I thank them, stopping to grab a picture frame from a box—simple, shiny metal, but I’d recognize it anywhere. I set it on the coffee table. A pang of longing punches at my chest as I look at the shot of Ethan with his arms wrapped around his brown-and-white cattle dog from years ago.
What was that day like? How often did he hug that dog? Swim with her in the ocean?
Things I’ll never know. A chance I never had.
I tap the photo out of habit, maybe for luck, maybe as a reset to clear away the longing I feel when I look at it.
We head out the front door so I can make sure I’ve grabbed everything from the rental car.
I stop short when I glance next door.
The realtor mentioned there’s a kid living there. Seems there’s a kid and a mom—a logical deduction, since most minors do require parental care.
And this mom looks positively hot as . . .
Wait. Settle down.
I shouldn’t look at my neighbor like that.
I should not stare at her trim figure. Her short jean shorts. Her pink T-shirt. Her waves of chestnut hair.
I focus on the kid.
I gesture to the girl heading down the steps. “See? There are even kids next door. This is perfect.”
My son tilts his head and sends a what are you talking about look my way. “Dad, she’s twenty. She’s not a kid.”
I arch a brow. “Twenty? I’m pretty sure she’s not twenty. I bet she’s eleven,” I say, peering at the young lady. I mean, eleven is possible, right?
I wave, and they both wave back, and I do not stare at the mom. I do not watch as she walks down the stone path in their front lawn, a sway to her hips, a soft smile on her face. I do not gaze at her every step.
“On what planet is she eleven?” Ethan asks as they come closer.
“The planet of eleven-year-olds?” I toss back. Fine, maybe he’s right that she’s not eleven.
But she’s not twenty.
“Look, all I’m saying . . .”
As the pair turns toward my house, I swat his arm, stand up straighter. “They’re coming over. Act normal.”
“You act normal,” he hisses.
“I’m always normal.”
“You’re so not normal at all,” he counters.
This kid. I swear, I don’t know where his cheek comes from.
As I wait on the porch, I do my best not to drink in the sight in front of me.
Because my new next-door neighbor is a fox.
And sexy neighbors are incredibly off-limits.
Sexy neighbors are at the top of the list of forbidden fruit, right along with employees, friends of your sister, and ex-girlfriends of your mates. I’ve never set foot in any of those dangerous territories, and I don’t intend to start now.
“Hi there,” she calls as she heads up the path, and I walk down the steps to meet her.
Them.
Both of them.
“Hello there. Nice to meet you, neighbor.” I pat myself on the back for sounding thoroughly amiable and not at all like a guy in a bar chatting up a luscious lady.
Her smile is radiant, highlighting the constellation of freckles that covers her nose and her light-blue eyes that sparkle.
Damn, she’s quite pretty close-up too.
I extend a hand, and we shake. “Hi, I’m Liam. I just bought this house. Which I suppose is obvious because I am moving into it. Because that’s what you do with homes you’ve just bought. You move into them.”
Okay. Yeah, that’s blatantly obvious too.
I swear I’ve spoken to women before. I’ve spent most of my twenties and plenty of my thirties speaking to women. I don’t know why it’s suddenly weird to speak to this woman.
Maybe it has something to do with the tattoos running down her arms. Or the work boots on her feet. Or the hammer in her front pocket. Of course, a hammer shouldn’t make it difficult to speak to a woman, but it does make me curious. “In any case, it’s nice to meet you.”
She smiles, a grin that should be gracing toothpaste tubes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I’m January. This is my daughter, Wednesday. She’s fifteen, going on twenty.”
Ethan shoots me an I told you so look as I shake Wednesday’s hand then introduce my nearly ten-year-old.
Ethan shakes hands with both women, then says to Wednesday, all tough, “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I wasn’t going to offer to babysit,” she says. “I have a job.”
“Cool. Just letting you know,” he says, acting so nonchalant. “What’s your job?”
“I’m a hacker. I hack into my neighbors’ accounts.”
January’s jaw drops. “Wednesday.”
Her daughter grins wickedly. “Sorry. Just kidding.”
January sets a hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. “She’s a little sassy. A little sarcastic.”
“Fortunately, we’re fluent in sarcasm,” I say.
January wipes her free hand across her forehead. “Whew. We are so not hackers. But we are vegetarians, so I brought you a few things from our garden.”
