Page 14 of Learning at 40

“Thanks.” He doesn’t bat an eye at my drinking from the bottle but takes another sip from the wineglass he stole from me. “How long have you lived here?” His eyes focus on the back of my house.

“Not long. I inherited the place.”

“Really?” His attention shifts from the house to me. Our shoulders touch. Our forearms cross. Our hands are still together against his thigh. It’s an intimate position, considering he’s a stranger, but he isn’t flinching. “Care to clarify.”

It’s a strange request from a man who baffles me. “My husband died.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but it’s the best explanation I’m willing to give a man I don’t know. His eyes lower for my left hand, finding it absent of a ring.

“Oh,” Zack whispers, pausing on the sound. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He waits another beat before repeating my words. “You loved him.”

My shoulders sag. “In my own way, yes. I’ll always be grateful to him, but I suppose gratitude and love are not the same things.” I glance back at the house. A year ago, I felt selfish for accepting the offer left to me. It didn’t seem right. Being a decent human being didn’t warrant this kind of gift. But Quincy’s children are assholes. They never came to visit him and didn’t communicate with their father. They didn’t want to listen. Then they showed up like vultures ready to devour his estate once he passed.

“One of my best friends died a month ago.”

Quickly, I turn back to Zack. This loss is different than losing his wife. Heartbreak fills his tone. My grandfather had been one of my best friends, and I lost him, so I understood the tear through Zack’s heart.

He juts his head in the direction of the house next door.

“I haven’t met them yet,” I say, speaking of my neighbors. We wave or smile, but we haven’t officially introduced ourselves. I stare at the side of the house, cloaked in darkness. “I’m so sorry.” Assuming his friend was his age, his friend’s young death feels even sadder. At least, Quincy had lived a long life.

Zack’s gaze returns to the side of my face, but I don’t look back at him. Instead, I lift the bottle of wine I’ve been holding on my lap and take another hearty drink.

“What’s it like inside?” Assuming the direction of his question, I glance back at my house.

“In need of TLC, like a lot of things.” The comment turns my head toward him. He could potentially use a little rebuilding, though it’s not his body but his spirit that needs restoration. Or is it rejuvenation? His voice hints at the disappointment in himself in both fatherhood and marriage. It explains a lot about his behavior earlier in the day.

As we face one another, his attention drops to my lips.

“I have another confession to make.” His gaze remains on my mouth, and I lick my lips, watching those silvery eyes flicker. “I saw you in this yard another time.”

“Really?” My voice rises in wonder. What could he have possibly seen? Thankfully, he doesn’t have creeper written all over him, but isn’t that the way serial killers attract their victims? Charisma and good looks are a smokescreen for bad men.

“I saw another something I probably shouldn’t have seen.”

My heart skips a beat, and a nervous sweat breaks out on my palms, although I’m not fully comprehending what he suggests. My mind races through a mental calendar, counting back the days, wondering what I could have been doing in my yard to cause his voice to drop in both confession and contrition.

“You were out here. Alone on this person-and-a-half lounger. Alone,” he repeats as his brow arches, hinting further at what he saw. It takes me a moment to catch his meaning. Oh. Oh. My cheeks flame, and I’m thankful for the dark night around us. That was a few nights ago, and I’d had the evening off. It was just one of those nights. I might have had a bit too much wine, watched an exhilarating movie, and the breeze just felt too good against my warm skin. I never expected someone to see me, but I remember sensing something watching me—which I now know was someone—and stopped what I’d started. Later, I’d been unable to pick back up where I’d left off in the yard.

I tug at my hand under Zack’s firm grip, embarrassed that he saw me, but he isn’t releasing me.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” he suggests, dropping his tone even further. His gaze doesn’t leave my lips.

I don’t have a good explanation for doing what I was doing in the yard, so I blurt out a different thought. “It was better than having a one-night stand.” I have no idea why I say such a thing. It sounded better in my head. It’s the truth, though. I’m not really a one-night stand kind of woman, and despite my occasional horniness, I’m not one to pick up a random man in a bar to get myself off. I’m well past those days.

Zack huffs before stating, “I had one of those and ended up with a wife and twins.” I want to know more about this story, but he asks me something instead.

“Why?” His expression has lost some of the edginess from earlier. His curiosity softens his features. He’s on the verge of dazzling.

“Why what?”

“Why alone?” His gaze roams my face. “You’re a beautiful woman. Why wasn’t a man out here pleasing you?” He’s so forward. Just like his boys. Just like him stealing my wine.

I shrug, and my shoulder brushes his. How do I explain that I haven’t dated in so long I can’t remember when my last date was? How do I describe the relationship I had with Quincy or, rather, didn’t have? How do I tell him it’s better to be alone?

“I wanted to join you,” Zack admits, and my mouth falls open.

“What?” I croak, my throat suddenly dry.

“Never mind.” Zack glances down at our hands, where his thumb caresses my knuckles. When he lifts his gaze, our eyes lock, and the magnetic sensation returns. Warning bells go off as I’m drawn to him when I should pull away. Licking my lower lip, I watch as his gaze drops to the movement of my tongue. He mimics the motion with his own against the lower swell of his mouth, and then he bites his lip hard, holding his teeth against the sensitive flesh. The smirk sends a thrill down my middle, and I squeeze my thighs. The responding tingle feels similar to the rush before . . .