Happy Halloween

Grocery shopping on Friday evening the day before Halloween should be made illegal.

Honestly. The amount of people crammed into the supermarket just to buy out all the sweet aisles to feed trick or treaters is ridiculous. Unorganised on their part.

Maybe my new legal stance is also because the sour candy I’ve been craving all day was all gone. Empty shelf.

Maybe.

When I pull up to the house, there are five cars in the drive next door.

Five.

I counted twice.

Two SUVs, a pickup, and two sedans.

The house had been empty for the better part of the month since the Hendersons moved to Florida three weeks ago. I heard their daughter was considering renting out the place rather than selling, but I didn’t expect anyone so soon.

Or in such large quantities.

Hopefully it’s not some college kids. Or a cult.

I toe off my shoes by the door, drop my keys into the bowl, then proceed to empty the shopping bags out onto the island so I can put everything away neatly.

This week has been hell for the brain, so naturally, I can’t wait to sit down with a glass of wine and a good book.

By eight o’clock, I’ve unpacked the groceries, put a load of laundry on, had dinner, and enjoyed a long, hot shower.

A productive evening by my standards.

Now I’m curled up on the couch in my baby blue nightgown, a soft pink cardigan resting loosely on my shoulders, with a glass of wine and the book I had been trying to finish for the last two weeks.

The house is quiet.

The wine is excellent.

And the morally questionable man I’ve been reading about for the past hundred pages has finally found a more interesting use for his hands than murder.

It’s turning out to be a great night.

Until the shouting starts.

At first, it’s nothing particularly disruptive. A few bursts of laughter from the neighbouring backyard, the occasional raised voice.

Then comes music. Then more laughter. Then something that sounds suspiciously like a group of grown men chanting.

I pause halfway through a paragraph.

What on earth?

A distinctly enthusiastic cheer erupts from outside.

I glance toward the windows.

The Hendersons were quiet people. Lovely, elderly, quiet people who spent their evenings watching television and occasionally arguing over the correct way to prune their roses.

Apparently, their replacements have very different hobbies.

I take another sip of my wine and go back to my book.

It’s Friday night, after all. People are entitled to have fun.

Another cheer, followed by a loud boo.

I sigh.

Maybe I’ll finish this chapter upstairs.

I’m just lifting off the couch when a knock sounds from my door, followed by my doorbell.

I glance at the clock.

21:17

Who on earth is knocking on my door this late?

I pull the cardigan tighter around me and pad toward the door. I pull it open... and come face to face with a man’s chest.

A rather nice chest, actually. Broad beneath a fitted black T-shirt.

My gaze travels upward. Past a strong neck, a defined jaw, and a mouth that’s already curving into a smile. Until I meet a pair of warm brown eyes.

Oh.

Well, hello.

“Hey.”

His voice is low, pleasantly rough around the edges.

“Hi?”

He smiles properly then, and holy hell, it’s a smile.

“I’m Noah.” He gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. “Just moved in next door. Well, temporarily. We’re renting for the week.”

“Ah.” I lean against the doorframe. “That explains the sudden population increase.”

He laughs.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

He’s tall. Easily six-two, perhaps a little more. Light brown hair- short on the sides and longer on top, with a few unruly strands falling across his forehead.

He’s also young. Way younger than me.

His features are handsome in that almost annoyingly effortless way some men seem to possess.

Straight nose. Strong jaw. Nice mouth.

Very nice mouth.

I realise I’m looking at it and promptly return my attention to his eyes.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “What can I do for you, Noah?”

His gaze moves over my face. Then lower. Brief, but not really discreet at all.

I feel it travel down the exposed line of my throat, over my collarbones, and down toward the bare legs visible beneath the hem.

It’s quick. But not so quick that I miss it.

When his eyes return to mine, there’s something new in his expression.

For reasons I don’t question, I find myself straightening a little.

“Well,” he says, dragging the word out slightly, “first of all, sorry for bothering you.”

“That’s very considerate.”

“Trying to make a good first impression.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

His grin widens. “Too early to tell.”

I laugh. Can’t help it.

He’s charming. Annoyingly so.

“My friends are idiots,” he goes on. “They managed to knock a ball over your fence.”

“What kind of ball?”

“A big one.”

“A big ball?”

He spreads his long arms. “Like... really big.”

I look at him. He looks back. Then he laughs.

“Okay, this sounds ridiculous, but it’s one of those giant inflatable balls. We were playing a game and somebody got a little carried away.”

“Somebody?” I raise a brow.

“Definitely not me.”

Damn him, that smile again.

