The Player Next Door

“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally, nodding toward his house. “Get some sleep. The kittens of Polson Falls are counting on you.”

He laughs, showing off perfectly straight white teeth. Ugh. He’s even hotter when he laughs. “Listen, I’ll leave the mower in my shed for you. I picked up an extra shift for tomorrow and then I’m away for the rest of the week.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He smiles. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“Only if a pipe bursts.” And yet I note a distinct twinge of discontent over his impending absence, an urge to ask him where he’s going, when he’ll be back, and most importantly, who he’ll be with. Collecting my paint supplies, I turn toward my porch, noticing the red fire extinguisher that sits at the top of the steps. A housewarming gift, Shane announced, when he returned from his supply run.

“You know, I missed you,” he calls out after me.

“Good.” My chest tightens. What I would have done to hear that, all those years ago. As far as I could tell, I no longer existed to him. But why is he telling me this now?

“Didn’t you miss me? Even a little bit?”

Every minute of every day for weeks, even as I sobbed into my pillow, wondering how he could be so cruel, replaying all the visuals of him and Penelope together, until my heart felt like it had shrunk by three sizes and hardened into an impenetrable cast.

Steeling my nerve, I plaster on an indifferent mask and turn back to find him watching me. “You had your chance with me, Shane Beckett, and you blew it.” With that, I disappear into my house.

Twelve

It’s almost 7:00 a.m. when I make my way out to my front yard, still sleepy.

A flash of silver catches the corner of my eye. A sporty Acura is parked beside Shane’s truck that wasn’t there last night when I went to bed. It looks like he had an overnight guest.

My gut tightens with the thought of Shane at home screwing someone after flirting so shamelessly and inviting me for dinner. But I guess flirting with me doesn’t mean he isn’t also seeing someone else.

“Oh, you’ve changed, have you?” I trudge to the garden shed, intent on lashing out at the last of the garden weeds as a way of quashing this unwelcome wave of disappointment, with the proof that Shane is still and always will be a douchebag player.

The sound of his front door creaking open has me diving behind the overgrown lilac bush between our houses.

“Call me tonight?” I catch Shane say in a deep, throaty voice.

“Of course,” a female voice answers sweetly. “Thanks again. I really needed this.”

“As if I’d ever withhold it from you.”

I stifle my snort, as my insides burn with jealousy.

“Drive safe, okay? And call me when you get there.”

I cower behind the bush as heels click on the stone walkway, moving away from the house. It serves as the perfect shield, allowing me to spy like a lunatic, waiting for the owner of those shoes and sweet words to appear on her walk of shame to her car.

Long, flame-red hair that stretches halfway down the woman’s back sways as she marches, her emerald-green dress swirling around toned legs. It’s the way she walks that makes my skin prickle with recognition. It’s that same prissy gait of a certain head cheerleader when she was stalking onto the field, pom-poms by her sides.

Penelope Rhodes.

The car engine starts with a low purr and, in seconds, she takes off down the driveway, seemingly in a rush.

They’re civil, huh? Civil enough for Mommy and Daddy to still have the occasional sleepover. I can’t believe it. Shane is still screwing Penelope Rhodes. “You lying sack of shit.” I was right to erect a Shane-proof wall. He’s the same whiskey-eyed phony he was in high school.

Knuckles rap against my front door.

“Finally!” I exclaim with equal parts irritation and relief. I’m in a pissy mood. Todd the service technician was supposed to be here between nine and noon, and it’s now after one. I’m heading to school tomorrow to start setting up my classroom. I can’t sit here all day, waiting for him, and if I don’t get my internet and cable hooked up stat, I’m going to kill someone.

Likely Todd.

I wipe my palm—smeared with Benjamin Moore CC30—on my sweat-soaked T-shirt and open the door.

And frown. “Becca?” A much older version of Becca Thompson, anyway.

“Hey, Scarlet!” she exclaims with a fluttering wave of her hand. Her bright green eyes scan my clothes, my paint-speckled skin, and then my messy topknot before settling on my face. “Long time, no talk, huh?”

“What are you doing here?” I blurt.

“Uh …” A nervous laugh escapes her lips. “My mom mentioned me coming by, didn’t she?”

I struggle to recall what Ann Margaret was prattling on about the other day while I was engrossed with the Hunky Hero auction flyer. What the hell did I agree to?