The Player Next Door

My free hand ventures to the thin, silk strap on my camisole, my pinky finger curling under, gliding down around the deep scoop neckline, teasing my flesh. I let out a hysterical giggle. This is insane. Why am I watching this? And worse, I’m practically drooling. What happened to my bitter resolve? One look at naked Shane and I’ve forgotten all the pain he caused me? And then what happens the next time I have to look him in the eye?

Nothing good can come of this. I’ll just be piling on regrets.

“That’s enough for one night.” I peel myself away from the peep show, whispering a sour “Good night, asshole” as I crawl into bed.

Accepting it’s going to be a long while before my pulse settles.

Six

Mom yanks the black smock off the man and sweeps the round, horsehair brush over the back of his neck to remove any last clippings, all the while chomping on her gum. Based on the clumps of salt-and-pepper hair pooled around the chair, the man came in with at least four inches more hair than he’s leaving with, his new style cropped short. “See, Clive? This is way more distinguished-looking than that comb-over.”

The man’s soft blue eyes study his reflection in the mirror ahead with intense interest, the look in them one of happy surprise. “You were right, Dottie.”

“I’m always right.” Her mulberry-painted lips stretch wide in a smile and her manicured hands smooth over his shoulders in an affectionate way that probably isn’t appropriate but is standard practice for my mom. “Cindy’s gonna love it. I’m tellin’ ya. She’d have to be blind not to.”

He grins, sliding from his chair and pulling out his wallet. “So, I’ll see you at McTavish’s on Friday night?” My mom’s favorite watering hole.

“You know it. Come and say hi.” She winks at him.

How my mother hasn’t been run out of town by jealous wives and scorned girlfriends is beyond me. There’ve been more than a few tense face-offs over the years, some of them—slaps, tear-filled accusations, screaming matches in the grocery aisle—I’ve witnessed firsthand.

Dottie Reed has always maintained that she can’t help attracting the opposite sex. It must be that alluring pinup girl vibe she says she gives off. That she spreads her legs for any interested man has nothing to do with it, oh no.

Mom winks and waves bye to Clive. When he’s out the door, she acknowledges me. “What are you doing here, hon? I thought we were meeting at my place at six?” She glances at her wrist to confirm that it’s only five.

I haven’t seen my mom since her birthday two months ago, but I’m not surprised it doesn’t spark a maternal instinct to wrap her arms around me in a welcoming hug. She only finds that motherly bone three drinks in.

“Yeah, I know, but I’m starving, and I figured you’re here anyway, so we can walk over and grab dinner early.” And this eliminates the chance for her to rush home to down a bunch of happy-hour cocktails beforehand.

She shrugs in a “fine, I guess” way, her indigo-blue eyes drifting over my locks. “Do you want a cut while you’re here?”

“No. I’m good, thanks.” She offers to cut my hair every time I step inside Elite Cuts, a no-frills hair salon that’s catered to Polson Falls for decades. I haven’t taken her up on it in years, since I realized not all hair stylists are equal, and there are plenty who are a hell of a lot more competent and creative than my mom. Plus, she’s liable to lop it all off, insisting a bob suits my face shape best.

She leans closer to the mirror, her red-clawed fingertips combing through her hair as she inspects her roots. She’s religious about hiding all evidence of gray, and she’s been doing it with platinum blond as long as I can remember. I’ve suggested maybe a change to a soft golden or a subtle chestnut would be nice, but Dottie abhors change when it comes to her appearance. She’s been trying to hold fast at twenty-five for the past two decades, in looks and lifestyle. Ironically, it’s her lifestyle that’s starting to age her beyond her forty-six years.

She’s still attractive, her makeup impeccable, her hair always styled, her clothes on the more risqué side but flattering for her curvy figure. But under these lights, I can see the lines that her latest round of Botox injections couldn’t hide, creasing her forehead and curving around her lips, and there’s a touch of sag at her jowls that nothing short of surgery will erase.

“So? What’s new?” she asks.

“Nothing much. Just settling into the house. I’m going to start painting tomorrow—”

“I’m heading out now! Scarlet’s treating me to dinner,” she hollers to her boss. She likely wasn’t paying attention to begin with.