Page 4 of Naughty-ish

Oh, he was smooth. But I wasn’t having that nonsense.

I’d folded the bill in my hand and pursed my lips, knowing my next move was bold. I stepped back, allowing him to step forward. Then as he passed me, I slipped the twenty into his back pocket, getting an unintentional swipe of the firmness of one globe, stretching worn denim over his ass.

He’d stopped abruptly, twisting his upper body and staring down at my retreating hand.

“Buy yourself something pretty,” I’d taunted and stomped away from him. I wasn’t going to owe him, neighbor or not.

That was back in June.

In the cold of December, the night air is seeping through my thin, long-sleeved shirt and pajama shorts. What was I thinking stepping out here wearing boots and wielding a wineglass?

“Where’s your jacket?” Nick snipes, stepping toward me, hands reaching forward to rub up and down my arms. I’d pulled them in close, huddling them against my chest as I hopped from foot to foot, waiting for him to explain what he’d been doing on my roof.

However, the freezing chill skittering over my skin disappears under the warmth of his calloused palms. His proximity infuses my entire body with a rush of heat, that ignites something in the depths of my cold bones. The faint scent of bayberry and snow tickles my nose, awakening all my senses. Forget my wine, I’m intoxicated by his nearness.

“I heard a noise,” I stammer, struggling to remember what he asked me.

“Sorry about that.” He removes his hands, and instantly, I miss the heat of his touch.

He tips his head, sheepishly peering down at the ground.

“What are you doing out here?” I nod at my roof, noting the ladder and some tools plus a cardboard box, resting on the shingles.

“I was hanging Christmas lights.”

“On my house?”

“You’re bringing down the block,” he teases as he’d done the remainder of the summer when I still hadn’t purchased a lawnmower.

My dad eventually bought me a mower from a garage sale in September, but as I struggled to start the thing, Nick appeared and told me he’d upkeep the lawn as he had most of the previous months. He continued to refuse my money.

“I hadn’t gotten to it.” The phrase was becoming the story of my life.

For the sake of my children, my intentions for the holiday season were well-meaning, but I haven’t decorated yet. I haven’t purchased any gifts. I haven’t planned any seasonal activities. As a single mom, working full-time, I was doing the best I could living on a budget of time and finances. Which roughly translated to, I didn’t have the ho-ho-ho energy I’ve had in years’ past.

My Christmas spirit was waning this year, like that one pesky bulb causing an entire strand of lights to go out.

However, as Nick looks at me, his eyes twinkle like the little blue lights I’ve seen in other people’s yards. And a teeny-tiny spark inside me wants to do better. Be better.

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.” His hands return to my arms, rubbing up and down once again. Immediately, the warmth melts over my skin, heating me up like a cozy winter fire.

“I thought you were the sugar plum fairy breaking in.”

Nick laughs, hearty and full, rich like the wine in my glass.

“You don’t need to do this,” I remind him, repeating what I’d said dozens of times to him over the past few months. He feels sorry for me. That’s why he does what he does. I’m that single mother neighbor who will one day let cats overrun her home when her children grow older and leave her alone, forgetting she exists.

The thought is pathetic and sobering.

“I want to,” he states, as he’s said often enough.

“Nash and Eloise will love it,” I say, hoping my children’s happiness means something to him. He’s friendly with them. He even played catch with Nash a few times this fall when Mitch didn’t show up for his scheduled weeknight visits. Nick also praised Eloise’s chalk drawings, allowing her to overtake his driveway when ours is full of sketches.

“I want you to love it,” he says, his eyes still on me.

I’d offer to pay him for the lights or his time, but I already know he’ll reject the gesture. After my bold move last summer to slip a twenty in his pocket, I’ve never attempted to touch him again. I’ve made him cookies and casseroles, bought pots with flowers for his porch, and left him a case of beer on occasion. I didn’t know how else to repay him for his kindness.

“It will look beautiful.” I’m not really certain how it will look, but the roofline was made for Christmas lights. If he edges the front porch overhang and wraps lights over the dormers on the taller roof like he did his own home, the twinkling magic will bring cheer to my little house.