The Player Next Door: A Novel

by K. A. Tucker

  I sigh, knowing “a minute” will be more like ten.

  I study the small hair salon while I wait. Elite Cuts hasn’t changed at all since Mom started working here eighteen years ago. The same boring beige paint coats the walls, the same palm-tree-shaped coatrack sits in the corner, the same hair-model portraits line the walls—of hairstyles from the eighties.

  Even the community bulletin board still hangs on the wall, cluttered with flyers and handwritten ads for babysitters and special events.

  Annual Own a Hunky Hero for a Night.

  “You’re kidding me. They still do this?” I cringe at the fluorescent-orange page as I scan the details about the auction in December. It’s for a children’s charity, to buy them presents for Christmas. Women can bid for a night out with one of the county’s emergency workers.

  I remember seeing the flyers around town when I was younger and thinking how cheesy and inappropriate it was, even back then. Plus, it’s so not PC. It specifically says a woman can bid on a man. What if a man wants to bid on a man? Is that against the rules? Has anyone ever tried it? And what if there’s a female firefighter or police officer or paramedic?

  Though, knowing how behind the times Polson Falls is, there likely aren’t any.

  In a smaller headline, there’s also mention that next year’s firefighter calendars will be available for purchase. I cringe. A Polson Hills firefighter calendar? Are you kidding me?

  I hear my name being called, but my mind is too busy picturing the round-bellied men I saw lingering around the front of the station when I drove by yesterday on my way to get groceries. I mean, I get it’s for charity, but still.

  “So, what do you think? I’ll let her know?” Ann Margaret asks.

  “Huh? I’m sorry, what were you—”

  “Okay, are we finally ready?” Mom strolls out, her face freshly powdered and glossed, her boobs extra perky from being plumped and adjusted. She says it like she’s been waiting on me all this time.

  Her smoky eyes dart to the Hunky Hero flyer I was gaping at and a gleeful laugh escapes her. “We should go together! That’d be a fun mother-daughter night, don’t you think? And you can bid on a man.”

  My face twists with disgust. “Ew. No.”

  “What?” She frowns, as if confused by my reaction. “It’s the best night of the year around town.”

  “You’ve gone to this?”

  “I haven’t just gone. I’ve won.” She winks conspiratorially. “Fire Chief Cassidy last year.”

  I have no idea who Fire Chief Cassidy is, but I’m surprised to hear Mom gave money to charity. Then again, if the reward involves an even semi-attractive man, I guess she’d be all about doing a good deed.

  For the children, of course.

  “And what does owning a hunky hero entail exactly?” I air-quote those words. “Bragging rights? Or do you actually go out to, like, dinner and a movie?”

  “I’m sure that’s all the dowdy women around town get out of it.” She studies her nail lacquer, a devious smile touching her lips. “But what a night that was.”

  I bite my tongue. Seriously, is there no man my mother won’t screw? And she basically paid for this one.

  “So? Are we going to dinner or what?” Her heels click against the tile as she marches for the door. “I could really use a drink.”

  Seven

  Who the hell cuts grass at eight in the morning? Isn’t there a law against that?

  I struggle to tamp down my annoyance at the grating sound of the lawn mower in a neighboring yard as it carries through my open windows, knowing that my foul mood is thanks to an emotionally draining evening, followed by a restless night.

  Dinner with my mother was exhausting, as usual—listening to her gossip and judge until her speech slurred, about who’s going through a divorce and which woman needs to take better care of herself before she drives her man way. Looks and money, that’s all that seems to matter to Dottie Reed. There isn’t much in the way of substance to her personality, a grim reality I clued into long ago. There also isn’t any point in calling her out for it. It’ll just put her in a snit, and I have no interest in fighting again.

  Thankfully, she has never required my attention on the regular and I suspect that won’t change, even with me being back in town. I’ve bought myself at least a month before I have to make a phone call, two months for another stab-me-in-the-eye dinner.

