Page 4 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

It did, but only after three tries. I then turned on the oven to start preheating for the garlic bread, which would consist of butter and bread, no garlic. The oven gave off a low, ominous rattle while it heated, but I ignored it and focused on the positive. I opened the kitchen window to act as a vent. Rain blew in sideways, soaking the counter, but I didn’t care. I only wanted to feed my child and call it a day without getting carbon monoxide poisoning.

From the living room, Maverick called out, “Can we have a fire in the fireplace tonight?”

I peered into the dark brick cove above the hearth and saw a pile of old, crumpled newspaper and a single, half-charred log. “We’ll have to see if it still works,” I said, and braced myself for the smell of ninety years’ worth of bird nest combusting in one go.

As I pondered whether or not it would be worth it to try and light a fire, the storm really made its power known. A gust of wind rattled the windows so hard I feared they would shatter, followed by a thundering crash from above. The kitchen ceiling, which I’d only previously noted had paint peeling, suddenly caved in over the sink, dumping a pile of soggy insulation and a gush of rainwater onto the countertop. I yelped, and Maverick rushed to my side.

“It’s okay,” I assured him, not exactly sure if I believed myself. “Go back in your room, I’ll clean this up.”

The place was falling apart, literally around me, but I couldn’t afford to lose it now. I grabbed a bucket I’d discovered when I was looking for a broom, and a stack of towels, then attacked the mess with the desperation of someone who’s started over too many times to count. If this was our “forever home,” then tonight was the first test, and I’d be damned if I failed it.

As I cleaned, I had to stop myself from spiraling over feeling like I had been unwittingly cast in a reality version sequel to the Tom Hanks, Shelley Long classic The Money Pit. I wondered if there were hidden cameras anywhere. Normally, the thought of hidden cameras would terrify me, but at this point it made me feel less alone. There was comfort in thinking this was some ruse and soon producers were going to come and ask me to sign release forms for myself and Maverick and let me know that it had been a huge setup to see what I would do and how I would handle it, but that help was on the way, and the buck didn’t stop with me.

Even imagining that was the case put me in a better mood. I’d barely finished cleaning it up when crisis number two struck, the lights flickered and went out.

“Mama!” Maverick screamed bloody murder.

I may or may not have unintentionally passed along my aversion to the dark to my son.

“It’s okay! It’s okay! Everything’s okay!” I shouted, not exactly sure I believed myself, as I rushed to him. He was clutching Deputy Neigh as if his life depended on it.

I was barely within arm’s distance when he launched himself into my arms. I caught him and stumbled back slightly. As I held him tightly, more lightning flashed outside the window followed by a crack of thunder. Mav tightened his grip around my neck.

“Let’s go get my phone, and then we need to find a flashlight.”

As I searched for where I’d left my purse, two beams of light hit the back wall. I looked out the window and saw a truck pulling up beside my SUV.

My stomach dropped. The only person I knew in town was my Uncle Walter’s friend Teresa Russo, otherwise known as Nonna Russo. She’d visited Seattle with my uncle two of the three times he’d come and seen me. I’d spoken to her over the past few days to let her know that I would be moving into his home and she’d offered to watch Maverick when he wasn't in preschool if I needed childcare. But she didn’t drive, and Uncle Walter hadn’t lived in the house for five years. Why would someone be pulling up?

“Who’s that?” Maverick pointed out the window.

“I don’t know, Bud.” I set him down, grabbed the mace from my purse and my trusty tennis racket, and went to the front door. As I did, Maverick ran to his room and came back with the sword he’d gotten when we went to Medieval Times a year or so ago when he was in his being-a-knight phase. That followed his being-a-police man, and before that it was a garbage man.

The driver’s side door opened and shut without turning off the headlights. A shape moved in front of the beams and walked up the steps of my porch. It wasn’t just any shape. It was a very tall, very broad-shouldered man in a cowboy hat, with a jawline that could cut ice.

This had to be some sort of a mistake. A misunderstanding.

“Mama, look, a cowboy!” Mav pointed with his sword. “Do you see?”

All I could do was nod because I’d been momentarily struck speechless by the man’s—there was no other word for it—beauty. Even from beneath the brim, which was hiding a lot, I could see how gorgeous he was, full lips, strong jaw, gorgeous eyes. The eyes weren’t friendly, though. If anything, he looked pissed off. Which, I couldn’t deny made him all the hotter.

This could be crisis number three. I wasn’t sure if the universe was testing me or karma having my back by saying, ‘Sure, you just drove ten hours with a four-year-old who can’t sit still for more than five minutes, with a bladder the size of a grape, to arrive to a torrential downpour while unpacking, your ceiling collapses, and the lights go out, after not sleeping for nearly seventy-two hours. But now look, the hottest, sexiest man you’ve ever seen has literally shown up on your doorstep. Oh, and he’s a cowboy. Have fun.’

I may be on a penis sabbatical, but I doubted anyone had ever kicked this man out of bed. And besides, a little eye candy never hurt anyone. I just needed to stay vigilant and keep my guard up. I could look, but not touch. Easy. Right?

2

THE MACE MEET-CUTE

Dean

Ihated three things: surprises, unnecessary expenses, and people who said, “No worries.” How could someone genuinely have no worries? My own head was a casino of worst-case scenarios, the roulette wheel of risk spinning every new problem into a jackpot of disaster.

Was I a half-glass-empty guy? No. I was an is-that-glass-near-important-paperwork guy. A move-that-glass-before-some-idiot-knocks-it-over-and-ruins-the-circuit board guy. And the weather tonight had shifted from potential inconvenience to imminent catastrophe in a matter of an hour.

The sky over the ranch opened up with a biblical storm, the kind that brewed at sea and then thrashed the coast like a bartender shaking a martini. My boots left craters in the mud as I walked up the drive toward Walter Foster’s porch. Since Walter moved into the retirement home years ago, I took it upon myself to be the first line of defense against nature, vermin, and humans at his home. As the Lockhart Most Likely to Be Everyone’s Emergency Contact, I was an all-weather, all-hours problem solver.

The Foster place bordered the ranch and sat on the far edge of the floodplain, just before the land crumpled into the marsh. The home had survived a hundred years of wind off the Pacific, three actual earthquakes, and at least one party that ended with a hole in the porch roof from a poorly aimed bottle rocket.