At least I hope I am. I’ve never been so unsure with a woman and while I’m finding it mildly frustrating, it’s at least keeping me on my toes. I feel like every day is a new challenge and I haven’t felt that way since I left New York. Shit, I haven’t felt this way in a very long time.

Adding to the perplexities that living next door to Nicola brings, when I finally get out of bed and make my way into the kitchen, I’m shocked to see the kettle on the counter. I had given it to her mother last night to make some tea. Now she was quite the MILF, but then I guess her daughter is too. I’m not surprised that Nicola brought it back – I figured she would – but I am puzzled as to how she got into my place without me knowing it.

And why?

I make my way over to the door and see that’s its unlocked. I have a habit of doing that sometimes, probably because when I first bought the building I was the only tenant in this place for months.

So last night – or this morning – she would have had to come inside and put it on the counter. Was it possible that I didn’t hear her, that she didn’t wake me up?

Or was it that…

Well, after I dropped off Justine at her place and got nary even a peck on the cheek, I took my sexual frustrations home and had a bit of a wank-fest, as you do. I had the music pretty loud, everything that reminded me of my Scottish youth: Portishead, Garbage, Massive Attack, Faithless, Tricky, you know, just to really get in there.

But the minute I was stroking it, Justine became a distant memory. Her face would go out of focus every time I tried to imagine her and in her place was Nicola. It didn’t matter how many other people I tried – Brooklyn Decker, Kate Beckinsdale, that saucy, bitchy redhead that shot Jon Snow on Game of Thrones – Nicola’s face replaced them all.

And why not. It’s a beautiful face. She has the most gorgeous cheeks and a full upper lip that you just wanted to take between your teeth or have her slide along the ridge of your cock. The freckles just add to the appeal. There’s something so wholesome about her yet she always has this wicked gleam in her sloe-eyes that hints at something wild underneath. I know she puts up a bashful and prudish front, but it’s just a front. I know it is. I know how mums get, how wrapped up they can be with their child about being selfless and devoted that they forget they’re still a sexual creature with multiple needs.

I want to let the sexual creature free. Out of its cage. I want Nicola to have the fun she hasn’t had in a long time.

But my usual tactics don’t work with her. I’m not sure what will. And to be honest, I’m not sure if even hitting on her is the right thing, let alone fucking her. The absolute last thing I need is to be entangled up with a single mum, no matter how enticing she is, no matter how precious her child is.

I just can’t go down that path.

I know how that ends.

More and more though, it’s becoming something I have little control over. And that, that is what scares me. Fear has no place in my life, not anymore.

I contemplate going over to her place and asking her when she dropped off the kettle. I know that within seconds I’ll be able to tell whether she caught me in the act or not. I wouldn’t even be embarrassed about it. I actually wish she did watch me sampling my own goods. Maybe the sight of me naked would be enough to get her to look at me a little differently. I mean, I know I’m good-looking, I know I have what it takes to lure any woman into bed and I know what it takes to get them off again and again and again. But I think her disgust for me might run a bit deeper than her hormones.

I decide to bypass the whole kettle situation and bring it up later. Even though I woke up refreshed, my head feels cloudy now so I drive up to Golden Gate Park and go for one of my Saturday runs before stopping at the boxing gym. Pounding those bags isn’t as satisfying as pounding a woman, preferably Nicola, preferably from behind, preferably while pulling her hair. But it will do.

When I get back to my building though, all cleaned up and spiffy, I knock on her door only to find that awkward bird of a woman, Lisa, there instead.

“She’s already left for work,” she says, eyeing me like I’m about to bust down the door and steal her virtue. Makes me wonder what Nicola has told her.

“Long shift?” I ask, checking my watch for the time. It’s only about three in the afternoon.

She nods, her expression un-changing.

“Well, I guess I’ll catch her later.”

The door shuts in my face. So polite.

But I don’t plan on letting later happen on this turf. I want to see Nicola in action. At about seven I get a cab and head to The Burgundy Lion. I haven’t been there since she started working and it’s high time I paid it a visit. Back in New York, I was always frequenting the hoighty-toighty nightclubs and martini bars but secretly my favorite kind of place was a dive bar. There’s something so freeing about those places, the freedom to be yourself, to let loose, to express desires, to lurk in the dark. Everyone is equal in the shadows with a cheap drink in hand. Now, the Lion wasn’t a dive bar at all, but it could feel that way on the weekends when everyone seemed to congregate there under the sole purpose of being pissed off their rockers.

When I step inside, I’m assaulted by the smell of beer and overpriced cologne. Though it’s relatively early, the place is almost packed with most of the gleaming teak booths crammed with people. There’s a sense of urgency here, as if you don’t get here on time, the chances of getting laid go down with the rest of your beer.

And there, in all the chaos, I see Nicola behind the bar. Her back is to me but her hair is pulled back, exposing the perfect bare skin of her neck and her upper back as it dips into a loose-cut tank top. She moves with efficiency, whatever she’s doing, while a bunch of guys lean across the bar, bills wavering in their hands. They watch her every move, just as I am.

Something inside me burns hot as coals and I swallow down a surprising burst of jealousy. I can’t remember the last time I got jealous but it’s as if it suddenly dawns on me that I may not be the only one who wants to get in her pants. And of course I know I’m not, but it seemed that until she took the job here, she was relatively safe from roaming eyes.

I’m completely delusional, but I still stride over to the bar and stick myself right beside the guys, my hands stretched along the edge of the bar top.

The guy next to me, some punk with gelled blond hair that would give Zach Morris a run for his money, gives me the fuck off look but I don’t pay him any attention. My eyes are trained on her. They might think I’m here to get a drink but that’s not the case at all.

When she turns around, she plunks four bottles of beer down on the counter and smiles at the guys while she tells them the total. I want to be jealous over that smile alone, even if it’s just for show. Then as they pay, her eyes flit to me, a good bartender, always looking for that next customer and when she sees me, she does a double take. She’s jarred.

This could be good.

“Bram,” she says and then her smile goes wider than the world and I don’t feel jealous anymore. I feel fucking elated. Because that was no “give me a good tip, you wankers” smile, that was an “I’m really glad to see you smile.”

Please Lord, let it have been that kind of smile.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly feeling rather speechless. I clear my throat. “Thought I’d come see you in action.”

The boys take their beers and turn away. I notice they didn’t leave any tip, probably because I had to butt my way on in and hog all her attention.

I reach out and grab Zach Morris’s shoulder. “Listen,” I say to him and it looks like he wants to spit at me. “Just because you have zero chance of going home with her tonight, doesn’t mean you don’t have to tip her.”