Yours, Mine & Ours (8 page)

“What?” Amanda finished one of her daughter's hands, then started on the other.

“Daddy wasn't even
there
half the time. And he didn't play any games with me. But when he was there, you know what he did?”

“What, honey?”

“He and that lady took me to the back of the house, opened the door and said, ‘Ta da!' And there was this room where I'm supposed to sleep when I'm there. It had a big white chair. And a big white bed. And shelves that already had books in them. And lots of stuffed animals all over the place.”

Amanda felt her heart clutch. “It sounds very pretty.”

Molly glowered at her mother. “I know it's pretty. That's not what was wrong. What was wrong is that
I don't sleep there
. Which I told them. Daddy said, ‘But you will.' And the woman said, ‘And when you
come and stay with us, we want you to have your own special place.'”

Molly started blowing on both hands, trying to dry the polish faster. “I didn't say what I wanted to say. I remembered that I was supposed to be good, so I said, ‘The room's real nice. Thank you.' And then I said, ‘But I'm not sleeping over. Ever.' And you know what?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“The lady called me a brat.
Me. A brat!
”

“Oh, dear.”

“So then I told her she was ugly. Which she is. And I said she must be stupid, too, because she couldn't even win at Candy Land. And she didn't even know to cut the crusts off my sandwich, either!”

Amanda had to zip her mouth closed. Obviously she couldn't say what she really wanted to, such as that she'd like to whack Thom upside the head—and that went double for The Bitch. She'd particularly like to tear out The Bitch's heart for trying to win over her daughter with material crap, and even more wanted to scream at her ex for not spending parenting time with his daughter himself.

But she couldn't just agree with Molly, because that would fuel her daughter's unhappiness with Thom.

So she just listened. And once they finished all the nail painting, she cuddled her daughter on the deck rocker until Molly was sleepy enough to fold into bed. Tomorrow, when the little one was less upset,
Amanda figured she'd think of some positive, constructive things to say about the day's debacle.

Tonight, she wasn't up for it.

For a half hour, she cleaned up toys, threw in a wash load, wiped down the kitchen. The whole time she was building up a good serious brood.

The whole evening had exemplified—painfully—why she had to quit playing attraction games with her next-door neighbor. The divorce was still fresh for her daughter. Molly had to be her one hundred percent primary concern. And just as relevant, Amanda knew perfectly well that her marriage, and divorce, established her stupid judgment about men.

There was no trusting her feelings for Mike. The magic, the pull, the wonder…that was the fairy tale. The wanting to believe there was a hero, a knight, a good man just for her. The wanting to believe in “in love.”

The feeling that she was already
in
love with the damn man.

This was all exactly why she'd given up sex. Because she couldn't trust herself. Because she wanted her daughter to grow up seeing a strong, self-reliant mother…not a dependent female who couldn't get along without a man.

She had to
show
her daughter that she was strong, not just tell her.

Which meant she needed to just cool it with Mike. At least, for a much longer period of time.

That all settled in her mind, Amanda started turning out lights, closing up, locking the doors. When she climbed the stairs for bed, at the top stair she glanced out the window.

Night had fallen in a whisper of dew and stardust. Mike was upstairs, in his second-story window. He'd turned off his lights, too. He was probably enjoying just a few moments of peace and silence, probably no different than she was…but then he spotted her.

She could have moved. Could have waved. Could have…done pretty much anything.

But somehow heat transmitted across the driveways, through the closed windows, somehow past all the reasons she needed to get a serious brain.

She didn't just feel a pull toward him. She felt a force field.

He put a hand on his window.

Like a damn fool romantic idiot, she put a hand on her window.

And then, before she could do anything more stupid, she whipped around and headed straight, no talking, no thinking, no deterrents, to her bed. Alone. The way she needed to be.

S
ix hours later, Mike left the Dan Ryan—the expressway where faint-of-heart drivers were tortured at rush hour, a uniquely Chicagoan sport—and turned into the curve toward the western suburbs. They still wouldn't be home for another twenty minutes.

