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A big, gorgeous, grumpy man who scowls so hard it looks like it hurts.
Still, just a man—whose bratty daughter just stole my bowl. I have every right to tell him what happened. He’ll probably be mortified that his daughter did such a terrible thing and apologize.
Piece of cake.
I march up the porch steps and square my shoulders before ringing the doorbell, digging deep and hoping to find some untapped courage stored up inside me.
I’m BlackmotherfuckingWidow. I don’t get intimidated by men.
Until the door swings open, and I feel about the size of a literal black widow compared to the large man towering over me. His jeans are covered in dirt. His broad shoulders and thick biceps stretch his white T-shirt across his chest that’s streaked with the same stains as on his pants. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, and strands of his dark hair stick up in every direction. Everything about him is rugged and tough-looking in every way—but it’s nothing compared to his scowl. Overgrown scruff surrounds his frowning lips, with wiry gray hairs peppered into his beard. His pinched eyebrows create a dark hood over his obsidian eyes.
Give him an axe and a log to chop, and he’d have millions of followers on social media.
“H-hi, I’m Lenny. I live across the street.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “That white house right over there.”
His dark eyes narrow to suspicious slits. “What can I do for you?”
Anxiety twists my stomach, so I blurt out the words before I lose my nerve. “Your daughter and her friends just stole my candy bowl off my porch. I caught her running away with my bowl in her hands. I chased her down the block but they were too fast and”—I let out a nervous laugh—“I mean, Jesus, are they Olympic runners or something? Not that I’m in the best attire for a high-speed chase. Some boots might be made for walking, but these heels are definitely not what you want to be wearing in a foot race, you know what I’m saying? No, of course you don’t know what I’m saying. You don’t wear heels. Unless you do, which is totally fine with me. I don’t judge.”
He doesn’t laugh or crack a smile. Not even a humored grunt.
Ergo my nervous rambling continues.
“Anyway, the girls ran into someone’s backyard and I lost them. And it’s not so much about the candy—even though I was looking forward to a Sour Patch Kids-induced coma later tonight; the watermelon kind, because they’re obviously superior—but it’s the bowl. I just want the bowl back.”
The man tilts his head the slightest bit, staring at me as if I’m an alien from Mars speaking another language. “So, you came here to accuse my daughter of stealing.”
My chin jerks back. “It’s not a false accusation, sir.”
Sir? Why did I call him sir?
He crosses his arms over his chest, making his muscles appear even bigger as they bunch up around him. “Do you have proof?”
“Yeah, I saw her with my own two eyes.”
He scoffs. “That’s not proof.”
I let out a frustrated breath and try to level with him. “Look, the candy bowl was my grandmother’s. I kept it after she passed last year, and it means something to me. I truly don’t care about the candy. Your daughter can have all of it. But I want the bowl.”
“If it was so valuable, why would you leave it outside?”
My mouth drops open and anger boils in the pit of my stomach. Is he seriously blaming me for his daughter making the choice to steal?
I deal with parents like this all the time at school. They’re allnot my kid.
“You’re victim shaming, you know that?” I let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re exactly the kind of parent that’s wrong with today’s world, taking your child’s side instead of reprimanding her for her actions.”
“How I reprimand my daughter is none of your business.”
“It is when she stealsmyproperty.”
“If you think I’m going to believe you over her, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“No, you have another thing coming.”
Why did I just say that? What does that even mean?
One of his thick eyebrows pops. “Is that a threat?”
