by K. A. Tucker
He watches me intently as I lean forward to close the distance, his eyes darting downward. I realize that, yet again, I’m flashing him, thanks to the loose T-shirt I changed into. My hand flies up to press the material to my chest. At least I’m wearing a bra this time.
He refocuses on his task, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “I have to say, I was surprised to hear you were moving back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You just always seemed so intent on getting away. You know, because of your mom.”
Most people in town have heard at least one story about Dottie Reed. The infamous Christmas pageant tale is the most prevalent—it resulted in Mayor Peter Rhodes’s expulsion from office and a lot of judgment for Melissa Rhodes, who chose to stay married to him despite his infidelity. That’s the story Mom’s best known for.
But to Shane, back in the day, I divulged my darkest tales about being her daughter. Things I didn’t disclose to anyone else, mainly about how embarrassed and ashamed I was of her behavior. He knew why I always stayed his hand before it could venture past the buckle of my jeans. He said he understood. He said he didn’t see me as a replica of her, but that he respected my wishes.
“What she does is her business. It has nothing to do with me or who I am as a person.”
“Glad you see it that way.” He offers me a gentle smile. “Do you still talk to anyone from high school?”
“Not really. Jeremy Beagly occasionally. Mainly on Facebook.” Jeremy and his parents lived in the apartment below us. We’d walk to school together sometimes.
“Emo Man? Has he learned to smile yet?”
I roll my eyes at the stupid nickname that stuck. “He’s going to film school in LA now, doing really well.” He stopped dying his hair black and traded in his tight jeans for board shorts. And yes, he does know how to smile, based on the pictures he’s posted. It probably has a lot to do with being away from the assholes who mocked him in high school.
“What about Becca?”
“Thompson?” I let out a derisive snort. “No.” We may have become close that summer that Shane and I were together, but that friendship ended when Shane and I did. The last time I had any interaction with her was the day I muddled through the mortifying topic of premarital sex during our senior debate class—I had to argue “pro,” against her. Afterward, I walked in on her and Penelope laughing hysterically in the girls’ restroom and got the distinct neck-hair-spiking impression that I was the center of the joke.
The scandal between Penelope’s father and my mother sparked a feud between Penelope and me that lasted until I left town. It was Penelope who initiated it. I was content to lay all blame at my mother’s stilettos. But I guess she needed to exact revenge on her family’s humiliation the only way she knew how.
She was at the root of dozens of ugly rumors floating around about me through high school—everything from my lack of hygiene to weird sexual fetishes. I know she heard about my little summer fling with Shane, because she made a point of practically mounting him in the hallway any time I happened to walk by. To my face, however, she pretended I didn’t exist, and I was more than fine with that.
But that day in the bathroom, with Becca by her side, Penelope made a point of turning to me with a sweet, vindictive smile. I just thought you should know, she started, and then went on to detail how embarrassed Shane was about slumming it with me for, like, a second, and how relieved he was that he hadn’t been stupid enough to sleep with the Polson Falls High whore—I was still a virgin, mind you—but that he’d gotten himself tested twice anyway just to be sure he hadn’t caught something from touching me.
I gritted my teeth and ducked into the stall to hide my tears as Becca stood by and Penelope cackled, wondering if any part of what she said about Shane’s regrets were true.
“I thought you and Becca might have ended up being friends. Don’t your moms work together?” Shane asks.
“Yeah, they do. But I’m pretty sure the Red Devil wouldn’t have approved of that.”
“The Red Devil?” Shane pauses in his work to flash an amused look my way.
“Don’t tell me I have to elaborate for you?”
“Nah. Just never heard that one before.” He chews his bottom lip in thought.
Is he offended? Does he think I’m being petty?
Do I care?
Nope. She was an awful person in every way.
“What about you?” I ask, because despite telling myself I don’t care, my curiosity has been sparked. “Still friends with Dean Fanshaw and Dipshit?”
