely high IQ son. Oh, but I’ve learned a lot since getting pregnant then dumped at nineteen. For the past seven years, I’ve become an architect, building walls around my heart. Behind a computer screen, I hide, writing my risqué blog, discussing the perils of love and sex, while controlling every aspect of my boudoir. I like having the upper hand, especially when I tie men up. Nothing and no one, not even my idiotic crush on my neighbor, will ever break me from maintaining this distance.

LEIF
Broken
One accident. Just a split second in time when my body was bent beyond physical limits, and now I’m a has-been with a cane. No more million-dollar contracts, no more speeding down the rink with a puck on my stick, no more groupies fawning over me. Nothing. I am nothing. But I’m not inhumane, which is why I rush over to my neighbor’s to help when I see her fall and break her ankle. I’ve never wanted anything in my life. Everything’s been handed to me on a silver platter. But I want Zoe. And I think she wants me. Problem is she won’t let me in. I have to find a way to tear down the walls surrounding her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red L. Jameson
• Release date: Mar 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370531806

Red L. Jameson

Red L. Jameson lives in the wilds of Montana with her family. While working on a military history master’s degree, she doodled a story that became her bestselling, award-winning romance, Enemy of Mine, part of the Glimpse Time Travel Series. After earning her gigantic master’s—the diploma is just huge, she couldn’t stop doodling stories, more Glimpse stories—because she couldn’t get enough of hunky Highlanders and buttoned-down Brits—and other stories, a paranormal romance series and a contemporary series, which grew into the pen name R. L. Jameson, under which she writes cerebral and spicy erotic romance. While working on yet another master’s degree—nowhere near as giant as the first, she wrote her first women’s fiction novels. But no matter which genre she writes, her novels always end with a happily ever after.She loves her readers, so please feel free to contact her at http://www.redljameson.com

Book preview

Bad Neighbors

Bad Neighbors

Book 2 of the Wild Love Series

Red L. Jameson

Contents

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Leif

Zoe

Zoe

Leif

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Also by Red L. Jameson

Acknowledgments

About the Author

houses

Leif

You need an elevator," my sister, Mary, says, staring at the curved stairway of my new house .

The hell I do. My voice is angry. Bitter. Raw.

Like me.

Now.

Jesus, I hate how angry I am. All the fucking time. I hate sounding like this at my own sister, who doesn’t deserve my rage.

Her warm brown gaze narrows, grows cold. She won’t put up with my shit for long. Her lips purse so hard they turn white.

Leaning heavily on my cane, I turn away from her and the stairs. They’re the reason I bought the house. Stairs. Eighteen stairs. Eighteen steps upward. Something about that seemed—maybe this sounds idiotic and a little too Tony Robbins-ish, but eighteen seemed perfect. I can climb four stairs right now. Barely. The fifth kicks my ass. Every time. My knee, the fucker, gives out and I crumble like I’m not six foot five, weighing two hundred fifty pounds of muscle I’ve worked on the majority of my life. I fall. Like I’m not even a man but some rubber version of one. I fall so fucking hard.

I bought this house because I will climb those fucking stairs one of these days. I won’t fall. I’ll be a man again. Back to my old self.

Sorry, I mumble over my shoulder to Mary, wishing I could be a man now and own up to my shitty behavior. My physical therapist back in LA, the one therapist since the accident who didn’t annoy the shit out of me and who I hope to find a replacement for here in Wyoming, says my anger is normal. But it’s not cool to take it out on family. The only family I have left.

Mary sniffs. In my periphery, I catch her crossing her arms. She’s checking out the rest of the house. Apparently, this was owned by some real estate queen who wanted a mansion in the cowboy town of Laramie. Rather than building a new house, she remodeled this. My house is too huge for only me, but it was surprisingly affordable. I forgot what the cost of living in Wyoming is like. Too long in California, where I thought my apartment—which cost as much as this whole house—was upscale living because it had walk-in closets and a doorman at all hours who would get me vodka at four o’clock in the morning.