I glance toward the back of the house.

“Well, I suppose we’d better rescue your ball.”

“That’d be amazing.”

“Hold on.”

I close the door before he can charm his way inside.

I slide open the patio door and step outside. And there it is- in the middle of my lawn, is a giant, blue and red, inflatable ball.

I shake my head and step towards it. The grass is damp beneath my feet and I scold myself for not putting on slippers.

My arms barely wrap around the circumference of the damn thing, it’s so big.

I step toward the fence, bend my knees, and shove it forward. The ball bounces against the top of the fence and comes straight back into my face.

“Oh for God’s sake.”

A burst of laughter erupts on the other side of the fence.

“You got this, Miss neighbour!”

“Come on!”

I roll my eyes but laugh despite myself.

I try again, and this time, the ball goes over.

The cheers erupt again.

“Let’s go!”

“Fuck yeah!”

A laugh bubbles out of me. You’d think I just scored the winning point in a game.

Kids.

When I reopen the front door, Noah is leaning casually against one of the porch pillars. He’s looking down at his phone, but the moment he hears the door, his head comes up and he pockets it into his jeans.

That smile returns.

“Mission successful?”

“Yes. Your ball has been returned.”

“Thank you...” he pauses expectantly.

“Isabelle. But my friends call me Izzy.”

“Isabelle,” he repeats it and my eyes follow the movement of his mouth around it. “Pretty name.”

My cheeks warm and I almost laugh at myself.

“Thank you, Noah.”

He keeps looking at me, warm brown eyes lingering a little longer than necessary.

His gaze dips briefly toward my nightdress again and I become suddenly, acutely aware that I’m standing barefoot on my porch in something considerably shorter than I’d ordinarily wear to greet a stranger.

Not that the thought makes me particularly uncomfortable.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Which is interesting.

“So,” Noah says. “Sorry again for interrupting your night.”

“You’re okay.”

“I should be getting back to my friends.” His palms slide into his pockets and he rocks on his heels, tilting his head toward the house next door.

“Enjoy your night, Noah.”

“Goodnight, Isabelle.”

I watch him descend the porch steps.

Not intentionally. Not for any particular reason.

Just because he’s there. And because the view is rather pleasant.

He’s wearing light wash jeans, and there’s something unfairly attractive about the way they sit low on his hips.

His shoulders move beneath the black fabric of his t-shirt as he walks, and I find myself appreciating the long, easy stride of a man who seems entirely comfortable in his own body.

Just before reaching the sidewalk, he turns, catches me looking, and smiles. Then he lifts his hand in a lazy wave.

I shake my head and close the door. Stand there for a moment.

Well.

That was not what I expected on my Friday night.

– – – – – – –

By eleven, the noise next door has settled into a distant hum.

The music is still playing, and I can occasionally hear laughter drifting through the windows, but it’s no longer loud enough to interrupt my thoughts.

I finish my wine, load the glass into the dishwasher, and head upstairs.

In my bedroom, I stalk toward my bed and pause at the window to pull my curtains shut. My hands pause on the fabric, and my eyes drift into the backyard next door.

It’s illuminated by soft string lights hanging between the back porch and the trees.

A firepit burns near the patio, surrounded by folding chairs and a collection of young men who appear to have absolutely nowhere else they’d rather be.

There are bottles on the table, red plastic cups scattered across the grass, and the remains of several pizzas.

And then, leaning against the pillar of the back porch with a beer bottle in hand, is Noah.

He looks relaxed. Confident even in his slacked stance. The light from the firepit dances across his sharp jaw in moving shadows.

There’s something undeniably attractive about him.

Not just his face, although that certainly doesn’t hurt. But just the energy he carries.

I tilt my head.

Hmm.

He really is an incredibly handsome young man. Emphasis on young.

I wonder how old he actually is.

Twenty-three? Twenty-five?

Suddenly his head tilts back and his eyes come up- looking directly at me.

Oh shit.

He definitely sees me.

His mouth curves. Slowly. That same devastating smile. Then- he winks at me.

The little bastard winks.

I stumble back abruptly and my heel catches on the foot of the bed. I tumble back and fall flat on my ass.

And then I burst out laughing. A real belly laugh at how ridiculous I am.

My heart is hammering.

I am a thirty-seven year old woman. I’ve been married, divorced, raised a whole child, own a house, and pay my taxes- and here I am on the floor of my bedroom, getting flustered by a boy.

A boy.

I’m still laughing, shaking my head when I pull the curtains closed.

I settle into my bed, fluffing my pillow once.

Oh, Isabelle.

You absolute idiot.