by Julia London
“I mean it,” he said, pointing at her. “If I find you on my side of the fence, I’m going to call the police.” He figured that ought to put the fear of God into her.
“The policemans are our friends,” she said sunnily. “A policeman and a police woman came to my kindergarten. But they never shot any peoples.”
Dax had a brief but potent urge to correct her understanding of how plurals worked, but he didn’t. He turned around and marched back to his cottage.
He didn’t even want to look out the kitchen window when he went inside, because if she’d come back over the fence, he would lose it.
He’d known that family was going to be trouble the moment they’d arrived a few days ago. They’d cost him a table leg he’d been working on, because they’d slammed a door so loudly and unexpectedly that Dax had started, and the permanent marker he was using to outline a very intricate pattern on said table leg had gone dashing off in a thick, black, indelible line down the leg. He’d had to sand the leg down and start again.
Naturally, he’d gone to investigate the source of the banging, and he’d seen a woman with a backpack strapped to her leaning into the open hatch area of a banged-up Subaru. She’d pulled out a box, hoisted it into her arms with the help of her knee, then lugged it up the path and porch steps to Number Three. She’d been wearing short shorts, a T-shirt, and a ball cap. Dax hadn’t seen her face, but he’d seen her legs, which were nice and long and shapely, and a mess of dark hair about the same color as wrought iron, tangled up in the back of the cap. She’d managed to open the door, and then had gone in, letting the door bang behind her.
Neighbors. Dax was not a fan.
The door of Number Three had continued to bang away most of the afternoon, and Dax had been unable to work. He’d stood at the kitchen sink, eating from a can of peanuts, watching the woman jog down the front porch steps, then lug something else inside. He’d noticed other things about her. Like how her ass was bouncy and her figure had curves in all the right places, and how her T-shirt hugged her. He’d noticed that she looked really pretty from a distance, with wide eyes and dark brows and full lips.
Of course he’d also noticed the little monster, who’d spent most of the afternoon doing a clomp clomp clomp around the wooden porch in those damn pink cowboy boots.
Kids. If anything could make Dax grumpier, it was a cute kid.
He’d turned away from the window in a bit of a snit. Of course he was used to people renting any one of the six East Beach Lake Cottages around him for a week or two, and usually they had kids. He much preferred the olds who took up weekly residence from time to time, couples with puffs of white hair, sensible shoes, and early bedtimes. Families on vacation were loud, their arguments drifting in through the windows Dax liked to keep open.
The cottages were at the wrong end of Lake Haven, which made them affordable. But they were at the right end of beauty—each of them faced the lake, and a private, sandy beach was only a hundred feet or so from their front porches. He’d been lucky to find this place, with its unused shed out back, which he’d negotiated to use. He had to remind himself that his setup was perfect when new people showed up and banged their doors open and shut all damn day.
Dax had realized that afternoon, as the banging had undone him, that the woman and kid were moving in—no one hauled that much crap into a cottage for a vacation. He’d peered out the kitchen window, trying to assess exactly how much stuff was going into that cottage. But by the time he did, the Subaru was closed up, and he didn’t see any signs of the woman and the kid.
He’d wandered outside for a surreptitious inspection of what the hell was happening next door when the door suddenly banged open and the mom came hurrying outside. She’d paused on the bottom step of the porch when she saw him. Her dark hair had spilled around her shoulders and her legs had taunted him, all smooth and shapely and long in those short shorts. Don’t look, those legs shouted at him. Don’t look, you pervert, don’t look! Dax hadn’t looked. He’d studied the keys in her hand.
“Hi,” she’d said uncertainly.
“Hi.”
She kept smiling. Dax kept standing there like an imbecile. She leaned a little and looked around him, to Number Two. “Are you my neighbor?”
“What? Oh, ah . . . yeah. I’m Dax.”
“Hi, Dax. I’m Kyra,” she’d said. That smile of hers, all sparkly and bright, had made him feel funny inside. Like he’d eaten one of those powdered candies that crackled when it hit your mouth.