Shane smirks. “Yeah, we keep in touch. Fanshaw’s still in town. Steve’s living in Philly now. He got married in June. I was a groomsman.”
“There’s a Mrs. Dipshit now?” What must she be like?
He chuckles. “There is.”
“Poor, foolish woman,” I say with mock concern. What kind of person would marry that moron?
“Can’t argue with you there, though he’s not so bad anymore. He’s working for an insurance company. I think they’re trying for a baby.”
I hope he’s changed, because the asshole I knew in high school shouldn’t be allowed to procreate. I hesitate. “What about Penelope? Still talk with her?” After the welcome back from Italy make-out session I witnessed that stabbed me through the chest, she and Shane ended up together for the entire senior year, earning prom king and queen crowns before riding off into the college scholarship sunset together.
But it’s been twelve years since high school ended and I don’t see a ring on his finger. I sure as hell didn’t see a redhead in his bed. So, when did the fairy tale end?
“She’s in Dover. We’re … civil. So, your boyfriend lives in Boston?”
I frown. “Who?”
“The guy who helped you move. Jim, was it?”
“Oh. Joe.” I study the various shades of blue that I’m considering for my bedroom. Right. That lie. “Yeah, Boston.”
“How long have you guys been together?”
“Three years?” That shouldn’t have come out sounding like a question.
Shane makes an odd sound.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just … three years together and you bought a house how many hours away from him? Is he planning on moving here?”
“We’ll see.” Can Shane tell I’m lying? I’ve always been a terrible liar. And what of his relationship status? A guy like him must be seeing a clueless sucker or three. But if I ask, it’ll sound like I’m interested in him and there’s no way in hell I’m ever going down that road again. “How’s that new pipe coming?” I had a whole day of errands I was planning on, and yet I can’t seem to peel myself away from the kitchen. Because I don’t trust Shane Beckett alone in my house, I tell myself.
His triceps strain as he uses the wrench on something, before testing something else with his fingers. His abs flex beautifully as he pulls himself up to a sitting position and then gets to his feet. “I think we’re almost good to go. I’m gonna turn the main water back on. Scream if something bad happens.”
“That inspires confidence,” I say as he disappears down the narrow set of stairs into the dark and dingy basement. This house is old—like, dirt floor and stone walls in the basement old. I’ve only been down there once and have no plans on going back ever again, the visuals of a Blair Witch-like bogeyman in the corner too vivid to ignore.
Moments later, heavy footfalls pound back up. “I didn’t hear screaming.” Shane heads for the sink.
“The day is young.”
He chuckles as he kneels. “Okay, let’s try out my handiwork.” He glances over his shoulder at me, and I try not to admire his face too much. “Ready?”
I give an exaggerated thumbs-up and hold my breath as the valve squeaks open with a twist of his wrist.
No hissing, no spraying water.
“So far, so good.” He reaches up to open the faucet. After a short sputter to force out the air bubbles, water streams out.
>
“You actually did it!” I exclaim, sounding dumbfounded.
He leans back on his haunches, grinning. “Told you. Good as new.”
I sigh with relief. Shane Beckett, of all people, saved me from spending a ton of money I don’t have.
Wiping his dirty hands on a rag, he tosses his tools into a black, rectangular toolbox. “Hopefully the rest of the pipes will hold until you can afford to have them replaced.”
“Yeah. Hopefully.” I muster as much sincerity as I can. “Thanks, Shane.” He’s still a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag who’s knowledgeable and willing to fix my house. “What do I owe you?”
“Nah. Nothing.” He waves dismissively.
“No, seriously. I need to repay you.”
“Well, then how about dinner with me? The Patty Shack’s still around.”
Are you fucking kidding me? I spear him with an “Are you on drugs?” glare. We had our first date there.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “As friends.”
“Well, yeah. Of course, it would be as friends,” I scoff. As far as he knows, I’m dating Joe. I’m not about to cheat on my fake boyfriend with him. But uneasiness gnaws at my insides. Shane may have helped me today, but we’re a far cry from reminiscing about the good ol’ days over hamburgers and milkshakes. Getting friendly is a bad idea. “Where are the receipts from the stuff you picked up at the hardware store?”