  I couldn’t get home fast enough last night, but when I finally did, it was to a sweltering house. I woke up in a pool of sweat at 6:00 a.m., thanks to this never-ending heat wave and lack of air conditioning, a fact I was aware of but didn’t seem to grasp until now.

  Iris Rutshack ran a portable air conditioner from her ground floor bedroom window, one that she took with her. If these temperatures don’t let up soon, I’ll be forking over cash for a unit. Another thing to add to the long list of must-haves.

  I suck back a mouthful of coffee as I assess my charming but dated kitchen—the butter-yellow cupboards adorned by hinges that sit on the outside, the green, yellow, and white mosaic tile backsplash that gives the space a festive look. I’ve scrubbed everything down, and yet the thirty-year-old, avocado-green appliances still look grimy. Especially the stove, which Iris warned in a note sometimes “acts up.” I’m not sure exactly what that means yet, but it needs to go, as soon as my paychecks start rolling in.

  But for now, it’s all about cleaning up the front yard and painting the main floor walls before I have to switch my focus to getting my classroom ready for my sixth graders.

  I smile into my giant coffee mug.

  My walls. My class. I’m not sure what makes me more excited.

  And I have little time to waste.

  Grabbing my bucket of cleaning supplies, I shove it under the sink, out of the way, and then crank the sink tap, intent on washing the pile of dirty dishes. A strange metal clank and pop sounds, followed by a distinct hiss. A moment later, cool water touches my bare feet, pooling on the worn beige linoleum floor.

  Panicked, I crouch and open the cupboard doors.

  And get hit in the face with a burst of cold water.

  I let out a shriek as I’m doused. Turning my face to avoid the brunt of the blast, I fumble blindly beneath the old cabinet, frantic to find the shut off valve before my entire kitchen floods. Ten seconds later, I finally locate it.

  “Shit!” I curse, spotting the culprit—a rusty, rotted pipe. It must have snapped when I shoved in the bucket. Now I don’t have a functioning kitchen sink. I can’t live without a kitchen sink.

  I’ll have to phone a plumber today, I accept with bitter resignation.

  Grabbing my new set of tea towels—a housewarming gift from Justine—I sop up as much water as I can and then, loading my arms with the soaked, dripping rags, I carry them out back. I throw them at the ground by the clothesline, my frustration swelling.

  This is not how I was supposed to start today.

  “Is everything all right?” a deep male voice calls out, startling me.

  Shane is perched on a picnic table in his backyard, his long, jean-clad legs splayed in front of him, intently focused on something round and metal in his hand. Several other pieces sit on the table beside him, set on oily rags.

  Great. Just who I don’t want to deal with right now, even if my heart is suddenly hammering in my chest. A visual of Shane, completely naked, sears my memory, and my face flushes. This is exactly why I should not have spied.

  I struggle for composure, and when I can’t manage that, I shift my focus back to the dish towels, strangling out the sink water before stretching them on the clothesline.

  Twenty seconds later, footfalls approach on the soft grass. “Scar? Is everything okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” I answer in a forced bored tone.

  “Well … because I heard you scream, and you look like you took a shower in your clothes.” There’s humor in his voice.

  “A pipe under my sink broke,” I finally admit. Crap.
My gaze drops to the white tank top that I slept in, noting how the cotton clings in a very sleazy wet-T-shirt-contest way, highlighting the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. My cheeks flame with embarrassment as I struggle to hide my assets from his view, all while continuing with my task. He touched my breasts that summer, countless times. Slid his hand up my shirt and pushed aside the lace, teasing my flesh with the deft skill of a boy who had done it many times before. I let his mouth on them a few times before I stopped him, afraid it’d go too far if I didn’t. Does he remember?

  “Can I take a look?”

  “What?” I croak.

  “At your kitchen pipe,” he says slowly, frowning. “Can I look at what happened?”

  Oh. Right. “Are you a plumber?”

  “No, but—”

  “Do you know anything about plumbing?”

  He smirks. “More than you do, I’m guessing.”

