The Player Next Door

He watches me intently, as if he wants to say something more.

“What?”

He gives his head an almost indiscernible shake. “Nothing. We’re having lasagna tonight. Plenty for three.”

“You eat a lot of lasagna.”

“It’s all I’m good at making,” he confesses with a chuckle. “And that kid is picky as hell. So? What do you say?”

Eat dinner with Shane and his son? He throws that invite out so casually. Wouldn’t it be weird for Cody to have his teacher over for dinner? Would it make him question what’s going on between his father and me? Or maybe I’m reading way too much into the invite.

Either way, it’s probably not a smart idea. “I have dinner made, but thanks anyway.”

He nods to himself, as if he expected that answer. “Another time, then?”

“Maybe.” I march toward my front porch, silently enjoying his continued efforts. When I reach my steps, I steal a glance over my shoulder to find Shane sauntering backward, still watching me, an unreadable smile on his lips.

Has he figured out that he’s wearing away at my defenses? That one of these days, I just might bend, then break?

It’s tempting.

He doesn’t notice the football flying toward him until it slams into his backside. He jumps—more from surprise than anything, I think—and curses, but follows it up with a chuckle, as Cody’s childish giggles sound.

My own laughter follows me into the house.

Fifteen

“What’d you say this place used to be?” Justine’s hazel eyes rove over the interior of Route Sixty-Six as she takes a long slurp from her pint.

“Italian food. Luigi’s,” Becca confirms, inspecting the edge of her glass for cleanliness with a pinched brow. When she ordered a Blue Lagoon, I had to kick my beer-loving best friend beneath the table, warning her to not mock.

We never ate at Luigi’s, growing up. My mom said it was overpriced and she didn’t like the vibe. From what I’d seen of the place, standing outside and looking in, it appeared a cozy, family-type establishment, with red-and-white-checked linens and murals of Tuscany.

It resembles nothing of the Italian restaurant now, though, the inside lined with chalky-black board-and-batten walls and decorated with strings of industrial-style light bulbs that dangle from an equally black ceiling.

“Was it any good?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah.” Becca nods fervently. “We used to come every year for my mom’s birthday. It was sad, when Luigi died.” She points at a spot not ten feet away, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Massive heart attack, right over there.”

Justine grimaces at the spot as if the corpse of the old owner were still there. “Didn’t need to know that.”

“But it’s good to see this place doing well!” Becca counters, beaming. “The patio is really nice, with the river next to it. Too bad it’s raining tonight.”

“At least we got a table inside.” Despite leaving the city early, Justine got tangled in Friday rush-hour traffic and the two-hour commute stretched to three. The steak sandwiches she grabbed from the diner down from our apartment—one of a few things I miss about living in Jersey—were cold, the bread soggy, by the time she rolled in.

Becca warned us that Friday nights here are “hopping.” I don’t know why I didn’t believe her—maybe because we’re in Polson Falls and I assumed her version of busy would be vastly different from mine. But when we arrived at nine, the last of the families were filtering out, replaced by an upbeat, youthful crowd clad in cute dresses and stylish jeans. There’s even a bouncer at the door to card anyone who looks too young to take advantage of Friday night’s deal on shots and domestic beer.

We snagged the last table available—a six-person booth with faux-leather backs and a dim conical pendant providing a low cast of light—but people seem content to linger around the bar, their hands filled with drinks, their voices with laughter.

In the far corner, three guys in torn jeans and faded T-shirts are tuning their instruments. The singer, a straggly haired man in his thirties, reappeared moments ago, his clothes damp from the rain, a waft of cigarette smoke trailing behind him as he passed our table.

“So, tell us who you’ve slept with here?” Justine asks with no preamble, her inquisitive stare locked on Becca.

Becca chokes on her drink. “Uh … if we’re going to be playing Truth or Dare tonight, I think I need a few more of these.”

“Ignore her. I do, all the time.” I pass Becca a napkin to dab the dribble on her chin.

“What? I’m just helping you get the lay of the land.” Justine smirks. “Get it? Lay?” She’s distracted by two guys who stroll past, checking us out on their way by. “Who are they?” She tracks their backs with a keen, obvious stare.

“Not sure, but they look really young.”

“Just how Justine likes ’em,” I tease.