Chapter 1 #2
I hadn’t wanted to look at them, but it was hard to pull away from the sight of his body pressing some woman against the building.
His thick leg between her thighs. His hands on her sides.
Her arms were around his neck, hands in his hair.
He was going for a breast when he pulled back from her and turned his head toward me.
Our eyes locked and his gleamed in the early darkness.
Then, like a frightened mouse, I’d scampered toward my house with my head down.
The next time I’d seen him was a week or so later.
Shouts and curses came from the house next door.
I had been leaving for work sans children, thankfully, as the display in his yard included him standing on the lawn and the woman who I assumed was the one from the week before tossing items out the front door, calling him names I’d never heard and stringing together profanity that might make a sailor blush.
Nick had stood stoic and firm with his legs spread wide, arms crossed, one hand lifted to his chin, slowly stroking thick fingers over that beautiful layering of ink and chrome hair on his jaw.
Hours later, he’d ripped out of his driveway on his motorcycle.
Questions had flitted through my mind at the time. Was she the same woman or someone different? Had he cheated on her or were they the same hot-for-each-other couple from one week ago? The scene had been a reminder of how quickly a relationship can flip. And for some reason I felt sorry for him.
Another week had passed before I’d seen him again, tinkering under the hood of a large pickup truck in his portion of the shared driveway.
On that day, I’d been returning from work.
Walking up my side of the drive, something prompted me to stop and address him despite us never having exchanged a word previously.
“Are you okay?”
He’d tipped his head. Surprise had been evident in his hard expression before he stood straighter and turned his face in the direction of his front yard.
“Nothing that hasn’t happened before,” he’d huffed and leaned forward, half-hidden underneath the hood again. “Might have been more effective if it wasn’t my house, though.”
Puzzled by his explanation, I didn’t move from my spot. “Well, I just wanted to make certain you were all right.”
He didn’t respond at first, but his body stilled once more.
“I’m Holliday,” I’d offered. “That’s with two l’s.” There’s irony in the name, and I’d waited for him to comment, but he didn’t. “My children are Eloise and Nash.”
I’d paused, thinking he would introduce himself. Or not.
“Just thought you should know.” I’d previously lived in a neighborhood where everyone knew each other’s names and the names of their children. It takes a village. Then again, that village knew everyone else’s business.
Like how my ex-husband cheated on me while attending a reunion at his alma mater. A rambunctious Big Ten football game led to post-game shenanigans with his college sweetheart.
This new-to-me neighborhood, however, consisted of mainly older homes with elderly residents, and I was out of my element here.
With the growing silence between my neighbor and me, I’d turned on my heels and headed toward my back door.
“I’m Nick,” he’d finally stated.
I’d stopped walking but hadn’t spun to face him before he added, “You should get your old man to cut the grass.”
Glancing at what I could see of my yard, I’d taken offense at several things.
One, I didn’t have an old man.
Two, I was aware my grass was overgrown, but I didn’t have a mower yet—it was just one more item on a list of growing necessities.
And three, I could take care of my own damn lawn, even if I wasn’t certain that was true. I didn’t need an old man to do it for me.
“I’ll get right on that,” I’d muttered, turning only my head over my shoulder and giving him a friendly salute when what I really wanted to do was give him the finger. “Nice to meet you.” Sarcasm had dripped in my tone. So much for being neighborly.
However, within a few days, the drone of a lawnmower filled the air, and the sound came particularly close to my home. When I’d stepped out on my front stoop, Nick was mowing my grass.
“What the hell are you doing?” I’d snapped, wondering what he was playing at by encroaching on my yard.
I’d said I’d take care of it. But I didn’t have a viable plan.
I’d considered asking Mitch if I could borrow his lawnmower, the one I’d bought him two years ago as a Father’s Day present, but the thought of asking Mitch for anything made me sick.
The loud hum of the mower cut off, and Nick halted in my yard. Looking up at me, he clutched the handle of his mower.
“I wanted to apologize.” Those dark eyes were sparkling sapphires under the bright summer sunshine. “Your kid told me you’re . . .”
The unspoken word could be one of many.
Single? Divorced? Helpless?
“I’ll speak to my children about bothering the neighbors.” I crossed my arms and stared back at him.
His arms were covered in tattoos, and some even crept up his neck, sticking out from the collar of his tee, which was plastered to his chest from the exertion.
A giant wet stain formed between the solid flat of his pecs beneath the cotton.
Jeans covered his legs, accenting the curve of firm thigh muscles.
He wore a baseball cap on his head. He was a beautiful man—slightly dangerous-looking but gorgeous nonetheless—and he was sweet to cut my grass, even if it was out of pity.
“I can pay you,” I’d stated.
He’d tipped up a brow. “Consider it my apology.”
“For what?” Kissing a woman on his front porch? Fighting with said woman in his yard? Or insulting me about needing a man to tend my lawn?
“I can take care of it.” I’d nodded at the grass. I didn’t need his apology. I was only being friendly that day when I’d asked about his well-being, foolishly thinking we were kindred spirits through our relationship failures. I had been wrong. He didn’t need to prove anything to me.
Heading into the house for my last twenty-dollar bill, I’d returned to find the mower running again. Walking up to him, I held out the money. He’d stilled but didn’t cut off the mower this time. He’d stared at the bill in my hand.
“Don’t want it!” he’d hollered over the drone of the lawn mower.
“I’d feel better if you take it.” My pride was on the line. I’d flicked my wrist once, emphasizing the outstretched twenty.
