built, he could be a professional athlete or an ex-Olympian. It was
hard to gauge his age, even up close.
I knew this because I’d introduced myself on Monday when
I’d gone to drop off the Welcome Wagon basket from the community association.
He had that ageless quality, strong face, wise eyes, with the body of a virile
twenty-three year old. Something told me he was in his mid-thirties, though.
Maybe it was the BMW parked in the driveway. Maybe it was the fact that
twenty-somethings rarely purchased houses in the ‘burbs.
Unless it was a grow op.
I spent a few minutes imagining the scenario—the police
cars, the bust, the media personnel knocking on our door in order to interview
me.
“ He kept to himself, but there were lots of people
always coming and going ,” I imagined myself saying while the new neighbor
was hauled off by the police, turning his face away so the cameras couldn’t
identify him.
No. I shook my head. That scenario didn’t ring true. Martin
wasn’t a drug dealer, I decided as I watched him cut a pattern through the too
long grass. I bet he was married and was getting the house and yard ready for
his kids to arrive. But then, he hadn’t said anything about kids and I didn’t
see any toys or bikes in the back. Maybe he was recently divorced. Yes,
definitely divorced—it’d probably been a couple of years. His wife moved into
the neighborhood with the kids and her new husband. He was moving in too so he
could be close to them, so they could spend weekends at his house. He was an
athlete, a hockey player maybe; I’d seen hockey equipment when he’d moved in, I
was sure of it. His wife had left him after he’d had one too many affairs on
the road.
Now he was a single dad, living in suburbia. That was all.
Oh, and he just happened to live next door to a neurotic,
spying neighbor with too much time on her hands.
I groaned, remembering how I met him; trudging up to his
door with the Welcome Wagon basket propped on one hip. I’d rung the bell and
waited and was just weighing whether to ring the bell again or give up and try
again the next day, when the door swung open.
Jesus!
I swear to God my heart collapsed into a dead faint right
there in my chest. My mouth probably hung open too. The man was beautiful. He
leaned up against the door in a loose white cotton shirt that showed off his
tanned skin. He wore loose trousers tied low on his hips. His hair was dark and
wavy and hung down just a bit over his left eye. At least it did until he ran
his hand through it, mussing it up just enough to make it look even sexier.
“Can I help you?”
Oh God. My knees wobbled. There was something seriously
wrong with me. But I couldn’t help it. His voice was deep with that trace of an
accent. Goddamn I love a French accent.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I’d said as I shoved the
basket at him.
His eyes went wide. “This is for me? Why?”
Obviously, I was dealing with a suburban virgin here. It
wasn’t so long ago that I was one myself, and to be honest, after moving from
our funky loft in Boston’s Leather District, the jury was still out on the
relocation. Though, given the new neighbor, maybe things were looking up.
I cleared my throat and smiled, probably looking as dorky
as I felt. “It’s on behalf of the community association. It’s a welcome basket.
It has a few little goodies in it…” Seriously…I said goodies. I was appalled at
the memory. “And um…our newsletter. An information sheet about what our
community has to offer. Some wine…” I trailed off. I remember silently cursing
John for not being there to shut me up when I needed it.
“Oh.” He said with just a hint of cynicism. Or, upon
reflection, it could have been the accent. The French always sound cynical.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He set the basket down and turned back to me, his hazel
eyes searching my face before traveling down the length of my body. Like a
caress. When his gaze found
hard to gauge his age, even up close.
I knew this because I’d introduced myself on Monday when
I’d gone to drop off the Welcome Wagon basket from the community association.
He had that ageless quality, strong face, wise eyes, with the body of a virile
twenty-three year old. Something told me he was in his mid-thirties, though.
Maybe it was the BMW parked in the driveway. Maybe it was the fact that
twenty-somethings rarely purchased houses in the ‘burbs.
Unless it was a grow op.
I spent a few minutes imagining the scenario—the police
cars, the bust, the media personnel knocking on our door in order to interview
me.
“ He kept to himself, but there were lots of people
always coming and going ,” I imagined myself saying while the new neighbor
was hauled off by the police, turning his face away so the cameras couldn’t
identify him.
No. I shook my head. That scenario didn’t ring true. Martin
wasn’t a drug dealer, I decided as I watched him cut a pattern through the too
long grass. I bet he was married and was getting the house and yard ready for
his kids to arrive. But then, he hadn’t said anything about kids and I didn’t
see any toys or bikes in the back. Maybe he was recently divorced. Yes,
definitely divorced—it’d probably been a couple of years. His wife moved into
the neighborhood with the kids and her new husband. He was moving in too so he
could be close to them, so they could spend weekends at his house. He was an
athlete, a hockey player maybe; I’d seen hockey equipment when he’d moved in, I
was sure of it. His wife had left him after he’d had one too many affairs on
the road.
Now he was a single dad, living in suburbia. That was all.
Oh, and he just happened to live next door to a neurotic,
spying neighbor with too much time on her hands.
I groaned, remembering how I met him; trudging up to his
door with the Welcome Wagon basket propped on one hip. I’d rung the bell and
waited and was just weighing whether to ring the bell again or give up and try
again the next day, when the door swung open.
Jesus!
I swear to God my heart collapsed into a dead faint right
there in my chest. My mouth probably hung open too. The man was beautiful. He
leaned up against the door in a loose white cotton shirt that showed off his
tanned skin. He wore loose trousers tied low on his hips. His hair was dark and
wavy and hung down just a bit over his left eye. At least it did until he ran
his hand through it, mussing it up just enough to make it look even sexier.
“Can I help you?”
Oh God. My knees wobbled. There was something seriously
wrong with me. But I couldn’t help it. His voice was deep with that trace of an
accent. Goddamn I love a French accent.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I’d said as I shoved the
basket at him.
His eyes went wide. “This is for me? Why?”
Obviously, I was dealing with a suburban virgin here. It
wasn’t so long ago that I was one myself, and to be honest, after moving from
our funky loft in Boston’s Leather District, the jury was still out on the
relocation. Though, given the new neighbor, maybe things were looking up.
I cleared my throat and smiled, probably looking as dorky
as I felt. “It’s on behalf of the community association. It’s a welcome basket.
It has a few little goodies in it…” Seriously…I said goodies. I was appalled at
the memory. “And um…our newsletter. An information sheet about what our
community has to offer. Some wine…” I trailed off. I remember silently cursing
John for not being there to shut me up when I needed it.
“Oh.” He said with just a hint of cynicism. Or, upon
reflection, it could have been the accent. The French always sound cynical.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He set the basket down and turned back to me, his hazel
eyes searching my face before traveling down the length of my body. Like a
caress. When his gaze found
Similar Books