“I wondered about my neighbors. It’s pretty quiet around here. I saw a car in front of one of the cottages down there,” she said, pointing.
“Five,” he said.
“What?”
He’d suddenly felt weirdly conspicuous, seeing as how he was standing around with nothing to do. “That’s Five,” he said, to clarify.
“Ah.”
“You’re in Three. I’m in Two.”
He’d been instantly alarmed by what he was doing, explaining the numbering system on a series of six cottages. She’d looked as if she’d expected him to say more. When he hadn’t said anything, but sort of nodded like a mute, she’d said, “Okay, well . . . nice to meet you,” and had hurried on to her car much like a woman would hurry down a dark street with some stranger walking briskly behind her. She opened the door, leaned in . . . nice view . . . then emerged holding a book. She locked the door, then ran past him with a weird wave before disappearing inside.
Dax had told himself to get a grip. There was nothing to panic over.
He hadn’t panicked until much later that afternoon, when he’d happened to glance outside and had seen a respectable pile of empty moving boxes on the front porch and the little monster trying to build a house out of them.
That was definitely a long-term stay. And he didn’t like that, not one bit.
He’d managed to keep busy and avoid his new neighbors for a few days, but then, yesterday, the truck had shown up, treating him to the sound of a large HEMI engine idling near his bedroom window.
He’d let it pass, figuring that it was someone visiting.
But it happened again. Just now.
Dax was in the middle of a good dream when that damn truck pulled in. He groggily opened his eyes, noticed the time. It was a good hour before he liked to get up. Was this going to be a regular thing, then? He groaned and looked to his right; Otto was sitting next to the bed, staring at Dax, his tail thumping. “Use the damn dog door, Otto,” he tried, but that only excited the dog. He jumped up and put his big mutt paws on Dax.
With a grunt, Dax pushed the dog aside, then staggered into the kitchen. He heaped some dog food into a metal bowl and put it on the ground. In the time it took him to fire up the coffeepot, Otto had eaten his food and was standing at the back door, patiently waiting.
Dax opened the door. He glanced over to Three. The Subaru was gone, and he couldn’t help wonder who was driving that massive red truck. A husband? A dad? Jesus, he hoped the guy wasn’t the chatty type. Hey neighbor, whatcha working on over there?
Yeah, Dax was in no mood for more neighbors or barbecue invitations or neighborly favors. But it was becoming clear to him that little Miss Ruby Coconuts was going to make his policy of isolationism really difficult.
Dax got dressed and went out to the shed to work. A few hours later he walked into the kitchen to grab some rags he’d washed in the sink and happened to look out his kitchen window.
The redheaded devil was hanging upside down off the porch railing of her house, her arms reaching for the ground. She was about three inches short, however, and for a minute Dax was certain she would crash headlong into that flower bed and hurt herself. But she didn’t. She managed to haul herself up and hopped off the railing. And then she looked across the neat little lawn to Dax’s cottage.
“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered.
Ruby hesitated. She slid her foot off the porch and onto the next step down. Then the other foot. She leapt to the grou
nd from there, looking down, admiring the lights in her shoes. Then she looked up at his cottage again.
“Don’t do it, you little monster. Don’t you dare do it.”
Ruby was off like a shot, headed for the fence.
Chapter Two
Kyra went in silently, like a shark, quietly circling around the two women bent over their wineglasses, sliding in to collect the check so she could get the hell out of here. The women had been at the Lakeside Bistro since two o’clock, giggling and whispering across the table, ordering glass after glass of wine, showing no signs of going anywhere, which meant Kyra had to wait it out until the night shift showed up.
This was not how her day was supposed to go. But when did it ever go as she’d planned? Had anything gone as planned since Brandi met Kyra at Planned Parenthood and Kyra had realized she couldn’t end her pregnancy? As much as she hadn’t wanted to be pregnant, as much as she’d hated that unexpected and catastrophic complication in her life, she just couldn’t go through with it. She’d had a breakdown in the lobby instead, and Brandi had gently steered her in through another door—the intended pregnancy door—where they verified Kyra was indeed pregnant, loaded her up with prenatal vitamins, and advised her to visit her OB-GYN.
