The Player Next Door

What if thirteen years is too long to hold on to a grudge? We all did stupid, cruel things in high school. I had Jeremy dump a guy for me during my sophomore year because I didn’t have the guts to do it. I’ve said mean things and spread rumors that were likely false. I’ve gossiped. I, like every other person in the world, am not perfect. I certainly wasn’t as a teenager.

But that was high school, and we’ve all grown and changed since then, I accept, my focus drifting over the small porch, to the baseball bat and two gloves propped in the corner, the potted plant on the step, and the wooden “welcome” sign.

Was I too cold to Shane earlier, given he’s only been nice to me since the day I moved in?

Is it time to forgive and forget?

What on earth are you trying to convince yourself to do, Scarlet?

Before Shane pulls into his driveway and catches me waffling by his door, I shove the envelope through the mail slot and hurry back to the safety of my home.

It’ll all be worth it in the end.

I set the can of exterior white paint and my toolbox down on the porch and size up my first big home improvement task for the week, sleep still lingering in my body. The weather forecast says no rain for the next three days, so it seems like a good time to make my little house’s curb appeal a priority. At 7:00 a.m., it’s too early to go banging on loose boards, though, unless I want to make enemies in my new neighborhood. Thankfully, there are enough weeds sprouting in the beds to keep me busy for another hour or two, until hammering nails is reasonable.

With that in mind, I head for the old garden shed on the side of the house, noting Shane’s truck in the driveway. The deep rumble of the engine sounded a little after eleven last night. Despite the overwhelming urge to shut off my lights and catch another unintentional strip tease, I stayed in my bed, gripping my book tightly.

I yank on the metal shed door and it opens with a screech. Iris was kind enough to leave her tools for me. I find the basics—a shovel, spade, pitchfork, a few trowels, and other hand tools. They’re simple but well-kept, not a speck of rust on them. And old. So old, I’m surprised her family didn’t try to pawn them off as antiques.

I’m sizing up the shovel and the spade, deciding which I should be using for my task, when Shane’s front door creaks open. My heart instantly races, despite my best attempt to not care. I busy myself, pretending to be enthralled by the hoe as I listen to his keys jangle with his steps.

If Shane notices me, he doesn’t look my way. A moment later, I hear a door slam and an engine roar to life. His pickup truck eases down the driveway, Shane behind the wheel, his forearm resting out the open window, his skin looking golden against a cerulean T-shirt. He must be heading off to work. Curiosity overwhelms me. What does Shane do with his days? What happened to his promising football career?

I guess I could find out if I would just talk to him.

If I cared enough to ask.

Which I most certainly do not.

With a resolute sigh, I grab the shovel and set to work.

I keep my attention on my brushstrokes, pretending not to notice Shane’s truck pulling into the driveway at half past eight the next morning. He didn’t come home at all yesterday, and he’s wearing the same T-shirt he left in.

I ignore the way my pulse races, instead dipping my paintbrush into the can of white paint as I warn my idiotic hormones. You remember what happened the last time you got mixed up with that. It didn’t end well then either. My gaze remains locked on my work as his truck door slams shut, but from the corner of my eye, I see the lone figure strolling across the lawn, toward me.

“Morning!”

I stifle my sigh. I decided over the last twenty-four hours that polite indifference is the best way to handle Shane going forward, seeing as I do have to live next to him. “Good morning.”

“You’ve been busy.” He studies the length of the fence. “It’s looking good.”

“Thanks. I’m taking a break from scraping paint and hammering nails. And a few fingers.” I hold up my injured hand that I spent last night icing. I’m probably going to lose my thumbnail.

He cringes. “Give me ten and I’ll come help you.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be stubborn. We’ll get it done twice as fast together.”

Finally, I dare meet his eyes. They’re as rich and golden as always, though touched by dark circles and weariness. “You sure you’re up for it? Seems like you had an eventful night.” Screwing someone.