He didn't want the day to end.

He glanced at his passenger. Amanda had never said a word about riding in the pickup, but she was obviously comfortable. Even strapped in, she'd managed to curl her legs under her, had slipped off a sandal.

“This has been the best day,” she murmured.

“You're not kidding.” He'd been both wary and willing of playing hooky with her. Wary, because
she already inspired too many wrong ideas and hormones. And yet willing, because…well, because after his ex-wife drove off, he'd still felt the rug burns on his ego.

Nancy had never said the exact words, but her opinion of him was clear. Lawyer or not, great education or not, he was still hopelessly rough-edged. Too earthy. Too physical. Too sexual. Her choosing ‘George' pretty obviously underlined everything she'd found wrong with him. Maybe he'd achieved stature in a notable law firm, but that didn't give him elegance or taste by her standards.

Amanda was distinctly a woman of elegance and taste. So chances were she'd discover those rotten qualities and back off…or his own rug burns would make him too wary to get further involved.

All of which was to say…he'd been able to relax with her today.

Maybe even more than relax. They'd had just plain old ordinary fun. She'd picked the lunch spot, a place where she got to choose lobster bisque and he could vote for a raw red steak. Their entrees echoed how different they were, but that didn't seem to matter. The restaurant was packed with a professional lunch crowd. All adults. No spills, no screams, no, “I don't want this!” or “Are we done yet?” or “I'm bored, Dad!”

The movie was even better. She'd picked the restaurant, so he'd picked the movie. It was the first flick
he'd seen in ages that had some skin, some blood, some action. She could eat the chocolate she wanted. He could have his own popcorn. No one whispered in his ear. No one claimed they had to go to the bathroom three times. He actually got to see a movie from start to end.

It's not as if this were a date….

He wasn't aware he'd spoken aloud, until Amanda chuckled. “Of course it wasn't a date. We're not
dating.
We just had a grown-up afternoon.” She sighed with contentment. “No Bambi. No comic-book characters. And I had the whole chocolate bar.”

He laughed. “You had two, I believe.”

“Yeah, I admit I went overboard—but I haven't had a whole chocolate bar to myself in…well, in years. I'm always trying to think about setting the right example.” She smiled at him again. “That's the best part. A whole afternoon without any ‘shoulds' or ‘have tos'.”

Damned, if he didn't feel exactly the same way. It was funny, but he hadn't been easy in his own skin for a long time now. Certainly not when he was married. There always seemed to be something he was doing or saying wrong, something that was going to get analyzed and criticized.

It seemed unbelievable—if not downright crazy—that he could feel that rare sense of easiness with her.

By the time he pulled in his driveway, she was still
smiling…and so was he. “We have a couple of hours before the kids are due home,” she said.

“Yeah. Both of us might even catch a nap or some reading time.” He climbed out at the same time she did, stretched. Cat and Slugger burst out of the pet door as if they hadn't seen him in a decade. Cat slapped Slugger with a paw when the hound tried to reach him first. Slugger immediately howled, but he couldn't have been hurt too badly, because he kept galloping, ears flapping in the wind.

Amanda laughed and then kept on laughing. “I'm afraid I'll be greeted the same way when I walk in the door.”

And she turned that way…but she didn't seem in any rush to race home. They both seemed to linger. Just standing there. He'd tried not to pay attention, but the warmth of late-afternoon sunshine brushed her shoulders, turned her hair into fire, and her eyes—he swore—were as emerald-green as the jewel.

“Well…thanks for a great afternoon,” she said, and bounced up—as if she intended to give him a friendly, neighborly hug.

He thought that fast hug was a great idea—a way to underline how easily they were going to maintain the friendship thing. Only…once she lifted up on tiptoes, she seemed to hesitate. The shine in her eyes seemed to darken. He felt the brush of those sassy high breasts, the graze of her pelvis, the scent of her skin take over his air space.

