Awake (Book Three of the Wild Love Ménage Series)

By R. L. Jameson

One, two, Secrets accrue; Three, four, Shame galore;
Five, six, Add two men to the mix; Seven, eight, My life’s about to disintegrate...

Off-limits. Forbidden.
I shouldn't have slept with him.
Should never have fallen for him.
But I did—Secret #1

And I'm drawn to someone else.
He wants me too. This time, I do have an ounce of willpower.
An ounce.
But it’s waning, deteriorating quickly—Secret #2

Two secrets—secrets that are tearing me apart.
And Secret #3 is the hardest to keep.
I'm not the "good girl."
I'm not the "sweet one."
I hide behind a mask—a mask of lies.

But something within me is clawing the mask off.
Revealing the real me.
And my secrets.
Risking....everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. L. Jameson
• Release date: Mar 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370629794

R. L. Jameson

R. L. Jameson is the pen name of Red L. Jameson's erotic romance writing. While writing as R. L., Red can let her hair down and write as passionately, as hot, and as steamy as she can, while still hoping to make her readers think, laugh, cry, and fall in love.

Book preview

1

moth

I’m a liar .

I have this realization when I look down at the white chocolate-almond bundt cake in my hands that I spent hours baking for my best friend’s evening luau party. It’s such a juxtaposition from me—sweet creamy saccharine frosting elegantly adorned with sweetened white almonds on a sugary cake. Pristine and lovely. While I’m…

I feel like I’m breaking through a black frozen lake I’d somehow survived on the bottom of for the last few years of my life. Everything in me feels monstrously dark, dripping with a tar-like substance and I’m taking my first breath in so long.

I don’t look like I’m gasping for air. I look like the cake. Pretty. Sweet. Non-threatening.

But I’m a beast. Or I feel like one.

I’m hiding behind a facade. Suburban, single mother who couldn’t hurt a fly.

Which makes me a liar.

I’m not startled by the realization. I’m not even fearful. I’ve known this for years but never admitted it. Of course, now that I’m walking to Eva Whitaker’s house, less than four doors from my own, it isn’t the best time to have this kind of epiphany. But that’s the way it’s been lately. Suddenly—poof!—I’m awake with ideas growling and growing inside of me. Ideas I’m not comfortable with, but I know they’re mine.

I swallow, staring at the blanched slivered almonds in the frosting, making the cake look pointy yet sophisticated. It fucking should. I spent almost three hours making sure the stupid bundt was perfect.

I suck in air. I swore. In my thoughts, I swore. I don’t swear.

Remember, something inside me laughs, you’re a liar.

I turn, slowly trudging up Eva’s sidewalk. God, I love her and I’d do anything for her like make a ridiculous amount of silly appetizers—what the fuck is with baby quiches anyway?—besides this absurd cake, which are already in my chafing dishes in her house.

Eva’s my one friend. Being in such a small town, even if it is the university town of Laramie, Wyoming, means—when I’d gotten the divorce two years ago, thinking I was making a better life for my children and me—that I’d become the pariah of our quaint and rustic, cowboy-infused village. I had no idea I’d be shunned. I, gullible me, thought people would rejoice. Well, maybe not rejoice, but I’d finally left the man who’d cheated on me throughout our marriage. Granted, my ex-husband is a nice man. He’s still nice. Our divorce was amicable. He’s a good guy. But his dick isn’t.

I cringe, amazed I’d just thought that too.

Who am I, swearing in my thoughts?

A monster. Pretty little monster.

I slowly, ever so slowly make the last fifteen feet to Eva’s house excruciating with my internal diatribe. There’s more than twenty cars parked along the cul-de-sac—meaning lots of people. I heard laughter all the way from my house, where I checked on my children before I left even though I know they’re at their dad’s this weekend. It’s a habit to check on them, and I wonder if when I’m an old lady I’ll wander around the house still trying to find them.

The summer sunset is leaving the sky a purple mixed with orange. Beautiful. I want to savor the night. So I stop and admire the few daring sparkles of stars above. Those stars are lightyears away but I see their light. Jesus, how I see their light.

