The Player Next Door

“Fuck, no!” he scoffs, laughing. “It’s not my thing.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. The calendar and auction, I can maybe get on board with, because it’s for charity. But having a boyfriend who got paid to get naked for hordes of thirsty women …

A boyfriend. That’s the first time I’ve thought of Shane in that context in so many years. We’re not there yet. We’re just seeing each other for now, I guess? And, if we’re taking this slow and keeping it a secret, when will we venture firmly into official label territory?

“Dean was busting my balls to do it, though,” Shane says.

“I’m sure they would have been more than happy to have him sub for you.”

Shane’s brow knits together.

Right. I hit on Dean in front of him. “I have zero interest in him, by the way,” I assure Shane as I silently admonish myself. Tonight’s the night for sticking my foot in my mouth, apparently.

Thankfully, the server arrives and hands me my cone, and I take the opportunity to steer away from that topic. “So, do you like doing the auction?”

He waves a hand absently. “I don’t not like doing it.”

Shane’s gaze is on me as I savor the first taste. I haven’t forgotten his admission, about the ice-cream cone and the restroom.

He gives his head an almost indiscernible shake before continuing. “Like I said, it’s for a good cause and if I can help that way, why not? We raise so much money. I love going out to buy all the gifts and delivering them to the kids in the hospital around Christmas. Seeing them smile makes it worth it …” His voice trails. “You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

My tongue pauses midswirl around the top of my ice-cream cone. I wasn’t, actually. I was enthralled listening to the white knight highlight his good deeds. But now that he’s drawn my attention, now that I see the way his eyes track my tongue and how his lips have parted, I’m acutely aware of my teasing. “Doing what?” I take another long, slow lick around the top. I think about doing the same to a specific body part of Shane’s, and my throat goes dry.

Now, I know exactly what I’m doing.

So does Shane. “Glad to see you’re enjoying it so much,” he says, clearing his throat.

“I would enjoy it. I mean … I am.” I offer him a sly grin.

He curses under his breath as he slides out of our booth. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” I ask innocently.

His smirk is half humor, half resignation. “That soda went right through me.”

“You’re going to the restroom again?” I holler after him, obnoxiously loud. “But you just went!”

He shoots a warning glance over his shoulder and I respond with another lick of my cone that makes his jaw tense. Taunting him is too much fun.

My eyes are glued to him as he strolls to the back of the restaurant, admiring his broad shoulders, his ass, his stride, his everything.

When I turn back, Madame Bott is standing over me.

“Jesus!” I yelp, jolting in my seat from shock. My ice-cream cone topples out of my hand and lands on the table’s smooth surface.

“Hello, Scarlet,” she says in that reedy voice.

“Hi,” I stammer. “I didn’t see you come in.” Did she materialize from thin air? Where the hell did she come from?

“I don’t imagine so. I noticed you when I arrived to pick up my order, but you seemed enthralled in your conversation.” Her attention drifts toward the back to where Shane just disappeared, and her eyes narrow. “He looks familiar.”

“That’s Shane Beckett. He went to Polson Falls Elementary.” It was many years ago and he’s an adult now, but she must remember him.

A small puddle of melted ice cream is quickly forming beneath the upturned cone. I reach for a wad of napkins from the dispenser on our table to clean it up, disappointed. I may have declined the cone at first, but I was enjoying it. Though maybe it’s for the best. I couldn’t very well savor it while the witch of Polson Falls hovers over me.

“It’s nice to see you two out for dinner.” She wields the word nice as if it means something entirely different. Something not nice.

I force a smile. “It is! We’re finally catching up on life, now that we’re neighbors. Of course, we’ve been friends for years.” Minus that brief thirteen-year period where I wanted to crush his balls with a hammer.

“His son is in your class, isn’t he?” she asks lightly, and I can see from the glint in her eye that she knows damn well he is.

I feel my smile shift from fake polite to fuck you. “Cody Rhodes. Yes.”

“Hmm.” Such a simple sound, and yet it tells me all I need to know—Bott doesn’t buy my story and doesn’t approve. If she were anyone but the woman who interrogated a nine-year-old student in search of evidence of her husband’s philandering, I might feel guilty about lying.