The Player Next Door

Thirteen

Shane’s truck rolls into his driveway at seven on Monday, the night before school starts, as I’m deadheading the last of my late-blooming Shasta daisies—thank you, Polson Falls Public Library, gardening section, for helping me identify what’s on my property and what the hell to do with them.

Ever since my lunch with Becca, I’ve been replaying what I saw and heard that morning on Shane’s porch in hopes that I misinterpreted it, and telling myself that I don’t care either way.

The truth is, I must care, because I’m still thinking about it.

And despite every intelligent fiber in my body telling me I don’t care that Shane is home, I can’t ignore this hum of excitement that ignites inside me, seeing him again.

He hops out and stretches his arms over his head, as if cramped from a long drive.

“Holy shit …” Wherever he took off to, it didn’t involve basic grooming. His jaw is covered in a thick layer of stubble, only adding to the wild mane of unkempt wavy hair atop his head.

He spots me in my yard and tosses a casual wave before heading over with a confident, relaxed swagger.

“Where on earth have you been?” I eye his loose tank top, trying my best to focus on the dirt streaks on his arm and not on the muscle that’s peeking out along the sides.

“Camping. Upstate New York.” He loops his thumbs in the low arm holes of his top, pulling the cotton far enough away to flash me a glimpse of his impressive chest.

I swallow against the sudden dryness in my mouth and avert my gaze farther south to his powerful legs. Nothing hints of his devastating knee injury except for the surgical scar obscured beneath dark hair. “Like, camping camping?”

He grins. “Like sleeping bag under the stars, catching our dinner in the lake, sitting by the fire. Just me and a bunch of the guys.”

So, no women, I note, with far too much relief.

I sniff. A waft of smoke, bug spray, and sweat touch my nostrils. “Yeah, smells like it.” Oddly enough, on Shane, it’s far from unpleasant.

He bursts out in laughter, his eyes twinkling mischievously as they roam over my yard. “You finished painting.”

“Yeah.” Not just the fence, but my living room, and front hall too. It’s amazing what a fresh coat of a neutral gray can do.

“Looks really good, Scar. Hasn’t looked this good in years.”

I smile. “Thanks.” This exchange is … nice. Civil.

And yet is it just me or is the air between us electric?

“So, you ready for your first day tomorrow?”

“I think so.” Becca has turned out to be a godsend. She helped me navigate around the school, introducing me to staff and procedures so I could swiftly set up my room. Then, this past Saturday night, she arrived on my porch with a bottle of wine and her class picture, to walk me through my students, highlighting the brown-nosers and the troublemakers, the ones with challenges at home, the best friends and worst enemies, the frenemies.

Cody was in the class picture too. He looks like Penelope, save for his brown hair.

I hesitate. “I’m teaching Cody this year.” Wendy Redwood handed me my class list and there it was—Cody Rhodes.

I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting from Shane with this news—perhaps a cringe, at how awkward this might be? But he smiles secretively. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Maybe having a hot teacher will finally make that kid want to go to school.”

My stomach flips. There he goes, flirting again. Does he realize what it does to me?

Of course, he does.

“Good luck tomorrow.” With a wink, he turns to head back toward his house, his track shorts clinging to his ass.

I can’t help myself; I need to know. It’s been driving me insane. “So, you and the Red Devil are still a thing?”

His feet stall. “What?”

I instantly regret saying anything. “Nothing.”

He turns, his face filled with confusion. “No, seriously. What are you talking about?”

I sigh. “I saw Penelope at your house before you left. Early.”

Realization dawns over his face and he laughs. “No, we’re not together. She’s living with another guy. Has been for almost two years.”

“So, what was that about?” If it was a booty call, he wouldn’t admit it to me, would he? I watch him closely.

“She stopped by on her way to work to get me to sign some paperwork.”

“Paperwork,” I repeat doubtfully. “At 7:00 a.m.”

“Yeah. So she could take Cody to Montreal to visit her friend. I had to sign an authorization letter that said I was aware she was taking him across the border.”

My mouth drops open as whatever skeptical retort I was going to throw out dies on my tongue.

I really needed this.

As if I’d ever withhold it from you.

They were talking about a stupid form for their son.

I struggle to squash my sigh of relief, but I suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter. Maybe he isn’t still the douchebag player, after all.