I’m so fucking awake. I see it all. Finally, after years of getting by, I’m seeing life and I want to become a bohemian pot-smoker who stops to applaud it all. But I’m a divorcee with two small children, and especially since my divorce, since the odd shunning—polite society doesn’t outright shun, but there’s ruthless abandonment and apathy on the other side of being the center of gossip—has been about fitting in. Wearing cardigans with fake pearls for buttons. Smiling when I want to flip everyone off.

It shouldn’t be such a big deal to wear this facade, this mask. In high school, even junior high, I was the sweet girl, the girl everyone liked but never really wanted to know. In college I became hot for a couple years and that’s when I met my ex-husband, who liked his sweet, hot young wife.

I’ve been called the good girl, the sweet one, and it’s always been said by someone who looks like they’re stifling a yawn. I’m boring as shit.

And a liar.

Eva, for as long as I’ve known her, has had this luau every July. We’ve always been friendly neighbors, but her husband, Sherman Whitaker, a dean at the local university, seven months ago left her for his secretary. Suddenly we’re best buddies. The whole town is abuzz about their divorce. It’s a juicy scandal for this area because not only is his secretary younger than him by about fifteen years, but she’s black. And a foreigner, people say. She’s Australian, actually. I’ve met her a couple times at past luaus. And I envied her bright and sparkling personality. How she was who she wanted to be, no apologies. I liked her.

As Eva’s new best friend, I’m not going to admit that, though. Oh, and Eva? Sure, maybe I should consider just what kind of friendship it is that we have. I’m the only other divorced woman she knows and she’s clinging to me out of the blue. But I’ve been without a real friend for so long I’m not about to look a gift horse in its mouth.

I can’t seem to force myself the few last steps to get inside. This is a special luau because Eva’s youngest son was just honorably discharged from the Army. But I keep watching the sky, amazed and acknowledging how different I feel, how new, how I’m not sure what to think of whatever it is that seems to be clawing its way out of me.

Maybe I’m so different now because I stopped drinking eight days ago. Three days ago I went to my first AA meeting. I couldn’t admit I was an alcoholic. Maybe I’m not. I mean, it’s called Mommy’s Helper for a reason, right? Wine. It’s my go-to. After the divorce, and everyone was polite to me to the point where I wanted to rip their fucking hair out but they never actually talked to me, I turned to my old college buddy, Chardonnay. Well, I’d actually started drinking in junior high. But I never let anyone know it. In college, everyone drank. So it was okay. By the time I was a mom, I learned how to regulate my drinking so I could find that perfect balance of numbness that I crave. I don’t like getting fall-down drunk. I love numb, though.

But something in me said I had to stop. No more numb. Maybe the same something that’s telling me I’m a liar. Or maybe it’s because my sponsor—even though I couldn’t admit I was an alcoholic I was assigned a sponsor—is a twenty-something, pierced, tattooed girl who sees through me. I hate her. No, I don’t. I just hate how she doesn’t know me, but she sees right through my bullshit and calls me out on it. Maybe it’s because of her—Bit, short for Elizabeth, but I think she’d kill anyone who dared call her by her full name, cut them into small pieces, and let the wolves in Yellowstone Park eat those chunks—that I’m so…awake.

I don’t blame you. A deep voice scares me out of my revere.

I jump, and strong, big hands snatch the bundt cake, catching it swiftly, ensuring it doesn’t end up a puddle in the middle of the sidewalk.

I have to look up, up, and up. In the dusky night is a flash of perfect white teeth. He’s smiling. He’s huge and grinning at me while holding my cake, my hands on his, trying to regain the dessert. He’s so warm, though. And that stops me in my tracks. As much as the weather’s been hotter than hell lately, maybe because I’d been standing outside in just my silly summer dress—a swath of black cloth with bright orange flowers and two teeny straps to hold it over my shoulders—I’d gotten cold.

My body wants to rush to him, push myself against him to feel his warmth. And oh my god, is his body something to catch my eye. He’s muscular and tall. The width of his shoulders to the narrowness of his hips leaves me with my mouth ajar, just staring at him.

He’s staring at me too.

