Meet Me Halfway(7)

I squatted, snatching each piece, and making a point not to examine any of them too closely as I piled them on my thighs. Messing with mail was frowned upon by most, and I didn’t want anyone accusing me of snooping through someone’s shit.

It didn’t take me long, but I could feel the cold damp of the grass soaking through to my feet. Lovely. “Farewell, beautiful fuzzy socks. I guess it wasn’t meant to be tonight.”

“Are you talking to yourself?”

“Shit!” I jumped from my delicate squat, sending the perfectly piled mail right back to the ground. Heart practically in my throat, I turned and looked at the woman standing directly across the street. “Oh my God, you scared me.”

She didn’t bother apologizing or replying at all. She had a sharp face with a pointed chin and a nose on the longer side. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she had a swipe of vibrant plum eyeshadow visible above each eye that matched the pant suit she was rocking.

She lived in the single-family home across the street, so I’d seen her before, but this was the first time she’d ever spoken to me. From what I’d gathered, she lived there with her significant other and two children. Her lips tightened, and when she raised an eyebrow, I realized she’d asked me a question.

“Oh, yeah, I guess I was.” I forced a laugh, brushing my palms down my thighs. “I’m Madison, we moved in a few weeks ago. It’s nice to meet you.”

She didn’t move to approach me, and I certainly wasn’t going to walk across the street in my wet socks to shake her hand.

“Kathy Newman. I’d been planning on coming to welcome you to the neighborhood, but I didn’t know what hours your husband worked and didn’t want to impose.”

My entire body stiffened, and I had to take a deep breath. I couldn’t tell if she was being genuine or not, but I had a feeling she was fishing, trying to figure out why she’d yet to see a man here.

“No husband here, it’s just us. I work a lot, but we’re home most weekday evenings. You’re always welcome to pop by,” I offered, trying to keep my bitch face controlled.

“That’s a shame. Does he travel often for work?”

My mask slipped at the look on her face, the tightening of her lips and the crinkle of her nose, but I forced a smile. You’d think I’d be used to the assumptions by now. Is that your little brother? Are you the babysitter?

“I meant I’m not married at all.”

“Oh. It’s just you?”

“And my son, yes, ma’am.”

“Oh,” she repeated, tightening her hold on her purse and taking a step back like she thought my unmarried status might rub off on her. “He must look older than he is.” Bitch.

“No, he’s as old as he looks. His name is Jamie, and he’s eight.”

“And he’s yours?”

Like a motherfucking shapeshifter, my forced smile disappeared, transforming me into ten shades of pissed off. Of course. How silly of me to assume she’d think the child living with me was actually my own child. Lord knows it was more believable that I’d married an older guy with a kid than the idea I’d had him myself.

I widened my stance, crossing my arms and not even trying to sound polite. “I shoved his big ass head out of my vagina, so yeah, I’m pretty sure that makes him mine.”

Did I need to provide a stranger with that visual? Nope. But the look of horror I glimpsed on her face before she spun back toward her house was worth it in every way.

I’d been shamed more times in the last eight years than I could ever count, and ninety-nine percent of the time it was by women. Sister code only held up if you abided by their rules and views. Step out of line and women could be fucking vultures.

I huffed out of my nose like a bull, mentally calling her a bitch in every way I knew. She had a boy close to Jamie’s age. It was frustrating and disappointing to know she’d probably never allow her son to talk to mine.

I tried to brush the encounter off, squatting back down to pick up the mail for the second time. I’d made a nice pile, largest on bottom, smallest on top, and had begun carefully angling and twisting it Tetris-style to get it into the mailbox when I realized the owner of it was now standing on his porch. Staring at me.

Well, fuck. This looked bad.

Should I continue what I was doing and explain? Or give it a good shove and run? I stared at him, bug-eyed and frozen.

He must have realized I’d developed a gargoyle complex because he stepped off his porch and took several large strides toward me. “Something I can help you with?” His voice rang out across the distance, deep and raspy.

Trying to ignore the instantaneous clench in my gut, I clutched the pile to my chest, making sure to shut his box before walking over, eyes at my feet. “I’m sorry, I was outside, and I noticed your mailbox was open. I was trying to put it all back in so it wouldn’t blow away.”

I stopped a few paces away before I braved glancing up and making eye contact, and boy was it a mistake. The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties, and he was fan-your-face gorgeous. Easily the most attractive man I’d ever seen.

His espresso brown hair was shaved short on the sides but shaggy and unruly on top, and it stuck up in a few places like he’d just run one of his giant hands through it. It took one hell of a man to pull off messy bed hair. I was blatantly staring at that point, and his brows lowered over a pair of bright hazel eyes framed by long lashes.