It sure is big. Mary sighs.

Is she judging me? Honestly, I don’t know my sister at all. I mean, I did when we were kids. I was her big bro. But now…now she’s married to a man who I think isn’t good enough for her, with two girls whose ages I can’t quite remember and who are running around in my backyard somewhere. She never liked to visit me in Los Angeles. Never seemed to like it when I’d put her up in the Ritz because I could afford it and wanted to spoil her. She gets uncomfortable when I give her gifts from Gucci or buy her two-carat diamond earrings.

What’s that mean? I ask, sounding hostile. I roll my head on my shoulders, trying to calm down. I—yeah, it is big.

Mary turns more toward me, frowning. She’s so pretty. I wonder if my sister knows how pretty she is. How good and kind I think she is. How I wish I could keep spoiling her and maybe take her away from her husband, Marty. I don’t think the man abuses her or anything. But he’s—he’s a moron, while my sister is too smart for this town, too smart to have stayed here. I don’t know why she did. I don’t know why I decided to come back after the accident.

You going to stick to your rotten attitude, Leif? She calls me by my name, which she only does when I’ve crossed a line with her. Otherwise, I’m potatobutt or cheesehead. I’m not sure why we’ve held onto our childhood name-calling, but now it’s endearing. It makes me think that she still might care for me even though I hardly know her.

I sigh, shaking my head, feeling idiotic and juvenile.

She sighs too, but the sound is full of pity, which is aimed right at me. I shouldn’t resent the pity. But I do.

The movers should be here soon, I say, trying to make this moment less awkward.

Mary’s brown eyes lighten. She gives me a small smile. She’s here because I asked her to help me decide where my things should go, which was actually a ploy to see her again. Thanks to my new bum knee, I’m dependent on her and feel like shit about it.

She studies the huge front room of the house. Have you checked out the neighborhood much?

I moved in five days ago, have been sleeping on an air mattress that takes me a good twenty minutes to get out of and have been watching Netflix religiously, barely moving a muscle. But I don’t want her to think I’ve been lying around, so I nod.

Seems nice.

She smiles wider and mischievously. I think the majority of your neighbors are nice. But, ah, the neighbor in the little blue house next to yours is Patty Simms. Watch out for her. She’s kind of awful.

How so? I smile at my sister, glad she’s finally warming up to me, even if it is over gossip.

She’s—how shall I put this?—she’s nosy and kind of conservative. You should try to hide all of your little girlfriends.

I roll my eyes. I don’t have any girlfriends.

Now she rolls her eyes. All right, your—she leans close, whispering—fuck buddies.

Mary! I pretend to be offended by her language, placing my free hand on my chest. My other is still holding firm to my cane.

My sister snickers. Whatever you call all your groupies.

Don’t have groupies. Well, not anymore. There’s something about breaking your body to the point where doctors wonder if you’ll ever walk again that gets rid of all the girls.

Mary straightens, her smile gone, but she sniffs again, lifting her chin in challenge. I’m sure you do.

I shake my head, not wanting to tell her about Elise, who’d broken up with me while I was in the hospital. Yeah, I picked out a real nice girl in Elise.

Mary snorts and playfully swats my shoulder. Well, I’m sure you’ll make ’em soon enough. I hear all the time, ‘Oh, Mary, when’s your brother going to be here?’ and ‘Mary, is your brother still the sexiest man alive?’ Do you have any idea how gross it is for me to answer that kind of question?

I quietly chuckle, not sure how to answer, because I’m no longer the man she’s referring to. I’m a big guy with a cane and nothing else.

She flutters her hand between us. Anyway, keep an eye out for Patty. Apparently, she made her neighbors miserable and they had to move to the country. She leans in closer. And, um, those neighbors are, ah, kind of polyamorous.

My, what scandal. I pretend to have a southern drawl, wondering if my sister is a bit of a gossip.