His gaze bounces down my body in a way I’d long forgotten. It’s the way a man looks at a woman when he’s appreciating what he’s looking at. His warm, gray-blue eyes zero in on mine again. His smile is altered, slightly waning, his face showing signs of surprise. He swallows and regains that bright smile of his.

I don’t blame you for not wanting to come in. His voice rumbles down my body, my breasts really appreciate the timbre of his tone.

Oh? That’s all I can think of to say. But I’m pretty proud of myself for saying it and not smearing my body against his like I want to.

Yeah. He clears his throat. It’s kind of crazy inside.

Is it?

One of his fingers wraps around one of mine under the bundt. It’s such a subtle move, but it’s making my heart pound. I’m sweating now.

Yep. He nods. My mom and dad are trying like hell not to argue in front of everyone.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Oh, shit.

You’re Joseph? Eva’s youngest son? And definitely, definitely off limits. You’re my new best friend’s offspring, right? You’re the reason Eva decided to go ahead and have this luau and invite your dad, even though she’d rather poke his eyes out.

I wait with bated breath for his answer.

His grin slowly widens. Yeah. Joe, if you don’t mind.

I don’t mind. Try to act aloof, I tell myself. Don’t act like you’re attracted to this hunk of a man. Jesus, why didn’t Eva tell me her son is a blond Superman? Why didn’t she prepare me for this?

Granted, I’ve met her older son, Shane. He’s a lot like his dad—intellectual, a PhD candidate in a California university. And he’s an attractive man. Very attractive. But he’s maybe too much like his dad, where I think there’s a certain amount of pomp and patronizing behind that gaze of his. But Joseph, Joe—Fuck.

I’ve never met him before. And I can’t believe I’m attracted to him.

No, I can’t be. He’s very no-no, don’t go there.

Joe leans his head down slightly. And you’re…?

I’m Moira. Moira Landing.

Joe’s whole body stiffens. My mom told me about you. You’ve gotten close. Been really good to her when the rest of this town would rather gossip about her.

I shrug. "I know what it’s like to be the divorcee, the town’s outcast."

You’re not old enough to be divorced.

I laugh despite the fact that I shouldn’t. I’m definitely old enough.

Nah.

I giggle even more. Yes. Then it hits me. I’ll tell him how old I am. I know how old he is and I’m much too…well, he’ll get scared of my age, I’m sure. I’m thirty-three.

He tilts his head. You sure?

I nod. Pretty sure. Wanna see my birth certificate?

Yes, I do.

I laugh even more but try to think of ways to remind him that there’s just too much division between us, so he’ll stop holding my finger, which I really, really like but shouldn’t.

And you’re twenty-four.

My mom tell you that? And by the way, I’m twenty-five now.

I shake my head. You sure about that?

Wanna see my birth certificate?

I have.

Ah, shit. I’m going to have to have a talk with my mom.

No, you can’t. I loved seeing your baby feet.

He softly chuckles. The hard pad of his thumb skims along the top knuckle of my index finger. Maybe that was on accident.

He does it again, which makes my breathing hitch. A slow burn begins in my chest, along the skin of my breastbone, to my breasts themselves. God, this guy is merely gliding his finger along mine and I’m turned on.

I can’t be turned on.

Oh, this is bad.

Really fucking bad.

2

moth

There you are." Eva’s voice surrounds me long before I see her behind the huge frame of her son. We’re still standing on the sidewalk, but he’s adjusting his grip, so I have ahold of the cake .

Eva’s walking quickly to Joe and me, and I’m reminded again of how breathtakingly beautiful she is. She could pass for Angelina Jolie’s sister. Seriously. She might be prettier. She’s maybe fifteen years older than the actress, but Eva’s skin doesn’t reveal her age. At all. I’m a little envious of that and wonder how she looks so fantastic while I just found another gray hair—that’s three now—and I’m beginning to notice laugh lines around my eyes.

Eva doesn’t sound mad that I’m late to her luau. Just frazzled. Maybe a tad drunk too. I told her I wasn’t sure about inviting her almost ex to the party. But she said she wanted to so she could show him how she was getting over him and their marriage.

