Then opens it.

"Get off my porch, lady."

Slam.

I stand there fuming for a second and then stomp down the front walk, down to the driveway and then to the street. There are no sidewalks in Hunter's Run. People aren't supposed to walk here. If you own a house in this craphole you should have a fancy car to drive.

When I finally get back to my own house, my oldest daughter, Karen, opens the door before I even touch the knob.

"Hey, Mom," she says brightly. "We made dinner."

Oh come on.

I trudge wearily into the house, and I can smell burnt food. When I walk into the kitchen, Kelly is standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of macaroni and cheese. Judging from the marks on the stovetop, it boiled over repeatedly while she was cooking the noodles. Karen has a full pack's worth of hot dogs rolling around in butter in a frying pan.

They're a little scorched, but they're still good. I turn down the heat and roll them around a bit to make sure they're actually hot in the middle and not just burned on the outside, while Karen lays out buns.

They didn't do such a bad job. I need to stir the mac and cheese a bit. The cheese powder got a little lumpy. At least they didn't burn the house down. I want to be home to meet them but I have to work to buy them food. They're not the only latchkey kids at school. That's what I tell myself.

Karen, my oldest, is fourteen. I had her when I was still in college. Her father, my ex, was one of my professors. Since I got pregnant by him, I had to quit to save his job. That was nice of you, Russel. Kelly came along four years later, and a few years after that I guess I was too worn out for him and he decided to trade up for a new model. After taking half his coeds out for a test drive first.

If anything good came of my marriage, it's these two. Karen makes me the most nervous. She's starting high school this year and she looks so much like me when I was her age. It feels like a million years ago.

Kelly is such a kid. All she wants is to eat more mac and cheese. I can't help but smile as she piles half the pot on her plate. I don't know where she puts it all. She's as skinny as a reed.

"Did you see the guy?" Karen asks.

"What guy?"

She chews her hot dog thoughtfully. "Next door."

Not this again. I sigh.

"Yes, I saw him. He's obnoxious and rude."

"And hot!"

"Karen." I put a hint of warning in my voice.

"You talked to him? What's he like?"

Sighing, I rub the back of my hand against my temple. "Obnoxious. Rude."

"Hot."

"Karen," I growl.

"Fine, fine. Maybe you should give him a chance?"

Another sigh escapes my throat. Better to let her drop it or hope something distracts her.

"Kelly, not so much salt on the mac and cheese, okay?"

Kelly gives me a sullen look, pushes the salt shaker back to the middle of the table, and starts shoveling yellowish noodle globs into her mouth.

Karen is giving me that look.

Ever since Russel filed for divorce, she's been pushing me to find a boyfriend. I barely have time to eat and sleep, much less time to date.

I don't think I even remember how. I was never even in a relationship before Russel. I have kids. I don't need a man. I've written it out of my life. Karen just can't understand that. She's got her head full of these silly ideas about romance and love. I've been catching her reading cheesy romance novels lately. One time I found her reading a book called Knocked Up by the Bad Boy. She's a fan of Vanessa Waltz, whoever that is. I really shouldn't let her read that stuff. She's not old enough.

I mean, really.

"What did you talk about?"

"What?"

"What did you-"

"I heard you," I sigh. "I went over to talk to him about his car. He's going to get it towed if he keeps it in the driveway."

"That's a dumb rule."

"I know, but it's still a rule."

"What did he say?"

"He wasn't happy to hear it. He slammed the door in my face."

"Jeez, Mom. You need a better opener than, 'Hey, move your car.'"

"I don't need an opener, Karen. I'm not interested in this guy. I didn't know he existed until I got home from work."

"Okay, okay, fine," she says, her voice turning sour. "Whatever. I have homework."

"You're excused," I say, as she's already walking upstairs.

"Can I have the rest of the mac and cheese?" Kelly chirps.

I nod and watch her devour it, chewing on another crusty hot dog before I've had enough and my youngest daughter helps me clean up the mess. Once I've got her ready for bed I take a shower, dry off, and crawl into my own bed.

My alarm goes off at 4:45.

I sit up and try to walk, rather than crawl, down to the kitchen. I need to have both kids to the bus by 6:30. In his infinite wisdom Russel put us so far from the "good schools" the realtor crowed about that my kids have to ride the bus almost an hour each way, longer if there's traffic.

Thanks, Russ.

First order of business is preparing food. I want my kids to have a good breakfast, so I cook eggs and sausage myself, and pour breakfast cereal for Kelly, which she devours first.

