The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(12)

I could never trust him for myself, but for Dante?

He’s been more persistent in the last few years with his gentle stalking. He’d respected my wishes from afar trying to be a silent support. I’d torn up his checks and, even in the most desperate of times, refused to cash one.

Over the years, I’ve tried to rationalize what he did, tempted at times to open the door and wave him in to get temporary relief from the hellacious days, but I never did. Because deep down there was still that voice of pre-baby Clarissa, who held too much resentment for his disrespect for my life, my career, for my plans.

And what would happen if he got a pro ball contract? Was his son a hobby?

Still, if he took measures to move so close just for the chance, who am I to deny him a relationship he could very well legally fight for? He’s given me all the power, though I was forced to make the decision on the spot. Troy might not be able to afford an attorney now, but the minute he signs a pro contract, he will be able to afford the best. An unethical decision is not illegal. Lying doesn’t make him an unfit parent. He does have rights.

“Damn you,” I whimper as I watch Troy and a few of his friends unload his king cab. “Must be nice,” I stare at his truck with longing before darting my gaze to my ancient SUV, which only has one AC setting. Freezing. Which is helpful on sweaty ass-to-leather days, which Texas is notorious for. Still, I can’t deny my little man and I have come a long way from the one-bedroom apartment with the broken dishwasher. Admiring Troy’s physique as he lifts a table from the bed of the truck, I sigh, resting my temple against the window. I’ve got an annoyingly clear view of him due to the last of the sun setting behind him.

“Why can’t you be ugly like Carly?” Bright blue eyes blaze my way and pin me where I stand. He knows. He knows I’m watching him. His intrusive, penetrating stare followed by the twist of his lips and flash of teeth are enough to have me jumping back.

Busted.

“Shit,” I mumble, mortified, just as my table lamp goes down. I know, without a doubt, he saw the room go dark.

“Mommy?! What did you break?” Dante shouts from his bedroom like he’s scolding a child. Thanking God for my son’s laziness in seeing for himself, I move to grab the broom and dustpan.

“Just a light bulb. It was hot.”

“You owe me three dollars for today! Five dollars from last week! Curse monster!”

“Yes, son. But you said shit twice today, so we’re even!”

“Give me a dollar and we’re even. Now be quiet, I’m recording!”

Yeah, well, your ‘hot as hell athlete daddy’ just moved in next door, and your ‘haven’t had a proper penis in ages’ mommy is hard up. How about a little grace?

“Don’t talk to me like that, buddy, or I’ll soap your tongue!”

“Mommmmy. I’m on take three now because you can’t be quiet!”

“Sorry!”

“Gah, now take four!”

I sigh and try my best to keep my laugh quiet. The boy is serious about his videos on his YouTube channel, which he titled The Legit Life. In a way, it scares me, but he has enough personality for the two of us, it keeps him busy, and none of his info—including his name—is public, which gives me a little relief. I’m letting him have his outlet while monitoring it like a hawk. There’s a whole hell of a lot more he could be discovering instead of reviewing games, and other vlogger’s videos. So, like the old married couple we are, I’ve compromised. My son, though not quite six, is very much the man of the house.

Due to his arrival and unbelievably early skill set, I’ve never been in much need of a handyman. And I have no idea where he got it, but the boy is my own personal superhero. He can hook up anything with the word ‘smart’ attached to it in a matter of minutes. He’s taught me more in his near six short years than any other human I’ve ever met. He’s smart in a way that scares me and far more advanced than I can grapple with.

Once I’ve swept up my lamp, I resume my seat in the chair just as a soft tap sounds on my front door. I know exactly who it is.

I open it with my hip hitched and both hands on my side.

“Troy.” My greeting is anything but friendly.

Towering over me, his ‘I just ate the canary’ smile is dazzling, and I want nothing more than to wipe it off his face. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I saw your spill from the street.”

“I’m fine, unannounced neighbor.”

He leans in, all six-foot-four inches of man steel, his coppery blond hair soaked in sweat, his T-shirt riding high on his bicep.

“Haven’t had a girl fall for me that fast in some time. I’m flatt—”

The door is shut and locked before he can finish his sentence, but I hear his muted chuckle on the other side just as Dante comes out from his bedroom. “Who was that?”

Satan? My arch-nemesis? The living, breathing reason women stereotype?

“Just the mailman.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was Troy.”

“Fine, it was Troy. He heard the lamp break, and he was checking on me. Ready to eat?”

Dante walks past me and opens the door.

“Hey, Troy!”

“Dante, no!”

Troy turns back, amused by the address of his son and jogs over to where Dante stands, his arms crossed. Out of breath, Troy leans in close, his hands on his knees to lessen the difference in height. “Yeah, buddy, what’s up?”