I get that. All too well, I understand. I’d love to show my ex that I stopped thinking about him. But I’m pretty sure he knows I’ve wondered all these years what I did wrong to make him turn to other women. And he takes advantage of my pining, that pining not necessarily over him, but over what could’ve been.

And you found Moira, good boy, Eva says to her handsome son.

Joe cringes as she careens around him, wrapping an arm affectionately around his waist. Somehow, due to Joe’s quick moves, it looks like we were never touching.

Moira! Eva air kisses my cheek. I told you not to go to so much trouble. You made a cake too?

I shrug. See, this is my problem: I think that if I do things for friends, they’ll stay. Forever. Nothing has proven my theory right so far. But I’m still trying, like walking into a wall over and over again and thinking that will somehow get me to the other side.

It was no trouble. I clear my throat because I sound odd, probably because I’ve had to switch gears so quickly. I hate how attracted I am to Joe. Even worse, I hate how my body won’t simmer down even with his mother, my best friend, in close proximity.

But what does help is when the monster within tells me I’m a liar. Not in a sneering, cruel way. There’s nothing mean about this title. It’s just a fact. Like how I’d spent hours blanching the almonds, making the cake with gluten-free flour, and then ensuring the thing didn’t taste like cardboard. God, I’ll be so relieved when this gluten-free fad is over. All the time I’d been baking, I’d been doing it in the hopes that Eva will continue to be my friend, that she’ll think I have all my shit together, that everyone at the party will think I have a spotless house and not know that within me is a beast who swears and wants to burn my name in their well-manicured lawns.

Joseph, honey, you met Moira? Eva is definitely drunk. Her words aren’t slurred, but I smell a lot of alcohol on her breath. There’s a part of me that wants to grasp her face, forcing her to keep her mouth open, and breath that scent in. God, I miss wine. I miss it so much my skin is twitching.

Yep. Joe’s voice is now rough. Almost cold. And she met me.

Isn’t she just the prettiest? Eva reaches for my cheek and holds it. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had. I’m so grateful for her.

He smiles at me. No teeth this time. But it makes my heart thunder all the same. He seems strained, as if he wants to say something but won’t.

Moira? Eva leans heavily on her son. Will you come inside with me, hold my hand through the night?

With practice and elocution, I know, one doesn’t have to sound or appear intoxicated. But Eva’s eyes aren’t quite focused. They’re a tad glossy too. It could be because she’s been crying. But I know better. Not that I blame her for getting drunk at this party where she has to socialize with her soon-to-be ex-husband. It hasn’t even been a year yet since he left her, saying he wanted to spend the rest of his life with someone who really loved him.

Ouch. God, that would hurt being told something along those lines.

However, what Eva’s confessed to me is that long ago she wondered if she’d fallen out of love with him. Sherman annoyed her more than anything else. But she liked the life they’d built. Oh, how she had loved that part.

Again, I totally understand that.

I nod. Of course, Eva. What can I do?

She blinks and holds my shoulder. "Just make sure I don’t get sloppy drunk in front of him." She’s still not calling Sherman by his name, which I understand, but acting this way in front of her child, even if he is an adult, makes me…I’m suddenly irritated at her. And I want to protect Joe from Eva’s unthinking remarks.

Joe visibly winces. I can’t imagine my parents divorcing. Well, my father passed away when I was seventeen and my mother never remarried. So I didn’t have hear my mum making requests to not get sloppy drunk in front of my father. What must that be like for Joe?

I want to hug him. But I know that’s a really bad idea.

Sure. I give Eva a smile and a wink, trying to make it look like she’s just kidding around. I do this for Joe more than anyone else.

Inside we go.

But through the threshold, Joe places his hand at the small of my back. Shivers of delight and desire radiate from his light touch. I’m so aware of my body, my breasts, my thighs as I walk, the apex of my legs, feeling warm and tingly. Why is Joe’s touch so…magical? Joe, my best friend’s youngest son.

Shit.

I swallow and smile at him over my shoulder, praying to god I give the appearance that I’m nonchalant and could care less that he keeps his fingertips right where they are. He’s guiding me through the living room, where neighbors call out to me in drunken welcome, to the kitchen, where somewhere along the way I lose track of Eva.