Mary’s leaning closer, smiling. Actually, I know they are. Polyamorous, I mean.

How do you know?

"They—two brothers and their wife, as in one wife—own Betty and Glen’s grocery store. It’s the only store to go to, honestly. It has the freshest produce and everyone there is so nice. There’s a lot of gay men who shop there, and I love how they tell me I’m pretty. Can you believe they say that? To me? They are so nice. I know I sound like a hick when I say such things, but I want to have a bunch of gay men be my best friends. I sound like I’m from Duck Dynasty or something, don’t I?"

"You are pretty."

She snorts again, not taking me seriously. This is why I don’t like Marty. He should be telling my sister every goddamn day how gorgeous she is, how lucky he is to have her. She should know how pretty she is.

But she continues, no clue how upset I am and that I’m wondering if I can beat the shit out of her husband. Anyway, I’ll take you to Betty and Glen’s soon. She smiles with all her teeth showing, her face lighting up. You’ll love it. Well, the food. Do you like gay men?

I blink. I don’t know very many.

She nods and looks away. She’s asking me a question like that because she has no clue who I am either.

I try to tell her more. I had to get a stylist. You know, for the award shows, being on TV, the interviews. I liked that guy. He was gay, I think.

She smiles again, almost nervously.

I was seventeen when the Wolverines wanted me to play for them. She was fifteen. And that’s how I think of her, as a cute little teenager who cried when I left, hugging me so tight I wondered if she’d cracked a rib. She also cried when I was drafted to go pro for the Calgary Flames, but not as hard. We’d already grown apart. After that, I’d been busy training, playing, partying, trying to work my way up to better contracts, better deals. Make more money. Along the way, she grew up.

It’s now been seventeen years since that day when she hugged me so hard I worried she’d broken a part of me. She’s a mom, which is hard for me to wrap my head around. Even if one of the girls is now…nine? God, I wish I could remember more about Mary and her life. I’ve been a shit to her.

Anyway, Mary looks at the mantle of my gas fireplace, maybe be discreet about your little friends when they come over.

Doubt I’ll have any little friends.

She makes a goofy raspberry sound that I like and remember her doing a lot of when she was fifteen. Rolling her eyes yet again, she smiles at me. Don’t be so—I don’t know. Don’t be so—

So…?

Oh my god, Leif. You blew out your knee. That’s it. It’s not like your life is over. You didn’t even lose your leg.

She has a good point. I’ve been having a pity party since my leg was bent backwards and not the way nature intended it to be. It was during practice. I’d been goofing off, and a teammate of mine had been goofing off too when we’d plowed into each other. Wham! My teammate walked away bruised and needing a few stitches, but my knee was twisted and torn to shreds, ending my career as an alternative captain for the Kings. Just a bit of bad luck. Another bit of bad luck that I’d recently fired my agent and was in the process of getting a new one when the accident happened, making it so the golden balloon I’d been hoping for when retiring was substantially smaller.

Just a bit of bad luck that I no longer have the career of my dreams. No longer have the body I’d relied on for all my life. No longer have the money rolling in. No longer have women with great boob jobs throwing themselves at me.

Things could be worse.

I know that. I’ve seen heroic vets and how they recover after their legs have been blown off. It makes me hate myself even more for having this pity party, for being so fucking angry.

But everything I had is now gone. I’m left here with this hulking body that falls down. What I won’t tell Mary, won’t tell anyone, is how the first night I moved in, I tried to climb the stairs. I fell and used my arms and my good leg to get all the way up. I’d been sweating so bad my shirt was soaked through by the time I made it to the top and couldn’t walk again until the next morning.

So, yeah, I’m left here without my team who had been my family. But they had to move on and find another alternative captain. Although, Derek Waters, the captain still calls and talks to me. Really talks, which is good. But he’s the only one who seemed to give a flying fuck after I got out of the hospital.

