4. Ripples of Curiosity #3
The new neighbors had no idea what was coming.
Tom and I took our evening walks the way other couples took tequila shots: for the ritual, the endorphin rush, and the tacit permission to talk about things we couldn’t say anywhere else.
That night, we strolled the Heron Cove loop under a sky bruised purple and orange, the sun kissing the lake into gold-leaf shimmer.
The air smelled of grass and barbecue, tinged with the faint promise of rain.
Tom wore his “I’m just an architect, nothing to see here” shorts and a vintage band tee, while I went for yoga pants, a cropped tank, and a sports bra that pushed my tits up just enough to make strangers’ eyes flicker. Purely for science.
We’d barely rounded the first bend before Tom squeezed my hand and murmured, “Visual contact: Number Four.”
From a hundred yards away, I saw them. Zara was in a fitted black tank, leggings the color of fresh asphalt, her hair in a crown of tiny braids.
Even bent over a storage bin, she looked like a sculpture: every line deliberate, every angle designed for maximum grace.
Next to her, Eli towered in running shorts and nothing else, dark brown skin gleaming with sweat, forearms wrapped around a crate marked “FRAGILE – ART.” He set it down, straightened, and caught us staring.
I tugged Tom forward and added an extra sway to my hips, because if I was going to be the “bridge and tunnel” couple, I’d at least be the kind with curb appeal.
“Evening!” I called out, waving with a bravado I didn’t feel.
Zara looked up, her lips parted in a perfect O, then broke into a radiant smile. “Hey there! You must be the Harpers.” Her voice had the rich, lilting warmth of a jazz singer, or a really good whiskey.
“That obvious?” I said, laughing.
“Word travels fast in this neighborhood,” she said, dabbing her brow with a terry cloth. “I’m Zara. This is Elijah.”
Eli gave Tom a nod, but his eyes swept over me, pausing for a split-second on my bare midriff. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he did it again. “Call me Eli,” he said. “Sorry we’re a mess, it’s been a day.”
Tom shook his hand, then immediately started geeking out over the modernist bones of their house. “Is that a genuine Mies van der Rohe chair?” he asked, peering through the open garage. “And the exposed steel framing… did you do the reno yourself?”
Eli lit up, happy to find a fellow nerd. “Guilty. I’ll show you the rooftop garden sometime.”
Zara gestured me toward a stack of canvases. “We’re unpacking my life’s work. Want to help me judge which one belongs over the fireplace?”
I moved in closer, muscles still humming from the pool party earlier, and took a look. There was a massive abstract canvas in riotous blues and greens, all sharp gestures and secret shadows. “It’s stunning,” I said. “Reminds me of a Kandinsky I saw in DC once, but with more guts.”
She grinned, showing perfect white teeth, then cocked her head at me. “Are you an art collector, or just a fan?”
“Designer,” I said. “Interiors. But I wanted to be a painter until I realized I had no patience for anything that required a drop cloth.”
Zara laughed, a musical sound that made my nipples stiffen inside the sports bra. “God, I get that. I can’t make it through a class without wanting to set the studio on fire.”
I reached out to touch the edge of the canvas, fingers brushing against hers. A shiver, subtle as the first sip of champagne, shot up my arm. She noticed, because of course she did.
“We were actually just going to have a drink on the patio,” she said, voice a half-step lower. “You two want to join?”
Tom and Eli were deep in a debate about concrete flooring versus reclaimed wood, but Tom heard the invitation and shot me a look that said, ‘We’re in, unless you want to bail.’
“Love to,” I said.
We followed them up a floating staircase: each step a work of art, the risers lit from beneath in a wash of blue LED.
The main floor was a sun-drenched expanse of glass and art: a Calder mobile in the foyer, bold color-block rugs, a dining table made from live-edge walnut and what looked like actual meteorite fragments.
Eli poured cocktails, something smoky and citrus, while Zara gave us the quick-and-dirty tour.
She was proud, but not pretentious; every story about a painting or sculpture was delivered with a wink, as if to say, ‘Isn’t this all a bit ridiculous?
’ When we paused at the wall of windows overlooking the lake, she motioned me closer.
“So, Melissa,” she said, rolling my name in her mouth, “I have to ask: what’s the secret to your waist?”
I snorted. “Five years of competitive gymnastics, and a tragic addiction to Pilates. It’s mostly smoke and mirrors.”
She smiled, and for a moment I could feel the gravity of her gaze, the way she mapped my body without embarrassment or apology. “I miss being that disciplined. Dance is all angles and adrenaline, but sometimes I just want to eat a cheeseburger and binge-watch trash TV.”