I’m shaking by the time we’re alone and near the granite counter. Eva’s a real estate agent, and she knows all the contractors, like my ex, and how to make a killing of a deal. Her house was, at one time, a lot like mine—a bungalow that wants to be a grown up split-level. But now, she has a mini-mansion. It’s the biggest house on our cul-de-sac but not only that, it has this gorgeous kitchen she hardly ever uses, complete with a Viking range, Subzero fridge, and this creamy granite counter that I’ve dreamed about having sex on. I don’t know why I have that fantasy. Maybe because it’s so clean and I know my own sheets have crayons and crumbs of Wheat Thins in them. Maybe a few wine stains too. God, I need to do laundry.

You made all this food for my mom’s party? Joe asks, pointing to the chafing pans.

I nod as he looks down at me.

Now, I see him in the light, the bright kitchen light. No one can look as damned good as he does. He has a two-day beard, showing bright golden whiskers. His eyes have a lot of gray in them. Like the sky after a prairie thunderstorm. God, his eyes pierce right into my heart. And he’s even bigger than I thought. Eva’s tall, about five inches taller than me—I’m maybe a teeny bit taller than average. And Shane and Sherman are both a little on the tall side too. But Joe’s six-and-a-half feet of muscle and man. I have no idea how Joe came to be the size he is.

Damned good genes.

And it’s a damned good idea to look away from him.

But it’s damned hard to when he’s smiling at me the way he is.

Hey, little bro, you met Moira? Shane breezes into the empty kitchen, somehow bringing with him enough energy to make the huge room seem crowded.

Joe stiffens and nods. Yep.

Shane wraps an arm around my waist and kisses me on the cheek. He’s never done this before. He’s only shaken my hand and acted as if he’d like nothing more than to correct my grammar.

I turn to look at Joe’s older brother with his arm still around me, pulling me close to his warm body, and I’m not sure why but I’m angry at his posture, at his closeness. I smell whiskey on him.

I’m not one for whiskey. But I want to lick his tongue and have a taste. I think the man regards me as white trash, but I’m that desperate to find my numb.

No, the monster internally shrieks. Don’t give in.

Right. I plan to never drink again. I never want to wake on the couch with my son, Jamie, crying, wondering if I’d died.

I never drank around my kids. Never drank when they were awake. Okay, sometimes for dinner I’d have a glass. And usually by the time they’re in bed at eight, I’d find my state of numb that kept me going when I wanted to curl in a ball and cry for days.

But, I’ll never do that to my son ever again. I probably shouldn’t feel ashamed I’m going to AA, but I am. However, I’ll suck it up for my children. I’ll slap a label on myself—sure, call me an alcoholic. Whatever. I will never drink again.

Oh, but the smell coming from Shane is tempting. And it makes me dislike him all the more.

Shane’s still got an arm around me, smiling at his taller brother. She’s mom’s new pretty friend. It’s about time mom got a pretty friend, don’t you think? Shane’s pulling me closer. My hands are under my bundt, as if that could take me away from the drunkard who I’d like to lick because I’d love to have a taste of whiskey.

Joe grunts. It’s an odd sound, and judging by the way he looks—his dark blond brows are furrowed, white parentheses lines around his mouth—he’s not happy his brother is here. I’m not either.

It’s about time mom has a friend for those cougar fantasies everyone else has.

Joe pushes Shane’s shoulder. Shut up. You’re drunk.

Joe’s shove was hard enough to make Shane take a few steps away, and I’m finally free from his hold, able to put the cake on the counter.

Shane’s just laughing. It’s a dry chuckle and makes me want to wince at the tone of it. And why aren’t you, little bro? Why isn’t Moira? At this party, we need to get seriously drunk. Shane smiles at me. You missed it, Moira. My mom made the biggest scene. Your name is so pretty. Is it Irish? Are you Irish? I swear to god I can hear an Irish lilt to your tongue sometimes. My mom, in front of everyone, screamed at my dad when he answered his cell, asking if it was his whore who was calling. It just happened to be a dean from the University of Montana on the phone, something about a work conference. But my mom, gotta hand it to her, she was screaming, spittle everywhere. So let’s get drunk. All of us.

