Joel said, “You’re too cute to waste away by your lonesome, and my offer’s good. Let me know if you need help, and if you’re ready, I’ll walk you to your car.”

  It was almost dark when she made it home, and thankfully it’d stopped raining. The temps had warmed to not-so-freezing, so she poured herself a glass of wine and sat outside to get some reading in. The deep porch that wrapped around to her side door was her favorite part of the house, as were the rockers her mom had insisted she needed. Tonight, though, she chose the porch swing, another of her mother’s must-haves.

  “Fuck,” she said an hour later. The expletive startled Hugo awake, and the cat glared at her for disturbing his nap. Both he and Truman loved sitting out here with her, and they acted as if any grass touching their paws was the equivalent of lava, so she didn’t worry about them running off.

  “Sorry, Your Majesty.” Hugo closed his eyes at her apology, but not before giving her major side-eye shade. “I love to fuck as much as anyone, with maybe the exception of Cheryl, but these are horrible.” She’d only read ten anthology submissions so far, and saying they were bad was being kind. “All of these make me want to keep my clothes on and consider celibacy. I’m pretty sure that’s not the reaction our readers want when it comes to erotica.” It was a running contest as to which one was the worst. “Shit, these are horrible,” she repeated in frustration.

  “What’s horrible?” George St. Germaine asked. He was standing right under her in the yard and scared the hell out of her. Hayley swore he tiptoed over, so he could pop up and catch her doing something like adjusting her bra. This time he’d come close to knocking her off her porch swing. He loved doing that and was a slow learner when it came to stopping bad behavior.

  “Just work, George. Nothing that’ll interest you.” She was praying he hadn’t been there long enough to hear the part about her loving to fuck. There was no way to be sure, but she thought George was a secret perv. “What can I do for you?”

  “Heard about the Fuller place?” He zipped up the stairs, clearly misinterpreting her question. What can I do for you in no way meant Sit and talk as much as you can before I pass out. He sat in the closest rocker and sighed. That usually meant he was planning to stay awhile. With any luck he’d do his duty of reporting the gossip and go home. She was never that lucky, but she liked to think of herself as an eternal optimist.

  “Aside from it being a dump?” She stared at George, hoping he’d leave once he reported all the gossip he’d gathered. Not that she was anxious to go back to reading bad sex, but George was hard to take in time-consuming doses. “Are they finally tearing it down?”

  The Fuller house, as everyone referred to it, looked like someone vomited a rotting monstrosity onto the lot. If she was lucky enough that a demolition crew was headed their way, she prayed the new owner wouldn’t build something that’d ruin the charm of their street. She wasn’t fully educated on the historical district zoning rules, but there had to be some. The problem was, they weren’t considered part of the French Quarter. She knew the Vieux Carré Commission had strict rules in the Quarter, but they might be fair game in the Marigny.

  “No, someone bought it.” George leaned in closer. “I’ve seen her and have kept an eye on her. She’s not real talkative, but according to the guys down at the bar, she’s some foreigner. Can you believe it?” George paused and rocked. Rocking was a bad sign because it hinted at a drawn-out visit. “There should be laws against that kind of thing. Hell, maybe one of us wanted to buy it. How were we supposed to know?”

  “By reading the For Sale sign that’s been up for months, maybe.” She pointed to the Potts Realty sign, surprised she’d missed the Sold sticker on it.

  “Yeah, but Pippa didn’t have to sell to no damn foreigner.”

  When it came to George, foreigner was a term you had to take loosely. It could mean a person from another country, someone from another state, or someone from Louisiana that wasn’t from the Quarter or the Marigny. All those were bad in George’s world. It’d taken him months before he spoke to her once he found out she was from New York. His wife still wouldn’t speak to her, so she supposed she was still considered sketchy. Now she regretted not speaking to him in an Italian accent. He’d still be on his side of the fence.

  “It’s not right.”

