Tom. Tom, this is our temporary neighbor, Ms. Payne.”
“Hi, Ms. Payne,” Tom said, sounding like the class suck-up addressing his teacher.
Savannah switched her gaze to a point past Glen’s shoulder. “It’s lovely to meet you, Tom. Please don’t call me Ms. Payne; it’s Savannah. Your stick-in-the-mud uncle can call me Ms. though.”
“Okay…Savannnnnah.”
Glen whipped his head around to stink-eye his nephew. Gone was the hood tugged low over the boy’s face. Gone was the defiant slouch and defensive posture. Now, a different kid sat in the passenger seat. One with bright eyes, artfully mussed hair, a puffed out chest and a blinding white smile. Not a glimpse of surliness in sight.
Funny that.
And Glen’d wager his next pay check the kid sported the mother of all boners under that baggy sweatshirt. Somehow, when he’d invited his nephew up for two weeks, he’d forgotten fifteen-year-old boys were walking erections at that age. At the time, he hadn’t expected Savannah to last more than three days max. But she’d lasted nearly two weeks total, including the seven days after he’d kissed her.
Seven more days of waking up to country music’s most annoying hits—though high caffeine levels helped his body clock adjust, plus he got a boatload of work done early every morning now. Seven days sitting on the couch with laptop balanced on his knees so he didn’t have to witness her yoga workout. Seven days of flinching each time he glimpsed the growing army of lawn ornaments strategically placed around her caravan. She had a butt-ugly family of gnomes, for God’s sake. Gnomes and two bright-pink flamingos staked into the ground.
A campaign of passive-aggressive tackiness.
“Well, have fun, guys. See you back at the house.” She turned a sharp smile on Glen. A smile that zipped straight to his groin. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat.
“Yeah.” He buzzed up his window and slowly edged the car away from her so he wouldn’t kick up chips of gravel.
Picking up speed, Glen couldn’t resist a glance in the side mirror. Two perfect breasts bobbed enticingly as Savannah resumed jogging.
Holy shit, indeed.
“Man,” Tom said as her reflection grew smaller. “I would so be tapping that if I were you.”
“Hey.” Without taking his eyes off the road, Glen reached over and lightly smacked his nephew’s head. “You don’t talk about her, or any other woman, like that. Got me?”
“But she’s smokin’.”
“She’s also a nice lady, like your mum. Or your Aunt Grace.” He turned into the driveway.
“Savannah is nothing like Mum or Aunt Grace.”
“Remember what happened that time when you were ten and your mum made you go clothes shopping with her and Aunt Grace?”
“Ugh. Do you have to remind me?”
“You got tired of waiting, so you told them the jeans they were trying on made their bums look like they had two watermelons stuck in them.”
“I’d seen it on TV.” Tom’s shoulders hunched again and his voice had lost some of its teenage attitude. “I thought it was funny and they’d laugh about it.”
Glen said nothing, just continued to drive.
“I heard Aunt Grace sniffing in the changing room. I made her cry.”
Glen parked in front of the house. “Savannah is like your mum and your aunt. I know she’s pretty. I know she’s famous. But she’s a real person with feelings, and like any woman, she deserves your respect.”
“Do you respect her?”
There was no challenge in his nephew’s voice, just curiosity. Glen gripped the steering wheel and drummed his fingers. In spite of everything—her pink flamingos and on-tap sassiness, her country music and a body that drove him nuts—he respected her never-say-die spirit.
“Yeah, I do.”
A glimmer of a smile touched Tom’s lips as he glanced out the windshield. “How about her taste in decorating? You respect that?”
Glen laughed and ruffled Tom’s hair, earning him a mock glare. “Absolutely freakin’ not. Now, how ‘bout an ice cold Coke while I show you around?”
“Okay. And food.” Tom cranked open the door. “I’m starved.”
***
Coke and a sandwich crossed off the list, Glen and Tom went outside to unload the SUV. Tom left the floral suitcase for Glen and slid out his guitar with the delicate hands of a surgeon performing brain-surgery. Glen hauled out the suitcase, turning to Tom’s shifty-eyed shuffling.
“I forgot my backpack,” he said. “It’s got all my study stuff in it.”
“You forgot it where?” Glen asked.
“Bounty Bay, I guess.”
“You guess you left your backpack at the bus depot?”
“Yup.” Tom didn’t sound apologetic.
Glen dug in his pocket for his keys, shoving his irritation aside. Could’ve been Auckland, so