Everything since had been a struggle. But Kyra wouldn’t change anything.
She’d managed to keep her job at US Fitness until Ruby was born, but Brandi had warned her, “You know you can’t work here anymore, not with a baby. It’s too demanding.”
Kyra had already figured that out. So she’d taken her paid maternity leave, and when that had run out, she’d handed in her resignation and had begun to look for a job. Unfortunately, jobs were hard to come by when you had a baby on your hip. Kyra was forced to take low-wage jobs where she could get them, then spend all her spare time looking for something better that would pay her enough to live and give her flexible hours so that she could manage with a toddler, then a preschooler, and now a first grader.
After a series of part-time jobs, she’d felt lucky to land a position at a day care, because she could bring Ruby to work with her. But the day care didn’t pay the rent, and Kyra had struggled to keep the roof over their heads. When the opportunity for something better had come up in East Beach, she’d jumped at it.
And still nothing was going as planned. Today, it was already almost five o’clock. Her babysitter had said, unequivocally, that she would not stay past six. Kyra would be extremely lucky to get home by then, and then she’d have to try to read boring real estate law while a six-year-old talked and danced and sang around her. Kyra loved her daughter so much, of course she did . . . but that child made it impossible to concentrate on reading her coursework.
She hurried back to the wait station with the credit card and ran it.
Dinner. What was she going to feed her kid? This morning she’d had the idea of spaghetti, and really, when was she going to learn to cook a few things so she’d have them for days like this? She vowed then and there that on her next day off, she was going to do exactly that. But not tomorrow, which happened to be her next day off—she had too many other things to do. But the next day off for sure.
At this rate, by the time she got home, made dinner, then gave Ruby a bath and read to her, she’d be lucky if she could study even a page before falling asleep.
With the ladies dispatched, Kyra popped into the kitchen, where the staff was preparing for the evening rush. Megan, the lunchtime sous chef, was still on the clock. Kyra had been hoping for Rob, the nighttime sous chef. Rob never cared what Kyra took from the kitchen. But Megan? She could be a little judgmental. “Hey,” Kyra said brightly and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Hi, Kyra,” Megan said as she searched a file of papers for something. “You’re still here?”
“Late table. Ah . . . I kind of need a favor.”
Megan’s head instantly came up. She eyed Kyra warily, like she expected Kyra to ask for money.
“Was there any pasta left over from lunch today?” Kyra asked. “This table is so late, and I don’t have time to get anything for my daughter before her babysitter leaves, and my kitchen is a little bare.” She made herself laugh, as if that was supposed to be funny. As if she were that girl about town who just never had time to get to the grocery store. “You know how it is.”
Megan’s green-eyed gaze narrowed slightly, because Megan didn’t know how it was. Megan was the poster child for organization and perfect mothering. “This is the second time this week,” she pointed out. Megan had two girls, and she’d lectured Kyra about children’s nutritional needs earlier this week when, in a similar mothering fail, Kyra had asked for pasta. “Kids love pasta,” Megan had said in a tone one might use to deliver basic information to an imbecile. “But you have to make sure your kids are getting fruits and vegetables.”
“You’re right, it’s the second time. It’s been a crazy week.” Kyra smiled, hoping she would not have to endure another lecture about nutrition.
“We’re not supposed to give food to employees,” Megan added.
“I know,” Kyra said, nodding. “But come on, Megan—you’re going to throw it out, anyway, and it would be a huge help to me tonight.”
Megan sighed.
Why was it that some moms seemed to believe that if you were a single parent, you had no concept of how to do it right? Kyra knew what her child needed—she just couldn’t always deliver. If anyone was keeping score, she was guilty of bad mothering on a fairly routine basis—but it wasn’t from a lack of trying.