  “Well, I’ll let you know if I hear anything you can report to the guys at the bar. If you’ll excuse me, though, I need to finish this, so I’m headed in.” She gathered her papers and wineglass, ready to leave him on the porch if necessary. Even Hugo jumped up as if not wanting to be left alone with George. Truman the slut would stay with anyone who petted him long enough. “Good night.”

  “Okay, be careful. The person I saw looks shifty.” George nodded and stood. He wavered as he headed down the stairs. “Call me if you have any problems. I’ll come over night or day, and I’ll report in as soon as I have any information.”

  “I appreciate that.” She closed and locked the door, watching him descend the stairs from inside, and wondered if he had any idea what a weirdo he was. The little farewell exchanges were George’s way of sucking you in. “Well, guys, hopefully we don’t end up with another George,” she said to the cats. “If we do, we’ll have to get blinds and limit our porch time.”

  All she was in the mood for was a sandwich, but she craved a shower even more. After days of rain it was the only thing that would warm her as well as relax her. Before that, she sent Marlo an email about the submissions she’d just read and how unacceptable they were. Anyone who thought using honeypot for female genitalia was sexy should be banned from writing another thing. This wasn’t an anthology for bears, dammit.

  There appeared to be no signs of life next door, considering there wasn’t one light on, but she only took her sweater and jeans off, not willing to chance it. Her T-shirt and underwear she saved to take off in the bathroom as the water heated in the shower. There was nothing better than hot water on your skin on cold damp days, and she turned around after gathering her shoulder length hair so it wouldn’t get wet.

  She finished her shower and turned off the water, but the sound of cursing made her look out the window before leaving the tub. There was a naked woman in the jumble of weeds in the backyard of the Fuller place hosing herself down. It was getting dark, and it was drizzling, but whoever she was didn’t seem to mind being outside, totally naked. From the way she was shaking the water from the hose it had to be freezing, which could account for the cursing. But all Hayley could concentrate on was the woman was crazy good-looking, even from her limited view.

  “I take back every bad thing I said about my new neighbor,” she whispered. “You’ve got a body someone should write erotica about.”

  The strange display didn’t last very long, and the woman shook herself like a dog and went back inside. “You’re nothing like George.” The day George hosed himself naked in his yard was the day she called the cops. She threw on some loose sweats and a T-shirt and headed to the kitchen, ready to eat before reading the rest of the submissions. Her cell rang, and she was almost afraid it was George with more questionable information, but she smiled when she saw it was Lucy.

  “How’s the grind?” Lucy asked.

  “Interesting,” she said, putting a chip in her mouth as her bread toasted. “Or I should say I have interesting news. I have a new neighbor, and I think I just saw her naked.”

  “Did she rip all her curtains down like you?”

  She laughed and glanced out her kitchen window but still didn’t see any lights. The truck was still there, but there was no sign of life. “No, she was hosing herself off in the yard, cursing more than you do. According to George she’s a foreigner, but I can’t verify the naked woman is her.”

  “So she’s from the Garden District, then? George’s concept of foreigner is sketchy at best. I’m sure he thinks I’m here illegally, stealing someone’s job. I always get the impression he has the ICE on speed dial every time I come over.”

  “George is an idiot, so don’t worry about any stupidity spewing out of his mouth. He gets most of his opinion from Fox News, and we both know what a fantasy world that is.” She fixed her sandwich and plated it. “If you come over this weekend, maybe we can go over there and introduce ourselves to the new owner.” She gathered everything and moved to the sofa. After reading all afternoon, she could afford a few minutes with the Barefoot Contessa.

