How to Break a Cowboy (11 page)

I knew this because I’d introduced myself on Monday when
I’d gone to drop off the Welcome Wagon basket from the community association.
He had that ageless quality, strong face, wise eyes, with the body of a virile
twenty-three year old. Something told me he was in his mid-thirties, though.
Maybe it was the BMW parked in the driveway. Maybe it was the fact that
twenty-somethings rarely purchased houses in the ‘burbs.

Unless it was a grow op.

I spent a few minutes imagining the scenario—the police
cars, the bust, the media personnel knocking on our door in order to interview
me.

“
He kept to himself, but there were lots of people
always coming and going
,” I imagined myself saying while the new neighbor
was hauled off by the police, turning his face away so the cameras couldn’t
identify him.

No. I shook my head. That scenario didn’t ring true. Martin
wasn’t a drug dealer, I decided as I watched him cut a pattern through the too
long grass. I bet he was married and was getting the house and yard ready for
his kids to arrive. But then, he hadn’t said anything about kids and I didn’t
see any toys or bikes in the back. Maybe he was recently divorced. Yes,
definitely divorced—it’d probably been a couple of years. His wife moved into
the neighborhood with the kids and her new husband. He was moving in too so he
could be close to them, so they could spend weekends at his house. He was an
athlete, a hockey player maybe; I’d seen hockey equipment when he’d moved in, I
was sure of it. His wife had left him after he’d had one too many affairs on
the road.

Now he was a single dad, living in suburbia. That was all.

Oh, and he just happened to live next door to a neurotic,
spying neighbor with too much time on her hands.

I groaned, remembering how I met him; trudging up to his
door with the Welcome Wagon basket propped on one hip. I’d rung the bell and
waited and was just weighing whether to ring the bell again or give up and try
again the next day, when the door swung open.

Jesus!

I swear to God my heart collapsed into a dead faint right
there in my chest. My mouth probably hung open too. The man was beautiful. He
leaned up against the door in a loose white cotton shirt that showed off his
tanned skin. He wore loose trousers tied low on his hips. His hair was dark and
wavy and hung down just a bit over his left eye. At least it did until he ran
his hand through it, mussing it up just enough to make it look even sexier.

“Can I help you?”

Oh God. My knees wobbled. There was something seriously
wrong with me. But I couldn’t help it. His voice was deep with that trace of an
accent. Goddamn I love a French accent.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I’d said as I shoved the
basket at him.

His eyes went wide. “This is for me? Why?”

Obviously, I was dealing with a suburban virgin here. It
wasn’t so long ago that I was one myself, and to be honest, after moving from
our funky loft in Boston’s Leather District, the jury was still out on the
relocation. Though, given the new neighbor, maybe things were looking up.

I cleared my throat and smiled, probably looking as dorky
as I felt. “It’s on behalf of the community association. It’s a welcome basket.
It has a few little goodies in it…” Seriously…I said goodies. I was appalled at
the memory. “And um…our newsletter. An information sheet about what our
community has to offer. Some wine…” I trailed off.  I remember silently cursing
John for not being there to shut me up when I needed it.

“Oh.” He said with just a hint of cynicism. Or, upon
reflection, it could have been the accent. The French always sound cynical.
“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He set the basket down and turned back to me, his hazel
eyes searching my face before traveling down the length of my body. Like a
caress. When his gaze found my face again, he cocked his head to one side. “Do
I know you?”

I cleared my throat. “Ah, no. I’m your neighbor.” I pointed
to my house. “I live right there.”

“Oh.” He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Shit, fuck-a-shit! Had he seen me in the window? I’d been
watching him all weekend as the movers carried his stuff in. It was pure
curiosity, that was all, but he must have seen me. I cleared my throat. “Sorry
if I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t disturb me,” he drawled.

“Oh.”

“I’m Martin.” He held out his hand.

“I’m Claire.”

When he took my hand in his warm, overly large one, I
sucked in an involuntary breath and then yanked my hand free. I needed to get
out of there.

The corner of his full, sensuous lips twitched. Then he
glanced behind him and touched his fingertips to his forehead. “Where are my
manners?” Opening the door a little more, he asked, “Would you like to come in
for a drink or something?”

I caught a glimpse of the room beyond the front door. It
was still piled with cardboard boxes and mounds of packing paper.

I shook my head. “No. Thanks, but…ah,” I glanced back at my
place with the intention of leaving, except I just kept standing there. That’s
when I blurted out my invitation. “Would you like to come for dinner some time?”

“Dinner? With you?”

“With me and my husband. How about Saturday?”

“Saturday?” A slow, leisurely smile spread across his face
as he regarded me from beneath much too long lashes. “Why not?”

“Great.” I nodded my head as if we’d just signed a peace treaty.
“Saturday it is, then. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven is perfect.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Claire.”

Was it my imagination or did he pause before saying my
name. And what was that pause all about? Was it a French thing? Or was it
amusement? Oh, God. The man had been laughing at me.

Suddenly Martin’s mower conked out and the lack of sound
brought me back to the present. He opened the gas cap, filled it from a red gas
can and then yanked on the pull cord. The mower coughed but didn’t start. I
couldn’t tear my eyes away. It took four or five more pulls before the thing
started and with each tug the muscles of his arms and back danced and bulged. I
gulped my coffee and then choked as some went down the wrong pipe. Once I had
myself under control I heard the mower rumbling and saw Martin mopping his brow
while he stared up at my window.

Could he see me through the glass? Had he sensed me
watching? No. Impossible. The sun was shining too brightly against it. From
outside he’d only see the reflection.

Yet I swear he knew I was there.

My heart fluttered against my sternum and I pushed myself
away from the counter and hurried down the hall. Lordy, I needed a cold shower.

