“The president of the HOA. You just missed her Wednesday night. She’s not a fan of ours, so I’d pretend you don’t like me if I were you.”
He stopped walking, and I paused to look back at his earnest eyes. “I don’t think I can pretend that.”
“Oh.”
Oh? Really, Vivian, that’s the best you can come up with? Oh?
“Um, that’s really sweet of you.”
We walked in awkward silence for a few minutes before he asked, “Who the heck thought it would be a good idea to name the main drag of this subdivision Oregon Trail?”
I laughed. “Either someone who had no clue about the old computer game, someone who wanted to pay homage to it, or someone who secretly wished dysentery and dead oxen on everyone here.”
“I ... uh, never played that game.”
Say what?
“Exactly how old are you, then?”
“Thirty-eight.”
Oh, good. The last man to send me flowers was practically a fetus.
It’s only six years.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
And those flowers were because you helped him with something. He’s not interested in you.
And I wasn’t interested in him. Except as a neighbor. Sure, it would be easier if I could find another husband—a better husband—and just slide him into Mitch’s place, but I’d already watched Mom try that. It wouldn’t work. I needed to face the music.
But someday ...
No.
Look at what a difference six years made. We didn’t even have the same cultural references.
“Yeah, my parents sent me to this really weird private school. I know a lot about Leviticus, but I’m not so good with the pop culture references.”
Ah. So our age difference wasn’t the reason.
His hand hit mine lightly, and he jerked it away. His eyes immediately scanned the horizon in a she’s-married-don’t-touch-be-cool sort of way.
Or maybe I was projecting, and an awkward hand bump was just an awkward hand bump.
He stepped ahead of us to the clubhouse and held the door for me, like the dadgum gentleman he was. As predicted, Dawn Crawford cornered him, clutching his upper arm while she lectured him on the state of his yard as well as how he needed to be making plans to paint his house.
I let him go because I had too much going on to evaluate hand bumps or how Parker couldn’t pretend to dislike me. I walked away from where Dawn discussed lawn maintenance in a breathy manner while making sure to brush her boob against his arm. Classy and subtle, that was Dawn Crawford.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes to the back of my head. I really should rescue the poor man—not because I had designs on him, mind you. It was just the neighborly thing to do.
“I’m sorry, Dawn, but Parker and I were discussing the possibility of fencing in our backyards,” I said as I took his forearm to steer him away.
“The fence has to start halfway down the sidewall of each house!” It was an automatic response, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Good to know HOA policies trumped flirting in her world.
George cleared his throat, a sign the meeting should’ve begun two minutes ago.
We each took a seat in a row of metal folding chairs just in time for President Crawford to bring the meeting to order.
