Now I want to give my son everything I experienced, and I know he misses having a mum.
But that won’t be January.
She won’t be Mrs. Right.
She can only be Ms. Next Door.
Anything else would be foolish. Because if we didn’t work out, she’d be a stone’s throw away. That would be awkward. Possibly uncomfortable. Potentially as agonizing as trying to use a PC when you’re used to a Mac.
And there’s the kid factor. Ethan could get attached, and that spells trouble too.
He doesn’t need another loss in his life.
That makes my neighbor thoroughly off-limits.
First things first—once I settle into my new home and new job, I can start this whole dating-for-keeps business in earnest, and approach it with stealth so that Ethan doesn’t meet her before we’re solid as a rock.
Which means I’m simply going to embrace having a next-door neighbor who’s fun, easygoing, and tempting as hell.
That’s especially true as she stretches her arm across the back of my seat and twists to look behind her, giving me a view of the sparrows on her right arm. They fly down her shoulder, soar across her biceps, and curl around to below her elbow. The ink is delicate, feminine, and impossible to look away from.
What do they mean? Why did she get them? And does she have more ink that’s hidden from my view?
I shake away my wayward thoughts. “How do you want to tackle this shopping expedition today? Besides forging our own path and refusing to be funneled through the endless retail labyrinth?”
“I have my plan of attack. I wrote a task list. It’s like a schedule and has water breaks and even snack times,” she says as she puts the truck in drive.
“Are we talking Pirate’s Booty–type snacks, or more like apple slices and peanut butter?”
“Please. After yesterday, I’m never giving you fresh food again. It’s Pirate’s Booty all the way for you, mister.” She turns down the next road. “And don’t forget, if we get lost or confused in the store or we just can’t find our way out, we can always call for help.”
I rub my finger against my ear. “What did you just say? Call for help?”
She groans. “Oh, you’re one of those guys. The kind who doesn’t believe in asking for help.”
I thump my chest, playing up the stereotype to egg her on. “I’m a man. I’m not allowed to ask for help.”
“Anyone can ask for help,” she says, a touch worked up and a touch adorable.
“Then it’s a good thing you’ll be there in case someone needs to do it.” Laughing will ruin the pretense that this is a sticking point for me, so I keep a straight face.
She arches a dubious brow. “Would you really not ask for help? What’s so wrong with that? Nice guys ask for help when they need it.”
I roll my eyes, continuing the ruse. “Great. Now you think I’m a nice guy. Just fucking great.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say you were nice. I asked if you’d really refuse to ask for help.”
“By your logic, nice guys ask for help. So if you expect me to do it, you must think I’m . . .” I curl my lip in exaggerated disdain. “Nice.”
She glances my way, a sly little smirk on her pretty face. “You’re saying you want to be a mean guy?”
“I’m saying even nice guys don’t want to be called nice guys.”
“So, you don’t want to be a mean guy, you don’t want to be a nice guy, and you’re prepared to wander forever through IKEA rather than ask for help?”
I’m losing the battle against laughter. “You’re really good at talking, aren’t you?”
She flashes me a victorious grin. “It’s kind of my thing.”
I laugh, enjoying the moment. “I confess—I’m one hundred percent fine with asking for help. But it is my goal to make it out of the store without needing to. And I always try to exceed my goals.”
With a smile, she turns on the blinker and says, “Here’s to exceeding goals today, then.”
As she turns onto the highway, I gesture toward the hood of her truck, making conversation. “Big fan of pink?”
She turns to me briefly, her eyes glimmering. “I am. I’m all about leaning into it.”
I laugh at the way she put that. “Leaning into the whole lady carpenter thing?”
Her brows shoot up, like she can’t believe I said that. “Thing? A lady carpenter thing? First of all, it’s not a thing. It’s a profession.”
Perhaps I didn’t phrase that the best way. Before I can backtrack, she adds, “Unless you want me to start referring to you as Liam the Male Vet. Should I do that?”
She’s called me out so delightfully that I have to laugh. “May I humbly suggest Liam the Male Vet Who Just Put His Foot in His Mouth?”