The truth was that Kyra was slightly envious that Megan apparently had time to grind up vegetables and make sure her kids’ meals were balanced. She could imagine Megan’s kids had their baths by six, their teeth brushed, their hair combed, and were dressed in matching flannel pajamas before seven. They probably had a grandma to fill in on those rare occasions Megan had to work a night shift, and a hands-on father to read charming stories to them.
Ruby didn’t have a grandma to fill in. She didn’t have a father. She did have a grandpa in Florida who could never hear her on the phone and kept shouting “What?” when Ruby tried to tell him something. Frankly, the only thing Kyra’s daughter had was a mother who was constantly running behind the eight ball, and today she needed that pasta.
“I wish you would find a better alternative than pasta and some store-bought sauce that is full of empty calories,” Megan said. But she was pulling a large container off of a gleaming chrome service table as she spoke, so Kyra kept her mouth shut. “I mean, pasta as a treat once a week or so is okay, but . . .” She shrugged. “At least it’s not mac and cheese out of a box.”
Please. If it wasn’t for mac and cheese out of a box, Ruby would be dead by now.
Megan spooned a serving into a to-go container and handed it to Kyra with a smile of superiority, as if she pitied her poor, irresponsible coworker. “Child nutrition is a personal passion of mine.”
Whatever. “Great cause,” Kyra said, nodding. “Thanks, Megan.”
“Hey, maybe we can get the girls together sometime,” Megan said brightly. “You could come over for dinner. Chet and I would really like that.”
Kyra could well imagine a night at Chet and Megan Bonner’s house—a lot of talk about how Megan’s kids went to dance class or art class while Ruby did something inappropriate, like eat with her fingers. “Sure, maybe,” she said, already backing up to the door. “Thanks again—you’re a lifesaver.” She whirled around and went through the swinging doors before she got any more mom advice and was forced to punch someone in the throat.
At five to six, Kyra drove her sport utility vehicle onto the rutted drive of her cottage. Fern Miller had been very clear about her expectations in babysitting Ruby, and Kyra couldn’t afford to screw it up. She grabbed her purse, her bulky book bag with her workbooks for the real estate license she was working toward, the basket of laundry she’d done at eight o’clock this morning at the Spin and Swim Washeteria near the pier, and her favorite sandal
s, which she tucked up under one arm. The laundry basket was piled too high for her to balance the bag of pasta on it, and she thought perhaps she ought to make two trips . . . but Kyra didn’t want to make two trips. Her feet were killing her, she was tired, she was hungry—so she slipped the handles of the bag between her teeth, wincing at the thought of how many germs were probably on that bag.
She backed out of the seat, hoisted everything into her arms, and turned toward the door of her cottage. She glanced back over her shoulder so she could shut the car door with a bump of her butt.
“Excuse me.”
A man’s voice startled Kyra so badly that she jerked around and dropped the bag of pasta. She tried to catch it, but it bounced off the laundry and landed on the drive, upside down. So did her book bag, which she ended up dropping when she tried to catch the pasta. Her books landed on top of the to-go bag with a thunk.
Before she could do anything but stare in horror over her laundry basket, a dog suddenly appeared, depositing his slimy, overchewed tennis ball next to her feet so he could eagerly nose under her books for the pasta.
“Hey!” Kyra cried at the same moment the man said, “Otto!” and grabbed the dog’s collar, jerking him backward and away from the bag.
Kyra lifted her gaze to the man. It was her neighbor, Dax, otherwise known as the guy she’d decided might possibly be an ax murderer.
He picked up the bag, glanced inside, and handed it to Kyra. “Looks like the lid came off. Sorry,” he said gruffly. “Ah . . . what do you want me to do with it?”
“Here,” she said impatiently, waving the only two fingers she could spare at him from the side of her laundry basket.
He looked as if he disagreed with her solution but slid the plastic onto her two fingers, then bent down to pick up her book bag as well as the two workbooks and notebook that had spilled out. He balanced the book bag on top of her laundry, then tried to tuck the books in around it, but her basket was stuffed. “Just . . . just put them on the hood of my car,” she suggested irritably.
