The last thing I want is to strip naked with a guy and it’s unfortunate that the last guy I wanted to do that for was Bram.

Crap. Maybe I really should go hook up with some random just to get Bram’s legacy out of my damn head.

“Mommy.”

I look over and see Ava on the couch, staring at me curiously. I realize I’m leaning back against the door as if Bram’s going to burst inside at any moment. I straighten up and shoot her a bashful look. “I’m okay,” I tell her.

“Was that Bram?” She pronounces his name with extra care now, wanting to get that “R” in there.

“Yes,” I say cautiously. I don’t like how she still continues to stay gaga over him. I don’t want to have to be nice for her sake and with him being the only male she really sees, the last thing I want is for her to see him as a father figure.

“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” she sings loudly, popping Snuffy up and down. “Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”

Ding dong is right.

“All right that’s enough,” I tell her. “How about we use our quiet voices, okay?”

“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” she yells, running to her room and giggling.

I exhale, unfold the newspaper at the kitchen table and start searching for a job.

***

It’s about two in the afternoon and I’ve circled every job I’ve seen fit in the paper, even those I have no experience in like waitressing. I’ve sent out every résumé and cover letter and crossed my fingers a million times. Now Ava is racing around the couch, stir-crazy from boredom and I feel like I need a dozen espressos to even get through the rest of the day. At least she’s stopped singing her Bram song.

A knock at the door. I feel like I’ve spoken too soon.

I get up to answer it, giving myself a once over in the vintage mirror on the wall. I don’t look half-bad. I guess it helps that after our earlier altercation, I had a long shower and made a full-hearted attempt to make myself look prettier. My hair is wavy with just the right amount of product. I’ve shaded in my brows more (apparently one of my better features according to most women), put on a few strokes of mascara and a plum lip stain. My skin started going crazy during pregnancy but thankfully it’s calmed down and I don’t have to wear foundation much. I also skipped the blush since I have my cheeks to thank for that.

I open the door and am not surprised at all to find Bram on the other side. Once he sees me his eyes widen appreciatively at my face and then at the rest of my body. I’m just in leggings and a long sleeveless tunic, but it’s a step up from pajamas.

“Well, hello there,” he says. He holds out a bottle of wine. “Peace offering.”

I purse my lips. “Peace offering?”

“Yes,” he says, shaking the bottle at me. “Have you had the Don Melcher before? It’s brilliant.”

“It looks expensive.”

“It is,” he says and smiles. “But I feel I need it make it up to you.”

“For what?” I want him to say it.

“For being a right prick,” he says. “And for standing there with my dick on display. I shouldn’t tease you with it.”

My eyes narrow momentarily.

He catches himself. “Sorry, sorry. I will behave from now on, I promise.”

“Yeah, right.”

He crosses his heart. “I swear. The minute I say the wrong thing, you can kick me out.”

“Don’t bet I won’t.” I sigh and step out of the way, letting him come inside. That fresh and woodsy scent, reminiscent of something I can’t place, but something that once made me happy, wafts past and I can’t stop myself from closing my eyes briefly and breathing it in.

Thankfully he doesn’t notice as he comes in and places the wine on the kitchen table.

Unfortunately, that kitchen table seems to have had it and one leg breaks from under it. Bram manages to grab the wine before it crashes to the ground with it.

“Fuck,” I swear and Ava comes running out of her room.

“What was loud?” she asks and then she sees Bram. Her eyes light up like a candle. “Bram!” she yells and runs over to him.

He stares down at her, smiling, while I quickly close the door and assess the damaged table.

“Bram, Bram, Bram!” Ava shrieks.

“How are you, little one?” he asks her, clearly enjoying her attention.

“I wrote a song for you, Bram,” she says excitedly.

He looks over at me. “Oh really? So, she’s written me a song, but you haven’t?”

I roll my eyes and put my attention back to the table. Though the leg snapped off from the bottom, I think I can glue it back together.

“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” Ava starts singing at the top of her lungs. I ignore her and pull the leg out from under it then head to the “Drawer O’ Crap” in the kitchen to find the crazy glue.

“That’s a very nice song, Ava,” Bram says. “Completely original.”

“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”

“Don’t encourage her,” I mutter and then Bram is beside me.

“Crazy glue?” he asks, looking over my shoulder. “You need a new table, sweetheart.”

I push past him and head over to it, Ava still singing her song and jumping up and down. “If you haven’t noticed, I can’t afford a table at the moment.”

“I’ll get you one,” he says.

I bristle. “You’ve done enough.” And I really need to keep my debt to him as low as possible. But I realize I’m sounding bitchy again, so I say, “Once I get a job, I’ll head to Goodwill and see what I can find.”

“How is that going, by the way?” he asks. “The job search?”

“Shitty,” I say.

“Shitty!” Ava yells. “Shitty! Shitty! Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”

“Now that seems more apt,” Bram comments.

“Ava, don’t say that word,” I scold her and then scold myself for swearing around her again.

“Bram?” she asks.

“No, the…you know what, yes. Bram. Don’t say that word. It’s bad.”

“Very, very bad,” Bram comments, his voice suddenly husky. I don’t know why but goosebumps suddenly appear on my arms and my belly feels hot.

I glance over to see him head into the kitchen and fish out a pair of wine glasses. Okay, so I guess this is happening now. Before I have a chance to tell him it’s too early to be drinking, the wine is being opened.

“Mommy,” Ava says while I try to open the crazy glue container.

“What?”

“Bram!” she yells and then runs to her room, singing that song again.

“Bram’s always been a curse word in my family,” he says, coming over with a glass of wine and handing it to me. He then puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes it for one hot second, and leads me over to the couch. “You sit here. Let me fix your table.”

“But,” I protest.

“Sit!” he says, pointing at me. “Relax for once, will ya?”

Relax? He’d laugh at the notion if he tried to live my life for even a second.

But still, I sit. I take a sip of my wine (it’s damn good). And I watch him as he glues the end of the leg, hoists up the table and sticks it back in place. Actually, I’m watching his muscles as he’s doing so. He’s in blue jeans with a tear at the knee and a grey V-neck t-shirt that looks really thin and really soft. His casual style is just as enticing as his suits, just in a different way.

“Are you checking out the goods?” he asks, not looking at me. “Because you had more than a chance this morning.”

“I’m checking out the table,” I tell him, turning around in my seat and focusing on the wine. “It looks good, thank you.”

He plops down on the armchair beside me. “You’re welcome. That’s what good neighbors are for.”

“Have you always been this helpful with them?”

“Only the right ones,” he says then his expression dampens. “Back in Manhattan, I think all my neighbors hated me. Actually, I know they all hated me. Too many parties and none of them were ever invited.”

“Do you miss it?”

He looks surprised at that. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I suppose I had more of a routine over there, a scene. I knew who my friends were, even though deep down I knew they weren’t really my friends. In New York, it’s easy to find people who will follow you around like a bloody puppy dog as long as you’re the one that fills their bowl.”