His gaze lifted, and those sharp eyes met mine. “Buy yourself something pretty with it, and we’ll call us even.”
Oh, he was smooth. But I wasn’t having that nonsense.
I’d folded the bill in my hand and pursed my lips, knowing my next move was bold. I stepped back, allowing him to step forward. Then as he passed me, I slipped the twenty into his back pocket, getting an unintentional swipe of the firmness of one globe, stretching worn denim over his ass.
He’d stopped abruptly, twisting his upper body and staring down at my retreating hand.
“Buy yourself something pretty,” I’d taunted and stomped away from him. I wasn’t going to owe him, neighbor or not.
That was back in June.
In the cold of December, the night air is seeping through my thin, long-sleeved shirt and pajama shorts. What was I thinking stepping out here wearing boots and wielding a wineglass?
“Where’s your jacket?” Nick snipes, stepping toward me, hands reaching forward to rub up and down my arms. I’d pulled them in close, huddling them against my chest as I hopped from foot to foot, waiting for him to explain what he’d been doing on my roof.
However, the freezing chill skittering over my skin disappears under the warmth of his calloused palms. His proximity infuses my entire body with a rush of heat, that ignites something in the depths of my cold bones.
The faint scent of bayberry and snow tickles my nose, awakening all my senses.
Forget my wine, I’m intoxicated by his nearness.
“I heard a noise,” I stammer, struggling to remember what he asked me.
“Sorry about that.” He removes his hands, and instantly, I miss the heat of his touch.
He tips his head, sheepishly peering down at the ground.
“What are you doing out here?” I nod at my roof, noting the ladder and some tools plus a cardboard box, resting on the shingles.
“I was hanging Christmas lights.”
“On my house?”
“You’re bringing down the block,” he teases as he’d done the remainder of the summer when I still hadn’t purchased a lawnmower.
My dad eventually bought me a mower from a garage sale in September, but as I struggled to start the thing, Nick appeared and told me he’d upkeep the lawn as he had most of the previous months. He continued to refuse my money.
“I hadn’t gotten to it.” The phrase was becoming the story of my life.
For the sake of my children, my intentions for the holiday season were well-meaning, but I haven’t decorated yet.
I haven’t purchased any gifts. I haven’t planned any seasonal activities.
As a single mom, working full-time, I was doing the best I could living on a budget of time and finances.
Which roughly translated to, I didn’t have the ho-ho-ho energy I’ve had in years’ past.
My Christmas spirit was waning this year, like that one pesky bulb causing an entire strand of lights to go out.
However, as Nick looks at me, his eyes twinkle like the little blue lights I’ve seen in other people’s yards. And a teeny-tiny spark inside me wants to do better. Be better.
“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.” His hands return to my arms, rubbing up and down once again. Immediately, the warmth melts over my skin, heating me up like a cozy winter fire.
“I thought you were the sugar plum fairy breaking in.”
Nick laughs, hearty and full, rich like the wine in my glass.
“You don’t need to do this,” I remind him, repeating what I’d said dozens of times to him over the past few months.
He feels sorry for me. That’s why he does what he does.
I’m that single mother neighbor who will one day let cats overrun her home when her children grow older and leave her alone, forgetting she exists.
The thought is pathetic and sobering.
“I want to,” he states, as he’s said often enough.
“Nash and Eloise will love it,” I say, hoping my children’s happiness means something to him.
He’s friendly with them. He even played catch with Nash a few times this fall when Mitch didn’t show up for his scheduled weeknight visits.
Nick also praised Eloise’s chalk drawings, allowing her to overtake his driveway when ours is full of sketches.
“I want you to love it,” he says, his eyes still on me.
I’d offer to pay him for the lights or his time, but I already know he’ll reject the gesture.
After my bold move last summer to slip a twenty in his pocket, I’ve never attempted to touch him again.
I’ve made him cookies and casseroles, bought pots with flowers for his porch, and left him a case of beer on occasion.
I didn’t know how else to repay him for his kindness.
“It will look beautiful.” I’m not really certain how it will look, but the roofline was made for Christmas lights. If he edges the front porch overhang and wraps lights over the dormers on the taller roof like he did his own home, the twinkling magic will bring cheer to my little house.
I like the place with its three small bedrooms on the second floor and its subtle front stoop raised up a few steps as typical Chicago homes are. Our previous home in the suburbs was double the size with manicured landscaping and a koi pond. Still, this place is mine and I smile in spite of myself.
“Thank you.” My voice is quiet as my teeth chatter.
“Get inside.” He winks with a tilt of his head toward the front door. “I’ll try not to make too much noise.”
“Try not to fall off the roof,” I warn with a laugh in my throat.
“You startled me.” His eyes narrow a bit, focusing on my face until his gaze drifts to the pebbled nipples poking out beneath my thin sleep shirt. He doesn’t take his gaze from my chest.
I breathily answer him. “You surprised me.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he pulls his head upward, turning to give me the side of his face. “Go inside, Holliday.” His deep voice roughens, and his jaw clenches.
The strangest sensation washes over me. I want to kiss up the column of his throat, outline the edge of his jaw with my lips, and climb his body like the evergreen he is.
The thought isn’t entirely offhand as I’ve had several similar fantasies throughout the summer and into fall about him. I’m highly attracted to my neighbor, though it’s ridiculous to feel this way.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” he adds, breaking into my vision of slipping my arms inside his red-checked flannel and pressing my cool tits to his warm chest.
His words are a reminder he isn’t attracted to me.
He just feels sorry for the single mom next door.
CONTINUE reading: Naughty-ish