Page 5

Probably longer.

Content that she’s taking a minute for herself, I turn toward the sink and start rinsing the dishes, not wanting to give my mother any reason to rush.

Through the window over the sink, I watch Gary race around the backyard like he’s been released from prison. His ears flap as he runs, his paws kicking up clumps of frost-stiffened grass. Every few seconds, he stops to sniff something, then takes off again.

I can’t blame him. It’s been days since he’s had room to stretch his legs. Back in Houston, Wyatt hated when Gary ran around the yard like this. Hated the possibility that he might carve a worn path through his perfect lawn or destroy the flower beds.

But here, Gary can run free. He can be happy.

As I watch him explore his new surroundings, my eyes drift to the house next door, and I suck in a breath when the runner I’d ogled earlier steps onto his back porch.

He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a gray Henley shirt that hugs his shoulders. Even from here, there’s no hiding the shape of him beneath the soft cotton.

For one second, I imagine what it might be like to rake my fingers over all that hard muscle, but I shove aside the thought. Remind myself I’m still technically married.

Then again, Wyatt had no problem sticking his dick in his assistant. Still, I came home to figure out my next step. Not to fantasize about some ridiculously attractive younger man who lives next door to my parents.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Mom asks. “You’ve been washing that dish for several minutes. Pretty sure it’s cleaner than the royal china.”

Laughing, I set the plate in the drying rack and pick up another dirty one. I have no idea why my mother insists on using actual dishes for the team dinner. It would be so much easier if she just used paper plates.

“Just watching Gary. He’s definitely enjoying your backyard.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly unconvinced. She is my mother, after all. She’s always been the one person who can see through my lies.

“Who moved in next door?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“What do you mean?”

“Next door. The Levines’ old house.”

“There isn’t a new neighbor,” Mom says.

“Of course there is.”

I steal a glance at the Levines’ old place again, watching as the man pulls a strand of Christmas lights out of a large box and hangs them along the porch railing.

“I’m looking at him,” I add.

“That’s not a new neighbor,” Mom insists, her tone turning teasing. “Of course, I can see why you’d think that. When you left home, Joshua was…what? Only ten? You grew up. So did he.”

I nearly choke on my own spit, my eyes widening.

Holy shit.

I’ve been checking out Joshua Levine.

The little boy I babysat after school while his mother worked.

The little boy I made grilled cheese and tomato soup for.

The little boy I helped with his math homework.

Except he’s not that little boy anymore.

He’s not little anymore.

He’s easily over six feet tall, a far cry from the lanky kid in my memories. His hair is darker than I remember, and he has a smattering of scruff along his jawline.