“In there, I think.” He juts his chin to the plastic bag sitting on the counter.
“I have to go out so I’ll grab cash for you and bring it by as soon as I can.”
“No rush.” He leans over to grab the handle on his toolbox, his forearm straining with the weight. “And let me know about dinner.”
That’s a hard pass. I press my lips together to flash him a tight smile that hopefully says as much.
He saunters toward me, his leg brushing against my thigh ever so lightly. I can’t decide if it was an accidental or intentional move. “You should go with this one.” He taps the periwinkle paint chip. “It matches your eyes.”
Shane always did say he loved the way my irises looked more purple than blue in certain light. He’d spend long moments studying them during lazy afternoons at Pike’s Park beneath the gnarly oak trees. I keep getting lost in them, he’d whisper, and I’d swoon like the lovesick idiot I was.
I shift my body away and keep my focus on the table, desperately trying to ignore the electric current coursing through me at his proximity. “You don’t even know which room it’s for.”
“Which room is it for?”
I hesitate. “My bedroom.” Why does divulging that to him sound like a dirty suggestion?
“Well, then it’s definitely perfect.” His voice has dropped an octave. “Anyone you bring up there won’t ever want to leave.”
My blood pounds in my ears. What the hell does that mean? Is Shane Becket flirting with me? After what he did all those years ago?
I will not look up at him.
I will keep my eyes forward.
On his belt buckle, apparently. And the sexy V-shape I know is hiding beneath his clothes, his body chiseled with muscle as if hand-carved.
“Scar …”
I sigh heavily and then force my head back to meet that beautiful whiskey-colored gaze. “What?” My disloyal heart stutters, despite the bitterness I grip tightly. Dear God, how did I ever hold fast at second base with this guy? Even now, my thighs are growing warm with a need to feel his hips between them, my palm twitches as I imagine his hard length within it. Men should not be built to look like him. It’s not natural.
That sexy, sharp jut in his throat bobs with a swallow. “I didn’t mean for things to go the way they went.”
“Which part didn’t you mean, exactly? The part where you told me you were falling in love with me? Or when you dumped me because you weren’t ready for a serious relationship, only to hook up with Penelope the next day and then completely ignore me for the rest of the year? Which part exactly, Shane?” Way to get it all out in the open, Scarlet.
He winces. “Look, I was an idiot back then. A lot has changed and I’m not the same guy. Can’t we please be friends again?”
“Is that what we were?” Because what I remember is going from virtual strangers to falling into a teenaged summer romance, the likes of which Nicholas Sparks has surely written about. Then, crushing reality followed, delivered in heart-shaped lies.
And soon enough we were back to being strangers, passing each other in the hall without a single word exchanged, his arm roped around Penelope’s tiny waist.
His gaze drifts to my mouth, lingering for a long moment, his lips parting ever so slightly before lifting to meet my eyes again. “No. We were more,” he admits.
“No, we weren’t. You played me. You were hoping for an easy lay. Sorry, you went after the wrong Reed.” I hate that my voice cracks, revealing the pain that has remained dormant for all these years.
His jaw clenches and I swallow against the tension-riddled air in my stuffy kitchen, acutely aware of the tremble coursing through my core. What did Shane think would happen when he heard I was moving back? That we’d just pick up where we left off, as if all the crap since we last talked never happened? That I wouldn’t be able to resist him, because no other female ever has?
As if I’d ever trust him again. No, I’m not tumbling into this trap. My heart still wears the jagged scars from the last time I fell for his charm.
I steel my nerve. “We’re neighbors. How about we leave it at that.”
He bites his bottom lip. “Let me know if you need help around here. And seriously, you should go with this color.” Damn, again with that low, gravelly tone.