  I grit my teeth and count to ten in my head, checking my temper. The bitch tone I use when I’m shutting down flirtatious guys at bars is emerging. While Shane deserves whatever attitude he gets from me, I don’t want to be the scorned woman flashing her bitterness thirteen years after a high school summer fling. That’s pathetic. “I think I should have an actual plumber fix this.”

  He pauses. “Okay. I can give you the name of a good one in town.”

  “That … would be helpful.” Shane always was a nice guy. Until he wasn’t.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch him folding those cut arms over his chest. “It’ll cost you a hundred bucks just to get him through your door and then another few hundred—at least—to replace what I’m guessing are corroded pipes. Plus parts. So, I’m thinking it’ll end up being anywhere from five hundred to a thousand, by the time he walks out your door.”

  “You can’t be serious.” I groan in dismay, forgetting about wet rags and revealing shirts for the moment as my palms push through my damp hair. I can’t afford that right now. I also can’t afford to go without a kitchen sink until my first paycheck.

  “For an actual plumber, yeah, I am.” Shane shrugs. “Or you could ask your neighbor who’s done a bunch of reno jobs to see if he can fix it. No charge.”

  Scorned heart or not, I’d be an idiot to deny letting Shane try.

  “Fine,” I mutter begrudgingly, stealing a glance at his handsome face. He hasn’t shaved yet today and his chiseled jaw is coated in a sexy stubble. His hair is also in disarray, like he just rolled out of bed, threw on some clothes, and came outside. It’s annoyingly adorable, and I feel the urge to comb my fingers through it.

  His golden gaze drifts over my features. There’s a long, uncomfortable pause and then he says, “I’ve got time now.”

  “Right.” I clear my throat, struggling to push aside thoughts of Shane Beckett rolling out of bed. Naked. Because I have a vivid idea of what that might look like. I orgasmed to that mental image the other night before I could fall asleep.

  His dimples appear with a curious smile, as if he can read my mind. “Lead the way, I guess?”

  I toss the last of the towels to the grass to deal with later and let him trail me through the side door off the kitchen, sensing his eyes on my back the entire way. I wish I’d had the foresight to change out of my pajamas before I went traipsing around my backyard.

  Then again, my ass does look incredible in these cotton shorts.

  Justine’s suggestion to play cat and mouse with him rings in my ear, but even the idea of it has my stomach jumping with nerves. Where do you begin with a guy like Shane? I’d likely embarrass myself. At least I wouldn’t make the mistake of falling in love with him. Once was enough.

  But what would it be like, after all these years? To feel those lips and hands on me again, to show him all that I’ve learned, that I’m not the same girl I used to be …

  Fuck him and then pretend he doesn’t matter.

  Except he’s my freaking neighbor. I’d have to deal with running into him every time I step out of my house. And, with my luck, that would end up being every goddamn morning for the rest of my life, until one of us moves. Or dies.

  I reach for the door handle but somehow Shane comes from behind to grab it before I have a chance, pulling the door open for me. Yup, and he was always a gentleman too. Another part of his deceptive charm. Another reason I was utterly in shock by the way he broke me.

  I step into my kitchen. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I have today off.” A pause. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I start when the school year starts.” I hesitate, not sure how much I want Shane to know about me. “I’m going to be teaching at Polson Falls Elementary. Sixth grade.” It’s one of the few in the area that go from kindergarten to eighth grade.

  “Sixth grade.” His brow furrows. “That should be interesting.”

  “Yeah. Hopefully they won’t be too hormonal yet.”

  He nods slowly. “You really did everything you set out to do, didn’t you?”

  Except get over you, apparently. I bite my tongue before that slips out. I point to the sink. “I shut off the valve.”

  Shane edges around me in my cramped kitchen, his chest brushing against my shoulder on his way past—stealing a breath—and crouches in front of the open cupboard. “You got a flashlight?” he asks, squinting.

