She slips past her gate, phone glued to her palm, fiddling with the mailbox’s latch. The urge to walk over to her is damn near impossible to resist.
I watch her rip open an envelope with her teeth, and my cock twitches at the inflicting imagination of her hot mouth on me. My hand wipes my thoughts clean over my face, looking up just in time to catch the split-second glance she gives me, and our gazes lock. Which feels almost like an invitation, and my feet step forward, but my hopes vanish as fast as a tornado when she flips me off, then smiles. I can barely hold the side smirk on my face as my entire chest contracts, and I gesture my hand to my heart as to say she’s wounded me.
The fuck is she doing to me?
I watch her vanish back inside, and the lights on the second-floor pulse to life.
A moment later, the house’s front door opens again, but this time a woman emerges. Her gait is deliberate, heels crunching on the driveway gravel, scarf tied with French precision. Her jaw, high cheekbones… Sara's mother. I’ve met her like neighbors would, but never really spoken with her before.
She crosses the street without looking both ways. It’s either a sign of arrogance or complete trust in the universe, and I'm not sure which scares me more.
I gently wave at her, looking down like a child in trouble. Her pigmented honey-whiskey eyes scan me up and down, quietly and determined to profile me. Her auburn curly hair making her downright impressively intimidating.
“What kind of man stands guard outside a teenager’s house for days?” She asks with a hint of violence in her voice.
“The kind who’s seen what happens when no one stands guard and, with all due respect ma’am, she’s an adult.” I say immediately.
She squints, her expression caught between skepticism and amusement. “How’s your mom been?”
“She’s been good, ma’am. Still in Cannes.”
“You can call me Yoyo.” She holds out her hand as if we're at a job interview, as if we haven’t crossed paths a million times in this tiny village. I shake her hand more out of reflex than manners. Her grip is firmer than I expect, a hint of “you better not fuck around”in the hand squeeze.
“Yoyo?” I ask, perplexed.
“Yes, it’s a family nickname from when I was young, I kept it.” She lets out a breath, looking around. “I saw you sitting here.” Voice dropping. “For a long time.”
“I'm sorry. That’s —”
“Clearly, you have a reason.” She cuts me off. “Sara doesn't tell me much, but she did mention someone has been stalking her. I’m worried. You think they’ll come for her again?”
“That's the working theory,” I say a little too sternly, forgetting I’m talking to Sara’s mother, but the power exuding from this woman makes me guess she’d smell the truth a mile away, even if it were disguised.
She nods. “Don't you have somewhere to be?”
“The only place I need to be is between her and whoever's watching her,” I say with no hesitation.
She nods again, satisfied. “If you are so worried, why not come inside? It is safer than this.” She gestures vaguely at the street, as if Saint-Tropez is crawling with snipers, which makes me let out a chuckle.
“Your daughter hates me,” I say, which is probably the most honest sentence I've spoken all month.
“Yes, she does.” She agrees, smiling with a weird maternal pride. “But this is ayouproblem, not mine. Now, please come in. It’s about time I get to know my neighbor’s son a little better, don’t you think?” She winks and walks away expecting me to follow. I hesitate for exactly two seconds until I jog after her.
The house smells like lemon and jasmine, like Sara. It’s curated, elegant. The beige linen curtains could cleanse your soul just by looking at them. Everything is slick and square, with the pretense that everything inside is peaceful, but Joe had told me Sara and her mom had their fair share of hurdles throughout the years.
She gestures toward the living room. “You should eat something. Heroes need sustenance too.”
“I’m not a hero, Yoyo. I'm just trying to balance the scale a bit,” I sigh, pleasantly surprised by her hospitality.
Footsteps resonate above us. Sara must be in her bedroom, and I can’t wait to see her face when she discovers her own mother has invited one of her lurking monsters into the house.
Yoyo hands me a plate of food that smells divine and a cup of water.
“Thank you. This is unnecessary, though I…”
She interrupts. “It’s not charity. It’s practical. You’re no good to anyone if you’re starved and sleep deprived.” She pauses. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you and your daughter deserve more than to live in fear.” I take a bite and my eyes widen at the flavors.