In that spare second, he couldn't seem to breathe—except for her. Couldn't seem to move—because basic touches ignited a maelstrom of furious wants and noisy needs. Couldn't seem to control the hunger—to kiss her again.

He didn't.

She didn't.

For a good, long three seconds.

It was her fault things changed, he was pretty sure, because she was the one who swung her arms around his neck. But then…hell. He couldn't keep his mouth off hers, and the kiss became a banquet of tasting, taking, wooing. He had to touch her. Had to. He stroked down her spine, the route not familiar, just familiar enough so that he knew the curve in her knew a palm on her fanny brought a groan…and encouraged her to lean even tighter into him.

Invitations hung in the air, unseen, invisible, but real as the sunlight.
Maybe
suddenly seemed the longest word in the English language, analyzed between her lips and his, between the silken brush of her hair in the breeze, between the heat he could feel rising in her skin, through her skin…into him.

She lifted her head, opened stunned-soft eyes, looked straight at him.

She swallowed. He got his breath back. She remembered to drop her hands from around his neck. He remembered to drop his hands from around
her back. The flush on her cheeks—there was no changing that.

There was no changing the brick inside his jeans, either.

But suddenly she turned her head, said out of the complete blue, “We really do need a fence between our yards, to keep our pets separated.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that before.” Since she created the diversion, he was more than willing to embellish it. “Instead of a barrier kind of fence…what would you think about an electric one?”

“What a great idea. Then your dog and my dog can't cross over. But then it won't be an unfriendly fence. It'll just…you know. Help.”

Exactly what he thought. Maybe their dogs didn't need it—but he sure as hell did. He needed something that would zap him—electrocute him if necessary—when he felt the urge to touch her again.

The electrocution idea seemed to gain momentum all on its own, because when he heard the sound of a car pulling in his drive, he jumped back from Amanda as if the foot between them was electrically charged.

The man climbing down from a tan SUV was a complete stranger. He was short and plump, sweating under his golf tan. He wore the usual suburban uniform of polo shirt and shorts, and approached them with a waxy smile and a hand raised to shake. “Hello. I live in the first house at the top of the cul-de-sac. I
know you're Amanda Scott and Mike Conroy. I hope you both got a note from me when you first moved in.”

If Mike had, he didn't remember it. Amanda did. “From the Home Owners' Association?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“I thought it was nice of you to welcome a newcomer to the neighborhood that way,” Amanda said warmly.

“I thought we'd better have a little talk before there were problems,” Warren White said cordially.

“What problems?” Mike said warily.

“We have some rules in the neighborhood. Ordinances. Policies to keep the neighborhood to a standard we all like.”

“Exactly what rules?” Mike's spine was instinctively stiffening. If this guy was going to try playing law games with him, he should have done his homework.

“I'm afraid you can't put a water garden in your backyard without permission.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And, Amanda, I'm afraid you need permission to plant trees, as well.”

“What? You mean, the little dogwood I planted yesterday—?”

Warren kindly shook his head. “I'm afraid you needed permission. I'm sorry you didn't get it ahead of time.”

Warren promised to put a list of the rules in each of their mailboxes. There were rules about what time a person could water their grass. Rules about recycling. Rules about noise. Rules about dandelion control. Rules about the length of grass allowed. Rules about no parking on the street overnight, no RV parking, no sheds put up in the yards—without permission. “Many people want fences, but we don't want the look of the neighborhood to deteriorate, so before putting in a fence, that's another thing you need to have permission for—”

“When exactly are these Home Owners' Association meetings, and where are they held?” Mike interrupted abruptly.

“Every third Thursday of the month. 7:00 p.m., after dinner. Because I'm president this year, I usually hold them in my family room. You're both welcome to attend. But I do assure you that the covenant rules are all legally binding.”