  “That must mean she’s hot.” Lucy clucked her tongue before laughing. “It’ll have to be next weekend, babe. I’m pulling some extra shifts, so I’m working this weekend. I was calling to tell you I can’t make dinner this week. If you’re not completely exhausted after work, come by and I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Be careful and at least call me. You know I worry about you.” She smiled when Lucy made kissing noises before hanging up. She ate her simple ham sandwich as she watched Ina Garten make a complicated pasta dish. Hugo and Truman sat next to her and watched as she ate, as if her hand movement was the most interesting thing they’d ever seen. They weren’t fooling her. “Here.” She broke the last bite into two pieces and gave them a treat. When they finished chewing, they were done with her and adjourned to the bed upstairs.

  The chair by the bedroom window was her favorite place in the house to read aside from her porch swing, which she used sparingly to avoid George encounters. The old leather club chair, though, had been with her since the beginning of college and had clocked so many books there was no way to count how many. It was like an old friend, and it only fit in this one spot in her bedroom. The view of the house next door was for shit, but maybe she’d get another glimpse of her naked neighbor in the garden while she read.

  The next couple hours of reading were better since the stories evoked the kind of response you were supposed to have if you enjoyed erotica. Her nipples were hard enough to make the T-shirt rubbing against them uncomfortable, and she didn’t have to touch herself to know she was wet. If she could get about two more stories like these, they’d be ready for some real editing.

  “For now,” she said, powering down her laptop, “let me continue my love affair with myself.” She didn’t date much, so masturbation kept her sane.

  She pulled the chain on her antique floor lamp and noticed the light on next door. Her new neighbor was unfortunately fully dressed, but the jeans she had on really highlighted her ass. “Good Lord, she’s wearing a tool belt.” It occurred to her then that she’d never actually met anyone who owned a tool belt and wore it for jobs around the house.

  The woman patiently nailed what appeared to be slats over one of the holes in the bedroom wall. All the hideous wallpaper she’d noticed during the day was gone, and it gave her hope the dump would find new life with the new owner. “You need a name,” she said when the woman reached up to nail the next slat. The move pulled her T-shirt tight across her shoulders. “Butch, maybe.” That would fit until she went over and introduced herself, since that’s what the woman was—a perfect butch complete with leather tool belt and perfect ass-hugging jeans. She had no problem imagining the work boots that would make the outfit complete.

  This wasn’t helping the mood she was already in from the sexy stories, so she spread her legs and put her hand in her sweats. It was true that what she’d read made her wet, but the view turned her on as she fantasized about Butch pressing her to a wall and touching her. She could imagine her rough hands moving from her breasts to her sex, demanding she spread her legs, so she did. Her fingers were slick as they glided over her hard clit, making her moan and close her eyes when she squeezed it.

  She opened them, needing to see Butch, and found she’d stopped hammering and was standing at the window. It was like Butch had heard her, and the thought made Hayley stop. But that was impossible—they had a side yard between them, and she was sitting in the dark. Those two facts gave her the confidence to keep going. She spread her legs wider and braced her feet on the sill, keeping her eyes on Butch, who seemed to be staring a hole through the glass.

  It was hard to remember the last time she was this hard, wet, and desperate, but she couldn’t stop. The small part of her that feared Butch could see what she was doing also thrilled her to keep going. “Oh fuck,” she said as she stroked faster. She came way too quickly, but it was fantastic.

  “That was different.” She opened her eyes, and Butch was gone. It was almost like Butch had never been there at all, but she hadn’t been hallucinating. “Someone should’ve written that story, guys.” Truman and Hugo were on the bed staring at her with little judgment. They were the masters of that half-lidded you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself expression, but she was too lethargic to care.

  “Time to stop lusting after the neighbor and reading erotica.” She went to the bathroom and changed her sweatpants before going to bed. Her last thought was that she’d touched herself in front of a stranger, but she was too tired to worry about it.

  Chapter Nine

  Wyatt woke up the next morning and didn’t need her usual pep talk to roll out of bed. She went immediately to the magic window, but it was empty of the beautiful blond exhibitionist she was fortunate enough to score as a neighbor. The night before she’d had the pure luck to turn around and glance at the next door window opposite the bedroom she was using. It would’ve been much more enjoyable if the lights had been on, but the streetlight below gave her enough of a view to know what was going on.