When they're both fed I walk with them down to the front gate, where the bus stops, and pace around waiting for them to be picked up. They ride the same bus, thankfully. When it pulls up I feel the same pang I feel every time when they board and wave to me, and choke up a little walking back to the house.

Once I'm back inside I shower again quickly, since it was a sweaty walk down to the bus stop, and dress for work.

I have twenty-five minutes to make the bus, which will be cutting it a little close.

Briskly I storm out of my house, run back up to lock the door, then run back, hoping I'll make it.

Then some asshole sprays me with a hose.

Quentin I'm minding my own business, hosing the soap off my car when I hear a gurgling scream and look up to see a woman standing in the spray. No, not a woman, my nosy new neighbor.

Oh, lovely.

No, really. She is.

Just the sight of her stiffens my dick, which is a real problem. Tall for a woman, she's lusciously curved and has bright-red hair tied up in a short ponytail, and the scrubs make her look like the world's most fuckable nurse.

The world's most fuckable nurse just entered a wet t-shirt contest. I flick the spray away from her and she stands there sopping wet, beaded water dripping from her nose. Her clothes are soaked through, clinging to the lush curves of her body.

Scrubs are kind of shapeless. Not anymore. She's got a hell of a rack, an ass that cries out to be spanked, and long, shapely legs. She also has a glare that could cut glass. Her rosebud lips twist in a sneer and she storms across her lawn, fists bunched at her sides, and does a cute little thing where she sort of props up on her tiptoes to get in my face.

"You asshole," she snarls, "look at what you did."

I can't help it, I look at what I did, and I like what I see. I glance down, and my cock stirs a little more at the sight of her scrubs molded to her breasts. It doesn't help that, while she's verbally tearing me a new asshole, she's giving me the eye. Hard.

I probably should have worn a shirt while I was doing this. This is usually the part where the girl giggles and asks me what my tattoos mean and I tell her it's none of her business, but she can have a closer look.

This lady, no.

"I have to go to work," she snaps, on the verge of tears. "Now I have to go back inside and change. I'm going to miss my fucking bus because of you."

"I'll give you a ride," I blurt, before I realize I'm doing it.

She rears back. "Oh, great. Thanks a lot. No thanks, I'll walk."

Her lip trembling like she's on the verge of tears, she turns on her heels and strides back up to her house, and it hits me that I'm actually upset to watch her leave.

However, I enjoy watching her go.

The front door slams as she disappears inside.

By the time I put up the hose and throw on a t-shirt, she's walking out of the house.

"Let me give you a ride."

"No."

"Come on, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spray you."

"Right. After that little display last night I'm supposed to believe that."

"Look, lady, I don't give a goddamn what you think about where I park my-"

She rounds on me, plants her heels, squeezes her hands into fists, and shouts at me. "I don't care either. I was trying to save you some trouble, you musclebound meathead. If you'd stopped to listen you might have realized that instead of biting my head off for trying to help you. Get lost."

"No. Get in my fucking car."

She snaps back, blinking.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not going to let you walk wherever you're going in this heat on the shoulder of the goddamn road. Get in my car."

She looks at me. "Apologize."

"Excuse me?"

"Apologize. For last night."

"Lady, I'm not your kid-"

"If you're not the inconsiderate asshole I think you are, you will apologize."

My mouth falls open. Are you fucking kidding me?

I'm tempted to refuse her, just to see her get more pissed off. She's cute when she's angry.

"Fine. I'm sorry. Now get in the car."

"You didn't mean it-"

"Lady, if you don't get in the car I am going to throw you over my shoulder and lock you in the trunk. I am giving you a ride to work and you are going to shut up and accept it."

Fuming, she just stares at me.

Then she looks at her watch and rubs her wrist.

"Fine," she mutters, "but you better not try anything."

"What are you expecting me to try?"

She flushes red and hurries ahead of me, but I have to open her door for her anyway. She slips into the front seat and sighs audibly before leaning over to unlock my door.

Good girl.

I slip inside and close my door, and she folds her arms and pointedly stares straight ahead, but she flinches a little when I turn the key and the motor starts up.

She's a '68 Impala. When I picked her up she was a complete mess, and I had to strip the car down to a subframe and start from scratch. Took me almost three years to get her in perfect shape with all new running gear, a big block crate engine, new brakes, better suspension, the works. My little side project. Kind of a retirement party on wheels.