Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

She sighs loudly. “Out of sheer morbid curiosity, why no Coreys or Tobys?”

“Names of boys that used to bully me in grade school. They’re memorialized in the anus of my childhood.”

Feminine laughter draws my attention to the house next door. A bunch of people are playing beach volleyball. An even mix of men and women. All attractive, mostly young. A half a dozen luxury cars pulled into the driveway next door this morning. “Your neighbor is in town.”

Next thing I know a blur of black races past me at the speed of light, and that blur is headed straight for the neighbor’s volleyball game.

“Mandy?”

“No, Roxy. No!” Dropping my phone, I scramble to my feet.

With her fat pink tongue hanging out and flapping around, Roxy races at a dead gallop to the volleyball bouncing toward the water’s edge. She sinks her fangs into it and it instantly deflates into a limp pancake. Then she starts shaking her head to make sure it’s good and dead.

All I can do is watch, powerless to stop the horror unfolding before my eyes. Meanwhile, my son thinks this is hilarious.

Cringing, I jog over and grab the end of the pancake slash ball from my bad dog. “Bad, bad, bad dog,” I grit out.

I’m wrestling it out of her mouth when a man approaches. She seems to think this is the best tug-of-war game ever! and fights me with all her might. I finally give up and let her have it.

The neighbor, I presume, is lean and fit, an attractive man with salt-and-pepper hair and a deep tan. He saunters up wearing a half-cocked grin hiding amidst a tidy goatee. “Am I safe?”

“I am sooo sorry. And yes, absolutely, you are completely safe. Unless you’re an inflatable ball. In which case you should run.”

He laughs. In the meantime Roxy nudges me because she doesn’t understand why the tug-of-war game is suddenly over. “Roxy, no.”

“Steven Aimes.” He hitches a thumb at his house, a white block of cement and glass pretending to be an architectural masterpiece, yet acting more like an eye sore.

“Amanda Shaw,” I reply and extend a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Taking my hand, he shakes it, and holds on a beat longer than necessary. A twinge of discomfort skates up my back. The reaction surprises me. Then again, I haven’t felt the touch of a man in more time than I care to remember.

“I know you’re not Cal’s wife because I’ve met Camilla so you must be…”

“His sister.”

“Sister…riiight, riiight,” he keeps absently repeating, his mouth still curved in what appears to be a perma-grin.

“Again, I’m so sorry. I promise to keep her away from the rest of your balls.”

That did not come out right. I’m certain of it because his smile widens. I’ll try to shut up now.

“I’m having a Fourth of July party,” Steven casually mentions. “You should come.” That’s four days away, also known as the day before Ronan comes back and becomes a daily fixture in Sam’s life. And mine.

“Mandy,” comes from somewhere behind me. The voice sounds like Hendricks. It’s certainly loud enough to be Hendricks. But it couldn’t possibly be Hendricks calling me by the nickname only my family uses.

I glance over my shoulder and see a shirtless Hendricks jogging toward us in what looks like, hand on the Good Book, slo-mo. Traps glistening in the sun, pecs bouncing up and down, arm veins bulging.

What is happening?

“Hey,” he says as soon as he reaches us. “I’m going to the store. Do we need anything?”

Dumbfounded by this strange behavior, all I can do is stare. In fact, I don’t blink once. His attention swings to Steven. He plants his hands on his low-slung swim trunks and tips his chin at him. “’Sup.”

“Grant fucking Hendricks. ’Sup, dude-bro?”

“Not much, dude-bro,” Hendricks replies in an unusually upbeat tone. I bite back a burst of laughter at what I know is terrible acting on the big blond’s part and watch the two of them shake hands.

“I was just telling your girlfriend that I’m having a Fourth of July party. You and Amanda should come.”

“Oh, we’re not together,” I interrupt, my expression nothing short of tense.

“Sure. Why not,” says the man who’s been invaded by body snatchers. “What do you say, Mandy?”

Both men stare at me expectantly while my startled gaze cuts back and forth between them. “I have a son. He’s too young to be left alone,” I insist. Looking over my shoulder, I spot Sam playing tug-of-war with Roxy and send him a full-arm wave. Turning away, he ignores me. Little jerk.

“My son is twelve. How old is––”

“Sam is ten,” I cut in.

“Great, bring him. He can hang with Jeremy.”

With both of them watching me, I shrug and add a stiff smile. This has all the makings of a perfect disaster. I’m really not feeling this party. And yet he is Calvin and Camilla’s neighbor and I don’t want to sour the relationship for them.