“Um. Maybe I should make breakfast this morning.” Creed walks over and takes the smoking frying pan off the stovetop. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to those women?”
Other than years of traumatic sexual abuse and captivity? “No. Maddox and his men are taking care of them.” I can’t believe they brought down an entire ring in one night without a single loss.
“I can’t wait until I’m eighteen and become a prospect.”
“Prospects get all the grunt work.” I walk over to a stool and let Creed take over breakfast. My mind needs a moment—or a week not to focus on the hot neighbor.
“Eh…I’m not afraid of hard work.” He walks over to the fridge and grabs an onion and pepper from the crisper drawer, as well as some cheese, milk, and butter.
“What exactly are you making?”
“I thought about making quiche, but then I realized we don’t have a pre-made crust, and I don’t know how to make a crust, so I just thought I’d make the inside of a quiche. But I think it needs cream. We don’t have cream.”
Quiche? Why is Creed talking about quiche? When has he ever had quiche? That sounds like some fancy food the hot neighbor would make. The hot neighbor who was complaining about me feeding my son. “Creed, when did you have quiche?”
The boy freezes. “Have you ever had quiche? It’s amazing.”
“Yes, I’ve had quiche. It’s just an egg pie. But I’ve never made quiche, nor have any of the women at the club. So, where did you taste quiche?”
“Um…were you able to find out about that job?”
“Creed, who made you quiche?” I stand up, already knowing the answer before he utters a single word. “How dare she?”
“Dad, it wasn’t like that.”
Except it was. It was exactly like that.
How dare she?
How dare that woman feed my son?
How dare she make him that fancy food, like the food I serve him isn’t good enough?
Quiche…she thinks she’s so amazing because she made my kid quiche.
I smash my fist into her front door over and over again.
She pulls it open in the same robe as last night. Only today her hair is mussed like she just got out of bed.
Did I wake her up?
Probably. Oh well.
“Has no one ever shown you how to use a doorbell? It’s a simple piece of electronics used to politely inform a person of your arrival. Only a rude neanderthal pounds on a person’s door, shaking their entire home to express their displeasure.” She looks me up and down, probably finding my flannels and tee decidedly awful. “I expect nothing less from someone like you. What exactly are you upset about today? Did you find the weather too chilly and feel the need to complain to me about it?”
Don’t smile.
Don’t laugh.
And whatever you do, don’t look back up at that mass of wild hair and think about shoving your hands into it and finding out if it’s as soft as the silk she’s wearing.
What is wrong with me?
“Oh, I know. You burnt your tongue on your coffee this morning and came over to tell me how it’s my fault that the coffee is too hot. That must be it, because you haven’t said anything yet, but you’re staring at me like you’re ready to spit nails.”
I laugh. A full-blown, from the belly, laugh.
My hot neighbor has absolutely zero survival instincts, as she turns and walks back into the house without bothering to shut the door behind her. Either she expects me to close the door or to follow her. I’m not sure which, but I know I should close the door.