I’m here, back in my hometown where people used to slap my shoulder and think I’d made it big time. But I’ll have to get a job. A real job. I mean, I bought this house, and I can live off my savings for a while, but, shit, I’m going to have to figure out how to make money. Elise left me because…well, who knows. We had a superficial relationship anyway. And I don’t know how I feel about women now. I don’t know how I feel about me. I’m alone and I’ll have to find out who I am now that I’m not a hockey king.

Mary sighs. I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for.

Maybe it was.

No, you…you lost a lot.

But you’re right. It’s just a knee.

And your career.

Are you trying to make me feel better?

She smiles at my attempt to tease her.

I shrug. With my cane, I step closer to her, to my little sister, who I don’t know. The one person I’ve relied on since the accident. Grabbing her, I wrap her in a one-arm stranglehold of a hug with her giggling.

Thanks for being here.

She’s laughing while she looks up, her arms around my waist. It’s nice to see you smile.

I’m about to say something smart when the doorbell rings. It’s one of those chimes that’s a classical song. So pretentious. I’ve got to get rid of that soon.

Hobbling to the door, my sister’s behind me wondering aloud, Is that the movers? Did you bring your huge TV up from LA? Oh my god, Marty would love to watch football with you on that.

I open the door so I don’t have to answer her. I don’t want to watch TV with Marty. The man makes me nervous, probably because he seems to be so nervous around me.

There’s a small, middle-aged woman with graying dark hair in a firm, hair-sprayed poof around her face. She’s holding a chocolate Bundt cake and wearing a tight grin.

Well, hello, neighbor. Her voice is nasal and irritating. Great welcome wagon she is.

Before she can say anything more, my sister slings an arm around my waist. Patty! I can’t believe that’s you.

My new neighbor, Patty, of the notorious Patty Simms who is against polyamorous people, turns her tight smile right to my sister.

Mary? Is that you? Are you moving in here?

My sister laughs. No. No. This is my brother, Leif. Leif Jackson. He’s moving into this beautiful house.

Patty rolls her eyes. "Well, I know who he is. It’s all over town that the famous hockey legend is back. I forgot that you’re his sister."

Was that about the biggest diss aimed at Mary or what? Okay, my sis is right. Patty is a bitch.

And don’t you just love it when people talk about you as if you aren’t there? Since the accident, I’ve been getting more than my fair share of it. Doctors coming into my hospital room, talking in whispers about the ligament surgery not going well. Rehabilitation isn’t possible. He’ll never be the same again.

Jesus, I fucking hated that shit.

But I forget it all while my sister is making a funny face at me like she can’t believe that Patty Simms just showed up on my doorstep.

Patty extends the chocolate cake to me. "It’s banana chocolate. Supposed to be good for you. I know you athletes like to eat clean."

My sister grabs the cake, looking like she’s trying hard not to giggle but failing miserably while she snorts.

Thanks. That’s all I can think to say because I’m strategizing a way to keep Patty at an arm’s distance, but not piss her off. Pissed neighbors are the worst. I kind of burned a few bridges in LA and Calgary by having some loud parties.

That’s when a colossal truck, then another, comes rolling down the cul-de-sac right toward my house. There’s the movers. Maybe Patty will get the hint that I’m busy and leave.

High-pitched screeching, the kind that makes me cringe, erupts through my house. My nieces are racing toward their mother and me, screaming their little heads off. Brittney, the older one, all tan, long dark hair and braces, clings to Mary, breathless.

Beat you. Brittney narrows her eyes at her little sister.

"I beat you. Anne is also trying to catch her breath and looking at my cane like she wonders if I might beat her with it. You got a head start, Anne continues, despite her obvious trepidation about me and my cane, but I caught up with you anyway. So I beat you."

Girls. Mary sounds frustrated and so much like our own mother it makes my chest hurt. My mom would get so frustrated with me when I’d charm my way out of taking a test in school or having a girl take it for me. I miss my mom. I can’t believe Mary sounds like her.

