The Player Next Door

“Yeah, no big deal.” He gives his shoulder a casual scratch, drawing my attention to his giant arms. It probably is no big deal for a guy who looks like he bench-presses refrigerators daily.

“Okay, great.” I steal a glance next door before moving back to give Dean room. Both the truck and car are there. Shane’s home. He’s just not here.

Dean’s gaze flickers downward over my flirty sundress as he strolls in. “You look really nice today.”

“You mean, not hungover?” It’s so not happening between us.

“Sure.” He smiles secretly as he pushes the dolly down the hall and into the kitchen. If he were smarter, I’d think he’d have figured out why I went to the trouble of straightening my hair and putting on makeup, just to grade schoolwork on a Sunday afternoon.

Dean smells freshly showered and is clad in simple jeans and T-shirt, much like the outfit he was wearing Friday night. Except it doesn’t stir so much as a spark of attraction in me anymore. What a disaster sleeping with him would have been. For once, my mother’s lusty lifestyle has saved me from making a horrible mistake. “How was the rest of your shift?”

“A small collision, a stroke … pretty uneventful.” His hands settle on his hips as he takes in my kitchen and the stove that’s now sitting in the middle. We pulled it out to clean and have it ready to go. “You did a good job in here. Can’t even tell there was a fire.”

“Justine’s a bit of a freak like that.” It took us all afternoon, but the smoke barely lingers anymore, replaced by the pungent scent of vinegar.

“Where is your cute little friend, anyway?”

“She had to head back to Jersey, to her boyfriend.” She left about an hour ago, to give herself time to do laundry and grocery shopping for the week, though she was reluctant to miss this exchange.

A frown flashes across Dean’s forehead. Of disappointment, I gather, at hearing that Justine is in fact not single.

I shake my head at the gall of this guy, ready to move on to my friend now that he has no shot with me. Dean definitely hasn’t changed. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“Nah. I’m good.” In seconds, he has the avocado-green fire hazard on the dolly and he’s wheeling it down the hall, his arms tensing from the weight. For all his strength, he’s a clumsy ox. One corner of the stove hits the wall several times, leaving scuff marks along the fresh paint.

By the third “shit, sorry,” I’m gritting my teeth.

“That’s okay.” I force a light tone and remind myself that Dean is doing me a huge favor. I still have some paint left over and can easily touch up that wall. When he gets to the top of the porch, though, I have visions of him destroying my already-frail stairs that I can’t touch up with a paintbrush. “Are you sure you can manage by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine.” He pauses. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to go over and see Shane?” He smirks, and something tells me big, dumb Dean might not be so clueless, after all.

“I’ll just be over here grading math tests if you need me.” I turn before he can see my cheeks burn.

Ten minutes later, I have a brand-new white stove set up in my kitchen and only a few more dings in my walls.

“I plugged it in for you.” He flicks a few buttons on and off. “You just need to set the clock. And I threw your old one in the back of my truck. I’ll drop it off at the depot for you.”

I sigh with relief that this ordeal is over. “I really appreciate this.”

“No problem.” Brushing a streak of dirt from his hands onto his jeans, he grabs the dolly and begins wheeling it down the hall toward the front door. “Any time you need my help around here, you have my number, okay?”

“Thanks.” I used to have a standing offer of help from Shane. Does that still exist?

I trail behind, not sure what else to say to the guy who almost pulled a super sleazy move two nights ago but has otherwise proved to be decent.

We step out onto the front porch just as Shane is heading for his truck, his strides long and purposeful.

My heart does its usual skip-a-beat flutter at the sight of him—in a collared shirt and jeans today. I hold my breath, waiting for him to reroute, to jog over and say hi. Before the debacle on Friday night, he would have. He always did.

Now, though, he merely slows long enough to throw a wave at us before climbing into his truck. My chest sinks as he cranks the engine and takes off down his driveway without another glance.