“I can arrange that,” I said, surprised at my own boldness.
“Is that a threat or a promise?” Her eyes glinted, a dare in them.
“Both,” I said. The air between us sizzled. Not just chemistry… more like potential energy, waiting to detonate.
Eli returned with drinks, handed one to Tom and another to me. I took a sip and nearly moaned aloud; whatever he’d mixed, it was delicious, layered with smoke and a burst of blood orange.
Tom caught my eye. ‘You good?’ he mouthed.
‘So good,’ I mouthed back.
The four of us clustered by the windows.
Conversation circled art, then design, then inevitably the “hidden rules” of Lake Trace living.
Tom told a story about the time we were dinged for our “improper” mailbox height, and Eli countered with a tale of the Atlanta HOA that once fined him for painting his front door “too red.”
Zara set her drink down and propped her elbows on the glass, her posture regal but relaxed. “So, be honest: did you come by to recruit us for the neighborhood cult, or just for the view?”
I laughed, heart thumping. “Honestly? I just wanted to see if you were as cool as the rumors say.”
“And?” she asked.
I leaned in, our faces inches apart. “You’re cooler.”
She grinned, then reached up to tuck a stray braid behind her ear. “You want to stay for dinner? We have a ridiculous amount of takeout, and Eli made pie.”
“Only if you let me help with the art wall,” I said.
“Deal.” She held out her hand, and I took it, her grip strong and warm.
The rest of the evening went in a blur of stories, drinks, and inside jokes. At some point, Eli and Tom vanished to the rooftop to argue about solar panels, and I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor with Zara, comparing notes on every gallery within a hundred-mile radius.
When the sky had gone full indigo, Tom poked his head down the stairs. “We should get moving before the bats come out.”
I stood, legs a little wobbly, and turned to Zara. “Can we return the favor and have you over next weekend?”
She smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that sent a flutter straight to my core. “We’d love that.”
Eli called down, “As long as there’s pie.”
Tom grinned. “Pie’s a guarantee.”
We made our goodbyes, with a hug from Zara that lasted just a beat longer than strictly necessary, her body pressed close, her breath warm against my cheek. On the walk home, Tom waited until we were out of sight to say, “You want her, don’t you?”
I laughed, giddy and light. “She’s incredible. But also? Eli was checking out my ass the whole time.”
Tom pulled me into his side, a hand squeezing my hip. “That’s a win-win, then.”
We walked the rest of the way in happy, humming silence, both of us already plotting next Saturday’s menu—and the afterparty.
We made it home before the first bats, but only barely. Our path traced the lake’s edge, moonlight spangling the water, the hush of cattails and frogs filling in where our words left off. But it didn’t stay quiet for long. Tom was practically buzzing, vibrating with every footstep.
“Did you see how she handled that painting?” he said, voice low, like he didn’t trust the night not to eavesdrop.
I smirked, squeezing his hand. “Did you see how she handled me?”
He laughed, the sound soft as a confession. “You want her.”
“Of course I do. Don’t you?”
He thought for a second. “I think I want all of them, but you most of all.”
I stopped him under the streetlight, tugged him closer until our hips brushed. “You realize Zara was watching your ass, too.”
“Flattered,” Tom said. “A little turned on, but mostly flattered.” He looked at me, eyes shining with the same barely-leashed heat that got us into the lifestyle in the first place. “Did it turn you on?”
I tilted my chin up, just enough to let him see the truth. “So much. She’s like a Bond girl, but real. He’s… well, I want to see if he’s really that confident out of the home gym.”
We laughed together, a little wicked, a little wild. It felt like our first spring in Carolina Shores all over again, when every day ended with us sprawled on the deck, fucking under the stars and congratulating ourselves for getting out of Chicago alive.
We climbed the steps to our porch, and Tom started to unlock the door, but I stopped him.
“Wait.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the photos from earlier.
Among the snapshots was a quick shot I’d taken of Zara and Eli from the side: not posed, just the two of them in profile, Zara’s braid falling over her shoulder, Eli’s laugh visible in the set of his jaw.
You could see the edge of the art wall and the wild riot of color behind them.
I texted it to Vanessa, Christy, and Tessa, with the caption: “Met the new neighbors. Dinner party next Saturday to welcome them properly?”
Tom looked over my shoulder and said, “No way Vanessa lets that go without a comment.”
Sure enough, her response landed before I’d even put down the phone: “Exquisite additions. We’ll bring dessert.”