She’s shaking her head, pointing a finger at them. Go put this cake on the kitchen counter and stay out of the way. The movers are here.

I know, Brittney says with a lot of confidence. I can’t help but wonder if I used to be as cocky as her. If I still am. That’s why we came in, Mom. We were going to tell you that the movers are here.

Mary purses her lips. Thanks for that, girls. Now, go put the cake on the counter. Hopefully your uncle’s refrigerator will be unpacked first so we can put the cake in it.

Oh, Patty nervously fingers her immoveable hair, I hadn’t thought about if you had a refrigerator or not. I’ll go get you a cooler in the meantime.

Patty turns, but I manage to say, No, Ms. Simms. Thank you, but that’s not necessary.

She begins to pivot back but freezes. Her eyes are huge as she takes in the big, burly men who emerge from the trucks.

Mr. Jackson? The biggest of the men approaches, holding a clipboard.

Yep. I nod.

I’m Arnold from the We Move You so You Don’t Have to Company. He’s a polite guy, looks straight into my eyes and not at my cane. That’s reassuring, and Patty’s gawking at him with her mouth open. I’m not sure if she’s looking at him with fear or attraction or what. I’m not sure if I want to know.

You guys made it here fast, I say.

He smiles. We aim to please, sir.

Well, you did.

Arnold’s smile widens. I have a few forms for you to sign, then we’ll unload. When we’re done, you inspect our work and sign a few more papers, and then we’ll be out of your hair.

Sounds painless.

Arnold laughs. I like him because he laughs at my stupid joke.

I sign a few forms, Arnold showing me where, and when I’m done, he backs up a couple paces, looking over his shoulder at his crew who seem to be eyeing me, my sister and her daughters who are holding the cake between them, and Patty who’s still frozen and staring. Well, I can’t say that I blame the movers for glancing askew at me and the weirdness that is my life now.

Then one of the guys whispers, Ask him.

Arnold sighs and rolls his eyes. Okay, um, Mr. Jackson, sir?

Yep?

"Are you the Leif Jackson? Alternative captain of the Kings?"

Yeah, that’s who I was. I’m not that guy now. I don’t have the foggiest fucking idea who I am.

Yes, sir, Arnold, my sister answers for me. "This is my big brother, the hockey star. The Leif Jackson. A man who nearly beat the record for time spent in the penalty box." She holds my shoulder and smiles proudly.

You sure can fight, one of the men says, making Arnold turn and look at him with furrowed brows.

I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson. Arnold holds the clipboard close to his chest. My men are just excited to meet you. They’re real big fans.

Something from another life filters through. Cool, I somehow say, sounding a lot more chill than I’m feeling. I have some signed swag if you guys want ’em.

After the moving guys enthusiastically nod, somehow the next few hours pass with me trying to entertain the men moving my shit into my new house, while I feel like shit because I can’t help. Since the accident, my trainer and I have been tearing into my torso, working on lifting heavier weights for bigger arms and finally the six-pack I’ve always wanted. But I can’t beat four stairs. Four fucking stairs.

We set up the gym in one of the rooms on the lower level, and thanks to my sister’s wisdom, my bedroom is on the lower level too. But I want it upstairs. One day. Soon I’ll fucking move it upstairs myself.

Patty’s still around, although I don’t know why, and Brittney and Anne have asked the moving men enough questions about where they live and what the malls are like there that they want to go. I’m waving the movers away, Patty’s close by, my sister’s scolding her girls for asking too many questions, and then, up the cul-de-sac comes the beat-up Honda I’ve come to love, rocking a little too loudly to some girl-band song and barely sputtering into my terrible neighbor’s drive.

Okay, so there’s a little more to the story of when, five days ago, I made it to the top level of my house. I had no clue how to get down. So, using my arms and my good leg to essentially belly crawl, I found my way to a balcony. I’d had a lot to drink, which makes me wonder if that’s why I fell so hard. Drunker than I’d been in a long time, I was on my new balcony, checking out the neighborhood as the sun set in this late-August heat. And there she was, terrible neighbor. The most inconvenient woman on the face of the earth.

