The Player Next Door

He gives her a perfunctory, polite smile. “Yes, the lady would like an ice-cream cone. Vanilla, please.” When my mouth opens to cancel that order, he gives me a look. “Don’t even try it. You love the ice cream here.”

I eye my emptied milkshake. I do love it. It’s creamier than most.

And if Shane thought he could throw around all these casual little tie-ins from our first date to make me swoon … he was right.

“So, yes?” The server lingers for two beats and, when she is sure the order won’t be changed, she trots off.

“This is nice, huh?” He rubs his triceps as his focus wanders.

I peel my admiring gaze from the veins—even his veins are attractive—along his forearms and follow his line of sight to the bulletin board and the familiar orange flyer that takes prominent space in the center.

“So, ‘Hunky Heroes for a Night,’ huh?” I tease.

He chuckles. “It seems it’s turned into part of the job description.”

“Just like posing half-naked for a calendar?”

That get a sly smile in response. “What am I supposed to say? It’s for charity.”

“I guess. Especially when you’re the big-ticket item.”

His eyebrow arches.

“Becca told me.”

He nods, as if that makes sense. I’m beginning to think Becca might be a known source of gossip around town. “So, how many of these auctions have you been a part of now?”

He leans back in his seat, frowning in thought. “Five, I think?”

“Just a regular American gigolo, then.”

“Stop.” But he’s laughing as he gives me another soft knee bump. This time, I return the affectionate nudge, stretching my leg out to press against his inner thigh.

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

I stifle the smile threatening to escape. I forgot how much I enjoyed teasing him. “Anything weird happen on those auction dates?”

He lets out the softest sigh, as if to compose himself. “Nah. It’s not like that. Luigi ran it until he died. Now Route Sixty-Six hosts. Either way, it’s the same every year. I pick up the winner and we go to dinner at the restaurant. One year, the winner didn’t even want dinner. She was this seventy-six-year-old grandma who just liked the rush of winning an auction and was happy to donate to charity. I don’t think anyone bids with the hope of getting more than dinner.”

“You should maybe ask your chief about that,” I murmur through a sip of my water.

“Who? Cassidy?” Shane frowns curiously. “What do you mean?”

“My mother won him last year.” I give Shane a meaningful look.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Cassidy and your mom did not hook up that night.”

“That’s not what she said.”

“I told you. That’s all an act with her. She strings men along but she doesn’t actually go home with them.”

“Yeah, I shared an apartment with her for eighteen years and I beg to differ.”

“Maybe she used to,” he concedes. “But now it’s a game for her. And Cassidy isn’t that kind of guy.”

The way my mom lays it on? “Please. You’re all ‘that kind of guy.’”

“I’m not that,” he says evenly. When he meets my doubtful gaze, he amends more softly, “Not anymore. People fuck up but they also change. It’s not fair to hold them to one standard forever when they’re trying to be better. And listen, I get that Dottie’s never going to win any Mother of the Year awards and why you have a skewed view of men, but we’re not all like that. At least, some of us try not to be.”

This conversation has gone from flirtatious to bordering on a therapy session, one delivered in lecture form by a father figure.

“You’re right. People can change. They do change. I’m sorry.”

He inhales and then, after a moment, nods as if accepting my apology.

“So …” I draw circles over the table’s smooth surface as I search for a way back to our earlier conversation. “Nothing weird at the auctions, then.”

He scratches his jaw in thought. “Well, there was that one time the winner asked me to be the entertainment at her daughter’s bachelorette party.”

My eyebrows pop. “And, by entertainment, you mean …”

“Let’s just say she was hoping I’d show up wearing my firefighter gear and leave without it on.”

“This mom tried to hire a stripper for her daughter through a charity event?” My mouth gapes. Though, a part of me can’t blame her. I’ve been to more than one bachelorette party with male strippers, and none of them were appealing. Apparently, those of Chippendales quality are outrageously expensive. To hire a guy who looks like Shane, whether he has any skill in the actual art of stripping, would require a huge budget that the average bridesmaid doesn’t have.

“She offered me extra cash on the side too,” he adds with a shrug.

I wait a few beats until I finally have to ask, “Did you do it?” There’s accusation in my tone.