  “Yeah, I think so. Hold on.” I weave around the last of the boxes to get to the living room and rifle through my toolbox—a practical and sweet housewarming gift from Joe.

  “Did you do a home inspection first?” Shane calls out. A metal clank sounds.

  “No.” What was an inspector going to tell me that I didn’t already know? Besides the fact that a kitchen pipe would explode within forty-eight hours of me living here. The truth is, I’m pretty sure I would have bought the house no matter what an inspection report revealed. The toilets flush, the fridge keeps things cold, and both the furnace and roof were replaced within the last five years. I figured any other problems, I could deal with as they came up.

  “It was between me and a couple, and they wanted the inspection as a condition. I didn’t. That’s why I won.” Plus, I made sure the agent relayed my personal history with this little house. I wasn’t just anyone, looking to buy a cheap property near the school that I could then demolish to build a bigger, newer house. I wanted to preserve this place.

  “I’m not sure ‘won’ is the right word,” Shane mutters under his breath.

  Flashlight retrieved, I head back into the kitchen to find him flicking the cupboard handle, now dangling loosely. “That wasn’t broken a minute ago,” I say with an accusing tone.

  “It just needs a new screw.” He peers over his shoulder at me and his gaze drops to my chest again—I really need to go change—before drifting farther down, taking in the full length of my bare legs. The look sends a small, unwanted thrill through my body.

  “Here.” I thrust the flashlight into his hand and then make a point of stepping away and folding my arms over my chest. Shane Beckett, freshly out of bed, on his knees ogling me is a sight I don’t want to enjoy.

  Resting a sculpted forearm on the counter above him, he leans forward, shining a beam of light into the dark, cramped space as he inspects the maze of pipes. “Damn, this is all original,” he muses. “It all needs to be replaced.”

  “Big surprise.” I figured that already.

  With another moment of study, he sighs and shuts off the flashlight, then climbs to his feet. “All right, I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The hardware store. I’ll grab what I need to fix this up for you.”

  “You know how to do that?” I ask skeptically.

  He smirks. “I’ve done it a few times, yeah. And if I run into problems, I’ve got friends I can call.” He turns to face me, reminding me that he has a good eight inches on me. He always had to stoop when we kissed. Or I’d rise on tiptoes and press myself against his broad chest for support as I reached for his l
ips.

  I swallow hard, the memories of how much I loved his full, soft mouth against mine—of how hot I was for him, of how hard it became to keep our relationship PG-13—flooding back to me with surprising clarity. It seems a betrayal to my seventeen-year-old wounded self to accept his help now. But what other choice do I have?

  “Okay,” I finally say, though with no small amount of reluctance.

  “See ya in an hour.” His soft chuckle trails him out the door.

  Eight

  Of all the things I imagined would happen when I moved into my new house, having Shane Beckett sprawled out on my floor was not one of them. But here he is, his broad, muscular body taking up half my kitchen, his head resting in my musty old kitchen cupboard as he bangs and clamps and solders away.

  My seat at my two-person table affords me the ideal vantage point over the spectacle and, try as I might to focus on the paint chips laid out in front of me, I can’t keep my attention from veering over to where his black T-shirt has ridden up, exposing the thick pad of muscle across his abdomen and the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath his belt. And, hell, as if that doesn’t force my gaze farther to the sizable bulge inside his jeans, pressing against his zipper. There’s nothing sexy about my sink or my corroded pipes. Shane can’t possibly be hard while doing this, and if that’s not an erection, then … Damn.

  I may have gotten the full-frontal, R-rated version of his body last night, but it was at a safe distance. This is not a safe distance. I could almost straddle him from here, my kitchen is so small. What would he do if I climbed on top of him right now?

  “Hand me that wrench?” Shane’s deep voice suddenly cuts into my depraved admiration.

  I duck my head but it’s too late, he’s caught me ogling his crotch.

  I clear my throat as my cheeks burn. “This thing?” I hold up a shiny, long tool.

  He reaches out his free hand, smirking. “Yeah, that thing.”