Sex,
Spies and Photographs

Chapter
Two

M
AYBE JOHN WAS
right. Maybe I needed more things to do to fill my time. Maybe I
was
bored and that’s why I was obsessed with spying on the neighbor.

But I wasn’t ready for John’s solution to my boredom. The
spare bedroom next to ours was filled with boxes of baby stuff that his sister,
Jules, had given us; hand-me-downs that she was sure we would need sometime in
the near future. Me? I wasn’t so sure.

I’d seen my friends and Jules, seen how their lives ended
when another little life came into their family. No thanks. Not now, anyway. I
didn’t need a baby to keep me busy. Hadn’t I volunteered with the community
association as the Welcome Wagon Lady? Hadn’t I taken up pottery?  Yeah, I
sucked and all my stuff ended up being lopsided and ill-proportioned. But I loved
it, loved the feel of the slippery wet clay between my fingers, the musty, dank
smell of it: the whole experience reminded me of sex. Slippery, tactile,
delicious sex. And I knew exactly what happened to slippery, wet, delicious sex
once a baby came along. I’d heard enough complaints from my friends who were
parents.

I spent the morning cleaning until I was interrupted by the
doorbell. My heart dropped as I imagined Martin standing on the stoop. But
instead of Martin I found a harried looking Jules standing there with her three
rug rats in tow. The twin boys were pushing and shoving on the front step and
the baby, Lizzy, was crying in her mother’s arms.

“Thank God you’re home,” she said, walking straight into
the house. “I need you to watch the twins. Lizzy cut her hand and she needs
stitches.”

“Watch the boys?” I said, eyeing them in panic. “Where’s
Ray? It’s just we’re having a dinner party tonight and I need to clean the
house…”

“Clean your house?” She looked around with disdain. “Honey,
this place is already spotless.” She sighed. “Ray’s in Chicago. It’ll just be
an hour. Two at most. I promise. I just can’t handle all of them in a waiting
room right now.”

It was then I noticed the blood-soaked bandage wrapped
around Lizzy’s little hand and I felt like the biggest shithead in the world.
“Of course I’ll watch them. Of course. You go ahead. It’s no problem.”

“Thanks, doll.” She leaned forward and gave me a quick peck
on the cheek. Then she turned to her five-year-old boys, Dane and Dillon.
“Listen to your Auntie. If I hear you two have been num-nuts while I’m gone
you’re going to be in big trouble, do you understand?”

The boys nodded and kissed their mother before she ran out
the door.

Oh God.

No sooner had the door shut than the boys were off, tearing
through the house, swiping their grimy little hands across the freshly cleaned
glass of the French doors.

“Okay boys,” I said. “Outside and Dillon, hands off the
glass.”

“I’m Dillon. That’s Dane,” the other boy said.

Shit. Would I ever be able to tell them apart?

“You got a play structure?” Dane asked with a lisp. Right.
Dane had a lisp.

“No.” I smiled. “But I have a big yard and a…hose.”

“Water fight!” Dane shouted and tore outside.

It’d only been a minute and already I was exhausted. The
boys had boundless energy. They were like two overgrown puppies, frolicking one
minute and wrestling and biting the next. I kept waiting for them to collapse
from exhaustion, but it never happened.

The only one ready to collapse was me, three hours later,
when Jules finally returned. But one look at her and I knew I had the easier
time of it. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was falling out of her rushed
ponytail.

“How’s Lizzy?” I asked.

“She’s fine. Seven stitches, the poor little monkey. She’s
sleeping in her car seat now, though.”

Jules rounded up the boys and gave me a quick hug. “Thanks
so much. I owe you.”

“It was no problem,” I lied. “Really.”

By the time she left with the kids, I was a nut case. The
house needed to be re-cleaned and I hadn’t even started dinner. I’m not exactly
a candidate for America’s Top Chef but I found a recipe for Coq au Vin, which
sounded exotic, and thankfully I had all the ingredients in the house because
now I didn’t have time to go to the store. Once I started cooking, I soon
realized the recipe was just chicken stew in a red wine sauce—not so exotic.

“What is up with you? Why are you so worked up?” John asked
me after he’d returned home from golf. I was dusting the picture frames on our
mantel for the second time.

I turned an evil eye on him. “I’m not worked up. I’m
cleaning the house. Sheesh!” I narrowed my eyes at him. “You could give me a
hand, you know. I’ve been minding children all day.”

“I know. Jules called me. She said the boys had a riot over
here.” He smiled.

“Yeah, so give me a hand, would you.”

“I could…but…you’d redo anything I did anyway, so I think
I’ll just stay out of it.”

With my hands on my hips, I said, “What a convenient way of
getting out of housework.”

“Convenient, yet true.”

I rolled my eyes. “Go open a bottle of wine, then.”

“Why?”

“To let it breathe.”

He shook his head a little but did as I asked. I joined him
a few minutes later in the kitchen to make sure the meal was ready.

“You need to change your shirt,” he said.

“Why?”

He pointed to a patch beneath my breasts. My black blouse
was smeared with a fine layer of dirt from where I’d brushed the duster against
it. Just then the doorbell rang.

“You answer it,” I hissed. “I have to change.”

I was flustered and I hated that I was flustered. I hated
that John knew I was flustered. I stood in the closet in my bra, taking deep
breaths, wondering what was wrong with me, and why I was acting so crazy. It
had already taken me too long to decide on the black blouse and it wasn’t like
chic options were jumping out at me from my closet. I used to like to shop, to
find great deals and choose my outfits carefully. Somehow, having enough money
for whatever I wanted took all the fun out of it. Besides, these days I spent
most of my time at my potter’s wheel—where yoga pants and a tank top were my
uniform—if I wasn’t camped out beside the kitchen window spying, that is.