“Hmm … I don’t know,” I feign nonchalance. Meanwhile, his voice skitters along my spine and up my inner thighs. “I’m thinking more along the lines of a harsher shade. It’s called Blue Balls. BB for short. Ever heard of that one?” I smile sweetly.
Recognition fills his face. He pauses, as if weighing the right response. In the end, he merely nods, turns, and strolls toward the door.
“And Shane?”
He pauses, his eyebrows raised in question.
Put some curtains up on your window. It’s on the tip of my tongue but I can’t bring myself to say it. That would mean confessing to spying on him. It would also cut off my view into his bedroom, and that’s not something I’m willing to give up just yet. Though, watching Shane in his bedroom is one thing. If he brings a woman home and I have to witness that, I’ll be miserable.
I clear my throat. “Thanks again, for fixing this.”
He flashes a small, crooked smile. “Any time.” He ducks to fit through the side door and then he’s gone.
And I’m left fumbling with paint chips as I try to shake off the shock from having Shane Beckett back in my life.
Periwinkle was my top color choice anyway. That I’m choosing it has nothing to do with Shane.
Nothing at all.
I groan. Dear God, how am I supposed to live next to that man?
Nine
I knock on the solid gunmetal-gray door a second time and fidget while I wait.
But there’s no need to be nervous because Shane’s truck is gone. It’s 9:00 p.m. and he’s obviously out.
I look down at the envelope of cash in my hand, repayment for the plumbing materials he bought this morning. Should I come back tomorrow, or push it through the mail slot in his front door and be done with him?
Holding onto it would give me an excuse to see him in person, though.
An excuse that I shouldn’t be looking for, I remind myself as I stand here in my favorite flirty sundress and wedge heel sandals, my long hair flat-ironed sleek, my skin buffed and moisturized, my lips shimmering with cherry-flavored lip gloss. All entirely unnecessary to deliver cash to my neighbor, except I felt a spiteful urge to look far better than I did this morning, soaked by an exploding pipe.
The truth is, Shane has been in my thoughts all day—a
t the library, the paint store, wandering down the aisles of the grocery store. I can’t shake him. His face, his body, his words, his throaty “Let me know if you need any help.”
What if thirteen years is too long to hold on to a grudge? We all did stupid, cruel things in high school. I had Jeremy dump a guy for me during my sophomore year because I didn’t have the guts to do it. I’ve said mean things and spread rumors that were likely false. I’ve gossiped. I, like every other person in the world, am not perfect. I certainly wasn’t as a teenager.
But that was high school, and we’ve all grown and changed since then, I accept, my focus drifting over the small porch, to the baseball bat and two gloves propped in the corner, the potted plant on the step, and the wooden “welcome” sign.
Was I too cold to Shane earlier, given he’s only been nice to me since the day I moved in?
Is it time to forgive and forget?
What on earth are you trying to convince yourself to do, Scarlet?
Before Shane pulls into his driveway and catches me waffling by his door, I shove the envelope through the mail slot and hurry back to the safety of my home.
It’ll all be worth it in the end.
I set the can of exterior white paint and my toolbox down on the porch and size up my first big home improvement task for the week, sleep still lingering in my body. The weather forecast says no rain for the next three days, so it seems like a good time to make my little house’s curb appeal a priority. At 7:00 a.m., it’s too early to go banging on loose boards, though, unless I want to make enemies in my new neighborhood. Thankfully, there are enough weeds sprouting in the beds to keep me busy for another hour or two, until hammering nails is reasonable.
With that in mind, I head for the old garden shed on the side of the house, noting Shane’s truck in the driveway. The deep rumble of the engine sounded a little after eleven last night. Despite the overwhelming urge to shut off my lights and catch another unintentional strip tease, I stayed in my bed, gripping my book tightly.
I yank on the metal shed door and it opens with a screech. Iris was kind enough to leave her tools for me. I find the basics—a shovel, spade, pitchfork, a few trowels, and other hand tools. They’re simple but well-kept, not a speck of rust on them. And old. So old, I’m surprised her family didn’t try to pawn them off as antiques.