I should be with your mom, I whisper as I look down at the silly bundt cake I made. It’s not enough for the thirty or forty people in Eva’s house. Why do I try so hard?

Shane wraps his arm around my waist again. No, stay here in the kitchen. With us.

Jesus, Shane, get your hands off her. Joe frowns.

Shane, with one hand, finds three shot glasses and from the huge stash of wines and liquors grips the whiskey. Let’s play a drinking game. Moira, do you know any drinking games? Being Irish, I’m sure you do.

Yes, as a matter of fact I do, I purr, turning and getting even closer to Shane. Smiling up at him, I’m terrified of what’s going to come out of my mouth, but I know I can’t stop it. The monster is already out and she’s growling for retaliation. God, I fucking hate drunk Irish jokes, even if I do fit the stereotype. It’s a fun Irish game, all right. It’s called let’s get the privileged white boy drunk and cut off his balls. Ever heard of it before?

Joe barks a loud laugh, while Shane rolls his eyes.

I thought you’d be fun. Shane pretends to pout, but his fingers are digging a tad deeper, trying to force me even closer to him.

I am. I cross my arms over my chest. I’m a lot of fun. I’m using my best sex-kitten voice.

Shane shakes his head. Cutting off my balls…that can’t be much fun.

I shrug. Who knows. You might like it. Maybe you could sing soprano afterwards.

Joe cracks a chuckle again.

Shane sighs. Okay, I’ll quit being so handsy. Sorry. He lifts his palms in mocking surrender. I’ll quit hitting on you if you get drunk with me.

I’m not drinking tonight.

What’s with getting drunk, anyway? Joe asks, getting closer to my other side, now that Shane’s backed up a tad, giving me distance. Joe leans against the counter, crossing his ankles, looking relaxed but there’s something about his eyes that tells me he’s on guard.

Shane shrugs and glances at me. "What else is there to do? Mom wants to kill Dad. Dad’s trying to stay clear of her, but comically keeps running into her. It’s like a less Southern, less literary August: Osage County moment. And everyone here is acting nice to Mom tonight, but tomorrow you know they’ll all be gossiping about how Mom lost her shit."

I’ll try to stop them from talking.

Shane looks at me, something warm passing through his brown eyes. You are really kind. My mom said as much about you, how out of the divorce and the humiliation she found a true friend in you.

I look down at my sandal wedges, feeling heat in my cheeks. She’s a good friend to me too.

Shane pours a finger of whiskey into a shot glass. For you, I hope she is.

I swallow and glance up. One brother to my left, the other to my right. After what Shane’s just said I might like him a tad more than before. But he’s not getting any awards from me. Joe, however…crap, I need to stop thinking about him. Stop looking at him.

I’ll go find your mother, I say and with that try to leave.

Moira, Shane calls as I almost make it through the white swinging doors.

I turn and look at him, arching a brow.

You sure you don’t want to get drunk tonight with my brother and me?

Who said I was drinking with you? Joe frowns yet again. He’s adorable when he does that.

Shane looks at him. You’re my bro. You’re supposed to join me when I’m miserable.

I shake my head. I’m not drinking.

Shane pours two fingers in one glass and three in another. That’s too bad. My mom told me you’re a wee bit of a party girl. At least with her. She told me about the graffiti the two of you crafted on the side of my dad’s Audi.

I cringe and with that really leave the kitchen. God, Eva and I had gotten so drunk that night. It had been shortly after Sherman had left Eva, and we’d been drinking margaritas at her house, my kids were staying the night with their dad. I had merely mentioned something about grabbing some spray paint and designing a penis on Sherman’s car door. Mainly because Eva had been calling him a dick and that was the word of the night.

The thing is, Laramie, at least in this neighborhood, isn’t that big. And we knew where Sherman’s car was parked. She had a can of spray paint, something about needing it for real estate emergencies, and we set off on foot, snickering through the eight blocks to Sherman’s car. The cold should have sobered us. Something should have. But before I knew it, Eva had painted a giant, about four-feet long, two-feet wide, penis, complete with veins, on Sherman’s car, and we were running back to her house, laughing like hyenas.

