The Player Next Door

Regardless, it doesn’t matter what she believes or approves of, I remind myself, because Shane and I are old friends and neighbors. Anything else is none of her—or anyone else’s—business.

“Order number thirty-one!” the cashier hollers, holding up a brown paper bag with the Patty Shack’s logo across it.

There’s no one else waiting for takeout so I assume it’s hers, but Bott doesn’t so much as twitch, staring so intently at me, it’s like she’s staring through me.

I feel like I’m nine and squirming in the corner of room 128 all over again.

Shane’s reappearance abruptly breaks her trance.

“Shane Beckett.” She loves using people’s full names.

“Madame Bott. Sorry, I think it’s Parish now, right? Good to see you again.” He flashes that sexy smile.

She dips her chin but offers no smile in return, as if immune to his charms. “You as well.”

Speak for yourselves. If she doesn’t leave soon, I’m worried I’m going to break out in hives.

“Number thirty-one!” the cashier calls out a second time, and now she’s glaring at Bott’s back, an impatient twitch to her face.

“I think your order’s ready.” Can she hear the wish for her to leave in my voice?

“Yes. I think so.” Bott’s penetrating eyes linger on me another moment, her hand clasped over that odd talisman necklace, her thumb and index finger dragging over the beaded surface. “Enjoy your night catching up.” Under her breath, she adds softly, “Careful, Scarlet.” Her heavy black skirt swirls as she glides to the counter to collect the brown paper bag, and then she’s gone, the ding of the bell above the door announcing her departure.

Shane watches her pass along the sidewalk. “What was that about?”

“Nothing.” Is it nothing, though? Is Bott going to be a problem? Will she say something to Wendy about her suspicions that I’m dating my student’s father? Should I be worried about what Wendy will say? Should I care?

We’re both adults and we’re not breaking any official rules.

Shane frowns at the melted mess on the table and then at my hands that are covered in melted ice cream. “What happened?”

I sigh heavily, hoping the act will help shake the cloud of unease Bott left behind. “I dropped it.”

Amusement takes over his face. “You know, Cody dropped his ice-cream cone once too. He was five. He cried and I had to buy him a new one. Do you need a new one?”

Now he’s just teasing me. “Do you need me to have a new one?”

“I think I’m probably better off this way.”

“That was an embarrassingly fast jerk-off, even for an old pro like yourself.”

“I didn’t—” He burst with laughter, showing those intoxicating dimples that make him even more attractive. “Go wash your sticky hands while I settle the bill. We have somewhere to be, and you’re not allowed in my car like that.”

I frown curiously. “Where are we going?”

His eyes sparkle with excitement. “A place you love.”

Shane’s car is an attention whore.

I watch people gawk as we drive along Main Street. It’s been that way since we pulled out of his driveway in this vintage beast. I can’t blame them—you don’t see too many classics on the road anymore, outside of a car show. Before this, the oldest car I remember ever riding in was my mother’s ’86 Ford Tempo, and there’s no one in a rush to restore those metal shitcans.

I’m no ’67 Chevy Impala expert but Shane seems to have taken great care in bringing this one back to its original splendor. The black tufted-leather bench seats have all been reupholstered, the interior has been scrubbed spotless, and voices still croon from the AM/FM radio in the dash. But my favorite thing about the car is the engine’s deep rumble vibrating through my limbs. That, and how utterly sexy Shane looks behind the wheel, his elbow propped against the open window, his hand gripping the steering wheel lazily at the six o’clock position.

“You get three guesses.” Shane pulls into the left lane. The turn signal makes a loud, fast click-click-click, distracting me for a moment.

Maybe we’re doing drinks after dinner. “Route Sixty-Six?”

“That’s back that way.” He juts a thumb behind us as he makes the turn.

“Oh, yeah.” And it’s obvious we’re leaving downtown Polson Falls. “Home Depot?”

“I said I was taking you somewhere you love.” He frowns at me. “Are you saying you love Home Depot?”

“No, but I do need a new fire extinguisher.”

“You do,” he agrees with a smirk. “But they’re closing soon anyway. We can do that this weekend. Guess again.”

I tamp down the delight that comes with the idea that Shane is making plans with me for this weekend—that he’s assuming, rightfully so, I’d want to spend more time with him. I search the stretch of road ahead of us. There really isn’t anywhere I love in Polson Falls.

Besides my home, that is.