The Player Next Door

“He knows what he did was wrong.” Shane reaches back to rub his neck. “Rain check on moving that bed?”

The playfulness is gone from his voice, but I smile anyway. Cody might not pick up on his father’s coded language but if any neighbors were listening in, they’ll surely have something to gossip about. “Sure. Have a good day at work.”

“You too.” He disappears into his house.

For the first time since I moved in, I am deliriously happy that Shane Beckett is my next-door neighbor.

Twenty-One

I study myself in the full-length mirror as the nervous flutter that’s been swirling in my stomach since this morning stirs again. This outfit might be too upscale for the Patty Shack. It’s a casual split dress—a soft cotton-spandex blend in army green with short sleeves and a round collar—but coupled with jewelry and wedge heels, it could easily work at a ritzy downtown restaurant. Maybe jeans would be more suitable for the greasy diner. But I want to look good. Desirable.

I shiver as déjà vu washes over me. I’ve lived this moment before. In a different home, as a different person—when I was seventeen and getting ready for my first date with Shane. I didn’t know him at all then. I know him now.

At least, I hope I do.

A sharp knock sounds on my front door, ending any opportunity left to test another ensemble.

My body is tense with a mixture of emotions—excitement, nervousness, worry, uncertainty—as I head downstairs, grabbing my purse and keys along the way.

The sight of Shane on my doorstep, in dark-wash jeans and a black, long-sleeve cotton shirt that hugs his powerful shoulders, makes my body hum with anticipation. I haven’t seen him since Sunday night—less than forty-eight hours—and yet somehow that has felt like three times as long.

My smile is genuine and broad. “Hey.”

“Hey.” One appreciative rake of his eyes tells me I chose well with this dress. “You look really nice.”

“Thank you.” We both linger. Are we supposed to kiss? Have we reached that point already where we kiss at the beginning of a date? I mean, he had his face buried between my legs three days ago. I feel like we’ve skipped a few steps.

I want to kiss him.

He’s staring at my lips, and I’m sure the urge is mutual.

He inhales sharply, as if catching himself, and takes a step back. “Ready?”

Disappointment pricks me—why am I waiting for him to make the first move?—as I pull my door shut and lock it. “Surprised you didn’t use a key this time.” I hid the spare beneath a rocking chair, in case I ever lock myself out.

“I told you I only had the one.” He pauses. “I can take it back, if you want.”

“I’m not a senior citizen with balance issues, and you haven’t earned the privilege of having a key to my house yet.”

“Yet …” He bites his bottom lip, taking in my face, my hair, my dress. “You look really good tonight.”

I smile. “You already said that.”

“Did I?” He swallows hard. “We should probably get out of here, then.”

“Before we can’t?”

“Something like that.” When his eyes lifts to meet mine again and I see how they’ve darkened, I know he’s not kidding.

A part of me—who the hell am I kidding, all of me—would like to forget dinner and head back upstairs to pick up where we left off.

With a deep exhale, Shane takes another step back. And another. He holds out his hand. “Come on.”

“How can you not remember Philpott’s tests? They were brutal. Dean and Steve nearly got kicked off the team because of their grades in his class.” Shane glowers between a bite of a french fry. “His multiple-choice questions were impossible. There’d be six options and at least one trick question buried in there. You couldn’t guess your way to a right answer.”

“Huh. Maybe that’s why I don’t really remember. I didn’t have to guess. I knew the answers.” I take a long, obnoxious slurp of my vanilla shake.

Shane chuckles. “Oh, that’s right, you were a big nerd, weren’t you?”

“No. I was just smarter than you football meatheads,” I say with a wink. I was a big nerd—hello, mathlete champion, two years in a row. I lean back in the booth and take in the interior of the Patty Shack for the hundredth time. The nostalgia of being here on a date with Shane again hasn’t faded yet. It probably helps that the owners haven’t changed a thing, aside from perhaps a fresh coat of Pepto-Bismol-pink paint on the walls. The same teal-blue stools line the black-and-white-checkered bar, the same vibrant metal Coke and state map signs dressing the walls, the same red-and-white-striped, faux-leather booths welcome diners. Booths that are still a touch too narrow, giving patrons little legroom. I never appreciated how wild and vibrant the colors in this place were back then.