For no apparent reason, Amanda suddenly snugged her hand in his, pressing hard, and stepped just a bit in front of him. “Thanks so much for stopping by, Mr. White. I suspect we're both likely to attend your next meeting. Thanks for filling us in.”

When the superficial, supercilious jerk backed out of the driveway, she dropped his hand. “Okay.
Now
you can froth at the mouth. But try not to bellow at least until he's out of sight.”

“Why would you think I was angry?”

“A wild guess,” she assured him. “Although seeing you exhale fire was probably the first clue.”

“Well, who elected him God? Did we suddenly land in a dictator state, or is this still America? What possible reason can there be why I can't have a water garden? And if he thinks I'm taking it out, he's about to find out why I made law partner when I was still in my twenties.”

“Mike.”

“What?”

“Try and remember that we're in a foreign country. I think they call it the suburbs.”

Okay, okay, so she made him laugh in spite of himself.

And right then, Nancy and her George drove up—almost two hours earlier than planned. Teddy peeled out of the car faster than a criminal just granted parole.

Mike still wanted to finish his conversation with Amanda, but abruptly her hot-shot ex pulled in next door with Molly.

There was no more time to worry about sex or embraces or how damn much she was starting to mean to him.

From the look on his son's face, it was going to be a ticklish evening. And from the look on Molly's… Amanda was going to have her hands even more full.

 

Amanda didn't want to leave Mike. She knew the neighborhood “representative” had rubbed him the wrong way. Warren White struck her as the kind of ineffectual person who had no power in his real life, so he got a thrill out of imposing rules on others about their water-sprinkling schedules. Still. Mike should realize the guy was just a pompous wannabe bully…not a real problem.

In the meantime, though, she couldn't be the one to calm him down.

She definitely had her hands full with Molly.

Her daughter submitted to a bath, willingly changed into pink baby-doll pajamas, but after that, she folded her arms across her chest with a major diva scowl. “I want some mommy time and I want it
now.
”

It wasn't as if Amanda hadn't been through this before. She put a fluffy blanket on the deck. Brought out the tray of nail polishes. Molly brought her doll-size tea set. The teapot was filled with milk.

“Daddy tricked me!” was the dramatic opening to Molly's tirade.

“How, honey?”

“He was real nice and real nice and real nice. Only, then we got to his house. And there was a lady there. A
stupid
lady.”

Across the way, Amanda could see lights popping on and off at Mike's house. Her attention was on her
daughter, but a thick clog seemed to have settled in her stomach. Mike was probably doing exactly what she was. Dealing with a child wounded by their divorce. Through no fault of their own, his Teddy and her Molly were both still reeling from the mistakes of their parents.

Molly, temporarily, stopped her rant to study her hands, which had been soaked and filed and were now ready for the fun part. Color. “Can we do our toenails after our hand nails?”

“Sure.”

“I want yellow for my toenails.”

“I'm pretty sure we have yellow.” Amanda didn't actually look at the basket of polishes, but since color was always a major issue for her daughter, she was almost positive they had the whole crayon set of choices.

“And I want different colors for every hand nail.”

“Okay.” Amanda had learned a long time ago never to sweat the small stuff. “Now tell me more about your day.”

“She had on this big fakey smile. Like grown-ups use for kids. And she says, ‘How would you like to go shopping with me?' And I say, ‘No, thanks, I'm here to see my dad.' And she says, ‘If we go shopping, I thought I'd get you an American Girl doll.' And I say, ‘No, thank you, my mommy gets me all the American Girl dolls I could possibly want.'” Molly looked up with stormy eyes. “Okay. So that was a lie. And
it was really hard to say no, because I
really, really
need another American Girl doll. But she was being a pain.”

“Honey. Sweetheart. Now, think a minute. It doesn't sound like she was being a pain. It sounds as if she was trying very, very hard to be nice to you.”

“No. She just wanted to give me a doll so I'd like her. And I'm never going to like her. She had three boxes of games. And grape Kool-Aid. So fine. I played some games with her. But you know what?”