Now, I’m humiliated I did something like that. I know I didn’t do the actual painting, but I didn’t stop Eva. I was her minion, complete with evil laughter.

I’m saying hi and other niceties to people who hardly smile at me on the street as I wander through the luau, looking for Eva. The people at the party include some neighbors, but are mostly Eva’s colleagues, as well as a few of Sherman’s. I know a couple of the construction guys and wave. They look at me in that way all men do now—like they’re thinking, I know you from your ex-husband and I’m going to tell him everything you do tonight.

Laramie isn’t my hometown. It’s Tony’s, my ex. Which always makes me feel like it’s the town against me. I moved here from a much smaller community, thinking, because of the university, it was cosmopolitan and beautiful. It is. Kind of. Well, the scenery here is gorgeous. But it’s a much more complex town than anything I’ve ever known before. I didn’t know about the subterfuge between friends, the cliques, the silliness that adults possess. I had this idea that it would be a Mecca of intellectuals. What’s odd is sometimes it is. But living in the neighborhood I do, I feel more like I’m the outsider in a really bad Real Housewives’ episode.

Have you seen little Joseph? Irene grabs me by my elbow, pulling me close to an open window, which I’m thankful for. Even with Eva’s air-conditioner running, it’s hot in her house. Well, maybe someone shouldn’t have opened the windows and rather let the air-conditioning do its thing. But that’s parties for you. Someone’s bound to run your energy bill high.

I nod and notice she’s eating my Vienna wieners. Yep, I’ve never met him before.

Irene is the only woman on the block who openly talks to me. She’s retired from working at the post office for more than forty years. Her husband has just retired too—he was a detective. They’re childless, but the way Irene stares at Jamie and Olivia, Liv, makes me wonder if she had wanted children. She also tells me she’ll babysit whenever I need it. She and I are a lot alike in that I don’t think she understands the cliques either. She just wants a friend, and I would be happy to be it. But since I’ve moved to the neighborhood, at the same time she’s retired, she takes these months-long trips to the UK, so I hardly ever see her.

This the first time you’re meeting him, huh? Irene’s brown eyes sparkle with her smile. He’s turned into quite the handsome man, don’t you think?

I know color flames my cheeks as I nod. He’s a lady killer, all right.

She laughs, and I like her sparkly blouse that jiggles as she chuckles. Oh, Moira, you’re always so funny.

I’m not, but she’s gracious, so I’ll take the compliment. How was Scotland? That is where you traveled last, right?

It was. You have such a great memory. She eats a wiener in one bite. I loved it, she says around her mouthful.

See many men in kilts?

She rolls her eyes. No, utterly disappointing.

I’d bet. What do those Scots think when they don’t have their men in kilts? It’s what good tourists pay them for, right?

She laughs again. You’re hilarious. Her eyes widen. Joseph, come here, boy. She waves enthusiastically.

I want to close my eyes. Actually, I want to hide. I can’t be close to Joe again. He’s just so…swoon-worthy. And too young. And too much my best friend’s youngest son.

I’m warm from the many people in the large front room. It’s a two-story masterpiece that I’m not sure how Eva had constructed. It has visible beams along the vaulted-ceiling and is washed in a rustic cream with navy blue details. There’s a nautical vibe to the place, making me feel relaxed and wishing for the sea. I’ve been to the ocean a few times, small-town, land-locked girl that I am. And I loved it. Eva is an amazing decorator and has captured its essence beautifully in this spacious room.

But it’s crowded with people I don’t know well. Usually, I’d drink to feel comfortable. I know that three glasses of wine in this kind of atmosphere can render me into a fun woman who many people love chatting with. I’m easy with the jokes and a couple years ago would have easily overlooked my husband running off with a woman to have sex on everyone’s coats stashed on a guest bed.

However, I’m sober now. And awake. And I hate how attracted I am to Joe, whose warmth I feel before his body’s presence. He places his fingertips at the small of my back again, like we’re a couple, like we do that kind of a thing. I should make space