She’s gorgeous. Young. Blonde. I couldn’t make out her eye color, but I’d guess they’re blue. Or green. She’s tan, and she was wearing a silky blue bathrobe. A short bathrobe that showed off a pair of legs that almost made me cry from their feminine yet muscular perfection.

In the privacy of her backyard, a yard with tall fencing around it, where no one can see— except a pervert stuck on his balcony—she slid her little kimono off, revealing a slip of a nightie. She pulled her hair up, walking through her grass, smiling as she looked up at the twilight sky. She made me stop breathing. That smile of hers got to me that much.

Fuck, she’s so pretty and everything I don’t want. I’m not a whole man. I’m not myself. And there she was, gorgeous lady, smiling as she walked around in her nightie, making me feel—making me feel. I don’t want to feel right now.

But I couldn’t help myself. Too curious. Too intrigued. The next night, I climbed the stairs, using my arms again, and sure enough, there she was. Her nightie was different, and she had her hair up with maybe a pencil. She wasn’t smiling that night. She was crying. I hated seeing her cry, wishing I could do something, anything for her. But I couldn’t look away.

She cried the next night too.

But she smiled again the night after that.

I’m stalking her and feel creepy about it, but I can’t seem to stop myself. From my bedroom, I watch her leave in her little beat-up Honda. She’s living in the house where the polyamorous people lived, apparently, and she’s not alone. She has a kid. A boy.

Yesterday, after I’d fantasized about meeting her and looking at her pretty smile up close, I saw a huge man come to her house. Big guy who looked tough on his motorcycle. Visible tattoos. Almost mean-looking, except when he saw the kid, he lit up like it was Christmas.

I had an instant infatuation for a taken woman, and that makes me feel even more of an idiot. So that’s why I call her a terrible neighbor, because for a few days I had hope, which feels foreign and sticky sweet. But now, it just feels…I burn with resentment at the gorgeous woman who probably wouldn’t even look at me twice even if she wasn’t taken. She reminds me of what I am now. A pathetic unknown entity.

She parks the Honda and gets out of her car on a bounce, looking at the moving trucks.

If it isn’t little Miss Madison, Patty says, startling me from thinking about my terrible neighbor that I want to dislike.

Madison? I can’t believe I asked that out loud, wondering if that’s her first name or last.

The movers start their roaring engines and little Miss Madison holds a hand over her eyes, shielding them from the slanting setting sun to check out the trucks.

She just moved here too, Patty informs me.

Yeah?

Not that long ago. About a month or less.

Hmm.

She’s a—Patty leans closer, whispering—single mother.

Patty’s said those words like when weird people whisper about cancer, like little Miss Madison has some kind of disease we should all be scared of.

My heart beats a little faster at the news. It shouldn’t. It really fucking shouldn’t. Because even if she is a single mom, there’s that motorcycle guy. But even if there wasn’t a motorcycle guy, she wouldn’t look at me. I’m a man who needs a cane to walk. I can’t make it up stairs. I don’t have money coming in any longer. I don’t have hockey to lean on. Just my sister, who I don’t know.

Yeah, I don’t want to be attracted to anyone. Not now.

Well, I think she’s a single mother. Patty shrugs. I’m not sure.

Fuck, I’m disappointed Patty doesn’t know.

I can’t help but check out little Miss Madison again. Since she’s shielding her eyes with her hand, the hem of her T-shirt has risen from her jeans. There’s a tiny bit of flesh showing. It’s soft-looking. And I want to touch it.

No, I don’t.