  For that long but brief moment she’d forgotten about her pain, misery, and problems. Who knew all it would take was a beautiful woman, claiming all she desired. “Had I known, I would’ve started visiting peep shows way before now.”

  She got dressed and brushed her teeth with bottled water, then got back to fixing the holes she’d made. After watching her little show last night, she’d been too tired to check out the journals, so she stacked them carefully in a corner until she had time to sit and read them properly.

  The next thing to tackle was the plumbing, and after some exploration, she found the trapdoor that allowed her to get underneath the house. It wasn’t a basement, but the lattice around the raised house did give it that feel. There was a structure toward the back, so she bowed her head and walked over. There on a slab was the hot water heater and some pipes that snaked along the bottom of the house—all galvanized, meaning they were all crap.

  The folder Pippa had given her included a recommended plumber. Her dad’s motto had always been, if it could flood or burn your house down, hire a professional. “That’s right, kid. It’s why God invented electricians and plumbers,” her father said, on the off chance she’d forgotten.

  She called the number and had to pull the phone away from her ear when a very enthusiastic guy answered, announcing, “DJ’s Plumbing, and I’m DJ. What can I do for you?”

  “Hey, I’m having issues with my pipes.” She described what had happened in the shower and when she used the toilet that morning. With any luck, once he’d fixed things, it wouldn’t sound like she was landing a jumbo jet every time she turned on a faucet.

  “What’s your address?” DJ asked after saying uh-huh a dozen times. When she gave it to him, he gave her one more uh-huh, and then, “Figures. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  “You can come now?” Two things occurred to her. Either DJ was fucking with her, or he was Pippa’s father and didn’t know squat about plumbing. In her experience, it usually took some finagling to get workmen to show up, and that was a month later.

  “Ten minutes.” DJ hung up, acting like phone time was part of the short window he’d given himself, and he didn’t want to be late.

  “Fuck me.” She was shocked when she opened the door eight minutes later to a short, older, balding guy with his clipboard in hand.

  “Hey, I’m DJ of DJ’s Plumbing.”

  He offered his hand, and she didn’t know whether or not to be insulted that he perhaps thought she’d forgotten their conversation a mere eight minutes ago. It was also interesting that he repeated the company name, but then she remembered passing a DJ’s Auto Repair when she went to the hardware store.

  “You want to show me what you got?”

  “Thanks, DJ, I’m—” She had to think about it for a moment. Wyatt wasn’t a common name for a woman, and she wanted to be someone else for a while. He wouldn’t necessarily recognize her name, but she didn’t want to chance it. “I’m Joe.” She gave him her father’s name.

  He followed her around the house mostly shaking his head and making notes on the antique wooden clipboard that must’ve belonged to his grandfather. They finished in the main bedroom en suite, where he removed his DJ’s Plumbing ballcap and scratched his head as if his brain hurt.

  “Think you can handle it?”

  “Sure ’nuff. Can we sit, and I’ll write something out for you.” He stopped at the head of the stairs and pointed to an old picture in a really nice frame. “I’m surprised Gator didn’t take this one. That’s Mr. and Mrs. Fuller, but I guess they stay with the house.”

  From the clothes they were wearing, the picture must’ve been taken on their wedding day. “Sounds like they made a lot of memories here.”

  “Yeah, I remember Miss Lydia from when I was a boy. Saw her sitting on the porch when I did some work for George.” DJ pointed to the house next door.

  If George was Mr. Nosy, he had to be lousy in bed if Mrs. Nosy was touching herself in front of windows. This was her chance to get the lay of the land, considering DJ sounded full of information.

  “She was real old by then and wasn’t making no more cookies. She did that when we were kids and playing with her grandkids. She was real nice.”

  “Is George the guy next door? We haven’t had a chance to meet.” She started a fresh pot of coffee while DJ wrote.