Page 3 of Between Now and Forever
“You’ll be happy to know that my to-do list includes three things: keeping my children alive, keeping them out of the juvenile hall, and having more fun. In that order.”
Cricket leads us to the foyer. “Please compare definitions ofgood timebefore leaving home with Della. I watched two men do the walk of shame out of her house a month ago.” She turns her attention to her friend.“At the same time.”
Della’s smile is wicked. “If you think that’s shameful, you should’ve seen what happened a few hours before.”
I sigh, opening the door for them. “I’m in the middle of the longest dry spell known to man, so no judgment here. Get it.”
“Dry spell?” Della asks. “I can fix. I’ll get your number from Cricket and then call you this week. We’ll make plans.”
A shiny black sports car honks as it rolls down the street. Cricket’s husband, Peter, waves from the driver’s seat.
“Of course he’s home early tonight,” Cricket mutters. “I haven’t started dinner yet.”
“You better get going,” I say. “I want to bathe before the boys return from the rec center.”
Cricket starts down the steps with Della at her side. “I mean it, Gabby. No new projects until we talk.”
“Settle down,” I say, leaning on a porch column. “I’m just trimming some hedges, painting the front door, and maybe reinforcing the rail around the back of the house before it’s fully rotted.”
“That sounds fine and good, but I know you,” Cricket says over her shoulder. “You’ll be on a ladder trying to reroof the place in a week, and I’ll have to visit you in the hospital to remind you of this conversation.”
“Make sure you bring oatmeal scotchies. They’ll help me heal.”
Cricket shakes her head and picks up her pace toward her house. Della gives me a final wave before jogging across the street.
I return inside and listen to absolute quiet. No car alarms blare, and no sirens wail in the distance. The neighbors aren’t shouting at each other from the backyard. It’s silent.
And it’s amazing.
I take the steps two at a time, peeling my shirt over my head as I go. The promise of a hot bath, a quiet house, and knowing the boys are with Kyle and not being heathens running in the streets is nearly more than I can take. I strip off my clothes—wishing I’d poured a glass of wine—and fill the tub.
It’s been a long time since I could take a bath before midnight. In Boston, I was racing home from work to make dinner, chasing after the kids, and then dealing with whatever fallout the day delivered. By the time I cleaned up our meal, fought with Dylan over his homework, and argued with Carter over video games, the day was expiring.
A bath in the early evening is nothing short of a luxury.
“Oh, what the hell,” I say, sprinkling the eucalyptus bath salts I reserve for special occasions into the water. Then I turn to grab my phone before climbing in, only to find it missing.“Crap.”
Sighing, I wrap myself in a towel, turn off the tap, and hurry back down to the kitchen. I immediately spot my phone next to the toaster. I reach for it, but ...“Holy shit,”I whisper, leaning closer to the window to get a better look.“Who the heck is this?”
My mouth is agape.
A man stands in front of a large pickup truck at the house next door. He turns away, giving me a clear shot of him from behind.
Broad shoulders, filling out a red-and-black flannel. Denim covers his long legs and highlights his muscled build. He moves with a confidence that issoattractive.
I pull the side of the curtain out of the way and lean even closer for a better view.
He turns toward me, giving me an amazing line of sight to his abs through the front of his unbuttoned shirt.
Pronounced brow. Deep-set eyes. Full lips. A headful of dark hair that’s a touch too long. Stubble covers his jawline, as if he forgot to shave for a day or two. It isdelicious.
I can’t look away. I should—I know I should. The smart, neighborly thing would be to grab my phone and return to my bathtub, giving him privacy. But I’m only human, and he’s downright gorgeous.
It’s as if something’s connecting us, refusing to let go.
“And to think that I bought this house without anyone mentioning the view as a selling point,” I mumble, craning my neck as he moves toward the back of his truck. No matter how hard I lean against the sink, how sharply the counter bites into my stomach, I can’t see him.
My heartbeat strums steadily as shots of adrenaline hit my bloodstream.What do I do now?