She’s smiling and points at the trucks as her kid ambles close to her. He’s cute with glasses that are falling down his skinny nose. Must be somewhere between Brittney’s and Anne’s ages. He spies my nieces and says something to his mom. Maybe she’s not his mom. Maybe she’s his sister. She is young-looking. She frowns down at the kid, looks like she’s trying to say something reassuring, but he leaves in a hurry. My terrible neighbor’s shoulders slump and she turns.

But then she stops, catches sight…of me.

The distance between us is only a small-house width. She’s not even fifty feet away. The closest I’ve ever seen her. And she sees me.

She’s blinking, looking…intrigued. And I forget I’m on a cane. I forget I’m hurting. I forget everything when she looks at me. For once in so long, I feel like a fucking man because there’s heat in her gaze, the electricity of attraction. But then she bolts, racing after her kid like she thinks he might have been poisoned in the last ten seconds.

It’s then that I realize she saw me with my cane. She saw me weak.

Yeah, she’s the most terrible neighbor ever.

I don’t want her. Just have to keep saying that to myself to see if it can become the truth, especially since I know I’m going to spy on her again. Just as soon as my sister leaves.

houses

Zoe

Have you ever seen a man and music floods your head? And it’s mushy music, the kind Lifetime buys in stock. Ever seen a guy who makes your heart stop, painfully, then start again too fast? Makes you breathe like a lunatic ?

I feverishly continue to type on my laptop for my blog.

That, my friends, is my new neighbor. Mr. Too Handsome for His Own Good. God, he’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of in a man. Physically. He’s big. Super big. Muscular. Long, warm brown hair with blondish tips. A long beard, too, with blond under his full bottom lip. And light, light blue eyes. So pale they remind me of ice.

He looks like a nineteenth-century poet with modern styling products. He looks like a cool Longfellow. Or—no! Whitman…god, he makes my panties wet. Both the poet and my neighbor. He’s a sane version and let’s hope a less disturbing and obsessive Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights with a warm breeze lovingly, caressingly teasing his hair across his too-wide shoulders. See? He’s already making me wax poetic. And you know that’s not like me.

So there I am, gawking at—no, yearning for—my new neighbor, when the dawning realization hits. I’m wearing jeans that are faded from wear, not because I’m cool and buy on-purpose faded jeans. There’s a small smudge of mustard on my thigh. And my T-shirt is getting too short (from washing, let’s hope) and he probably saw my untoned stomach.

Fuck.

You know that moment when you’ve been so caught up in a dream and you’re kind of buzzing and feeling good but then reality slaps the shit out of you? Reality hurts, people.

Reality is I’m a single mom with mustard on my jeans.

Reality is he’s on-purpose cool while I’m not on-purpose faded.

---

You must have liked those moving trucks, Neil, my son, says, standing right beside me at the kitchen island. He’d somehow snuck up on me. Not that this is the first time. He’s getting really good at being stealthy. Ah, the life of living with a smart and nearly noiseless seven-year-old.

I hit save on my laptop and close the screen. I thought you’d like the trucks. That’s why I pointed them out to you.

He’s watching me close my computer, like a father who’s caught his daughter ogling pictures of Bucky, or the Winter Soldier as he’s called in the Marvel World. Why do girls like bad boys? Or do we all?

I don’t like trucks, Neil informs me, tilting his head slightly to the side. Now he looks like a social scientist, and I’m his experiment. He’s Margaret Meade, studying why I do what I do. God, my kid’s too smart for me.

I noticed. I nod. I just thought you would like them.

He shakes his head. Are we going to have a snack?

Neil must be going through a growing spurt. We just ate pizza at the mall. Not an easy feat when my child has a severe allergy to peanuts, and you’d be surprised how all sorts of delicious junk food has traces of the nut or oil in it. I always carry an EpiPen. But come on, what kind of mother wants to ever use one? It’s scary as shit that I have to carry it around with me and notify his school and everyone around him to watch for signs of anaphylaxis.

We took a gamble on the pizza because Neil is not a social creature, but I want him to be more spontaneous and have more fun. He’s already the