Page 22 of Stealing Second

“Yeah, well, one day I may,” I grumble as I hit Start.

“Today is not that day. Text us your order. We’re grabbing Indian at five thirty and binge-watching your scary-ass shows after that,” Francesca says.

“Sounds good.”

I end the call and dig to find my phone in my coat pocket.

I jump when I hear the doorbell, and then I dig in deeper, frantic, now attempting to get to it so I can open my doorbell cam app and see who the hell is here.

Phone in hand, I open the app and see … him.

I begin spiraling. “Nope. No. This is not happening.”

From my phone comes, “Hey, Red. This is obviously a bit of a … surprise? Yeah, a surprise, but?—”

“Why are you in my phone?” I whisper as I search for whatever button I must have pushed, one that I wasn’t ever aware was there, allowing him to hear me. “Look, Alexa, I thought this was between you and me, not the whole damn neighborhood.” I then see the little microphone when I move my thumb.

“I’m sorry—what?” he asks.

The amusement in his deep rasp makes me want to … do something that I’ve yet to decipher.

“Look, we’re not friends.”

“Okay?” he huffs, and I see his big chest rise and fall, and I know I’ve pissed him off.

Same. Hot Neighbor/Gym Bro. Same.

“We’re neighbors. I’d prefer that there’s no bad blood on the street, so how about you let me?—”

“There will be no bad blood if you stop letting that … that”—adorable little thing—“dog poop in my yard.”

I watch him huff again. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not concerned with what you think. I just want to be sure you and that … that”—cute little furball—“dog know your boundaries.”

He mouths, “Wow,” and then rolls his eyes. Freaking rolls them!

“Will do, Red. Have a great day.”

To that, I say … nothing.

5

No Glove, No Love

Francesca’s laughter echoes off the walls when I finish telling them what went down when I got home.

I glare at her then swing my gaze to Fawna to better make the decision whether I’m going to yell at one of them or both for laughing at my expense. The look on her face is pure comedy, and we all end up laughing. Me, mostly out of exhaustion.

“Can we eat now?” I whine.

We unwrap the steaming containers and place them around the table that I typically only use when there’s company—which I don’t consider them to be—but they brought so much food that we can’t just pass it around as we sit on the couch, like we normally would. This meal is dining-room-table-worthy.

We start with crispy samosas, basmati rice, and fluffy naan bread, perfect for soaking up the sauces. Fawna then spoons creamy butter chicken onto her plate and passes it to me.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t let this go. We need to unpack?—”

I hold out my hand. “Nope. There will be no unpacking at the dinner table. Vegetable biryani and palak paneer, pretty please.”

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