The Bachelor Next Door

“I’m not interested in Rafe Santini,” she said out loud, hoping that saying the words would make them come true but even to her ears, the declaration sounded weak.

Damn that good-looking man and his cute backside. She added two cookies to the penalty of treats she couldn’t have for using a curse word. At the rate she was going, she wouldn’t be able to eat dessert until the year 2010.

Rafe worked on the roof all morning and into the afternoon. The tedious job of removing shingles left his mind free to wander. But it never went further than the lady across the street. A week had passed since he’d rescued her from the bathroom, and he still couldn’t get the feel of her in his arms out of his mind.

And if he needed a further reminder, Andy was constantly underfoot, asking Rafe questions about every job he did. At first the boy had seemed annoying, and Rafe had been unsure what to say to the kid, but Andy was so serious. More of a miniadult than a child. That made talking to him easier.

Rafe always steered clear of “family” women. The type of lady looking for a man to be a husband and father to her kids. The type who wanted commitment. He didn’t care for the way that word was bandied about on talk shows, but he knew it to be a goal of most females. A woman just wasn’t happy until every bachelor she knew was married.

He liked being on his own, coming and going as he pleased and not having to answer to anyone. Loneliness didn’t bother him anymore. His business was successful, and his life on track. He wasn’t about to screw that up now by becoming attracted to a single mother.

His libido said differently, but Rafe felt firmly in control. He wasn’t some sixteen-year-old virgin experiencing lust for the first time. He was a seasoned man. He was in control. “Ha,” he muttered.

He climbed down off the roof and grabbed a beer from the cooler sitting on the porch. Maybe he’d hang the basketball hoop on the garage and see if he could entice anyone in the neighborhood into playing a game.

Hanging the hoop took all of fifteen minutes. Rafe finished off his beer with one long swallow and dug the orange ball out of a box in the garage. Walking back out onto the cement of the driveway, Rafe bounced the ball a couple of times.

“Hello, Mr. Santini.” Andy Gambrel’s shy voice broke his concentration. This serious little boy made Rafe want to go back inside. He was trying to forget Cassandra Gambrel, and her son was a reminder Rafe could have done without. They were a family and family meant pain. Remember that.

“Hi, Andy. How was school?”

A gap-toothed grin lit the boy’s face. “Good. What are you doing?”

“Playing basketball. You up for a game?”

Andy glanced over his shoulder before nodding. Rafe knew the boy was going against his mother’s edict. “Have you ever played before?”

“No,” he said. Andy shrugged, fidgeting from one foot to the other. He cast another glance over his shoulder at the house.

“Want to learn how?” Rafe asked. He had never met a child so serious. Andy seemed to be weighing the consequences of every decision he made.

At last he shook his head. “My mom says sports are for big brutes. Small guys like me were meant for the arts.”

Rafe felt a spark of anger toward Cass. Sports helped boys develop into men. It gave them the training and discipline to see things through. Andy would need that discipline when he reached the teen years. Hell, the boy needed it now. Still, Rafe had no right to interfere.

“Well your mom’s the boss, but if she changes her mind let me know.” Rafe bounced the ball one more time before tossing it toward the hoop. It was a clean shot and didn’t touch the rim.

“I’ve never really asked to play. I don’t think Mom would mind if I threw the ball a time or two,” Andy said.

Rafe figured the boy knew what he was doing. Dribbling the ball a few times, Rafe shot it toward the hoop, sinking the ball perfectly. Rafe passed the ball to Andy. “Your turn.”

Andy tried, but his passes lacked the power to make a basket. The boy bounced the ball and kept glaring at the hoop as if it were his enemy. His shots were strong, but he missed sinking the shot every time.

“It’s not your skill, Andy. The hoop’s too high for someone your size.”

“Mom was right then,” he said, sounding unbearably forlorn.

“You need a lower hoop,” Rafe said. “Or some help. Dribble the ball and I’ll lift you when you’re ready to dunk it.”

Rafe heard the squeak of a screen door opening, but kept his attention on Andy. He felt Cass’s gaze on them. It took all of his discipline and willpower not to glance over his shoulder.

Andy bounced the ball a few times before he was ready for his shot. Rafe lifted him and together they made a basket. Andy’s face glowed with the pride of success. “I did it! Wow, I can’t believe it.”

“Mommy, did you see that?” he asked turning to see her watching. Andy ran to her, hugging Cass’s legs. “I can’t believe it.”

Rafe saw the conflict in Cass. Pride warred with anger and apprehension on her face. “Good job, sweetie, but you know the rule about sports.”

“This was supervised.”

Cass shook her head. “Okay, Andy, but next time I want you to ask for permission first.”

“Thanks, Mommy.”

“Go inside and wash up for dinner.”

He left without another word. Rafe half hoped that he’d be dismissed also. But the gleam in Cass’s eyes told him differently.

“Rafe, I don’t like Andy playing sports. He’s small for his age and I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“We weren’t playing tackle football, just shooting some hoops.”

“I know I’m overreacting. It’s just that I’m not sure Andy’s ready to get involved in sports. He’s only seven.”

“He’ll be okay. He knows your rules, Cass.”

She nodded, then straightened her shoulders as though preparing for an assault. “I’m the president of the Hollow Acres Home Owners’ Association.”

“Really? Must be some job.”

“It doesn’t take much time,” she said, staring over his shoulder for a minute before meeting his gaze squarely. “That hoop is against our regulations.”

“What?” he asked. Her ginger-colored eyes were serious now, but some of her earlier fear for Andy lingered.

“I’m issuing you a warning. You have two days to remove the hoop or you’ll be fined.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Wrong, Mr. Santini, I’m serious about this.” She reached down to scratch Tundra under her chin, and the dog’s tongue lolled out of her mouth as she rolled onto her back. “Didn’t you read the Owner’s Agreement?”

He hadn’t, but he couldn’t think beyond the long legs revealed by her shorts. The fabric slid up her thigh as she bent to pet Tundra. He knew that she was in shape, but hadn’t guessed at the muscle tone she had. Her legs were long and lean and he wanted to feel them wrapped around his waist.

Tension ripped through him, making a mockery of his control. Dammit, what had they been talking about? The Owner’s Agreement. “How long has this agreement been in effect?”

“Since 1983 when the county commissioners asked us to make our houses uniform.” She stood up and started to walk away.

“Well, maybe it’s time we updated the rules.”

She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. “Maybe, but until we do, that hoop has to come down.”