When opposites attract and temptation lives next door.
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After life throws Fallon Davis a curveball, she finds herself living in a dingy apartment, single-parenting her 3 year old son, and working at the dive-iest dive bar in town. College seems li...
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Fact: It is impossible to carry a screaming, thrashing three-year-old and a heavy metal tricycle at the same time. Especially in the sweltering late-summer sun.
Finally, I gave up and ditched Jackson's shiny red vehicle on the sidewalk across the street while I attempted to drag him home. Except he was all arms and legs and 33 pounds of fury, and he was putting up a darn good fight.
"Put me down, mama!" he shrieked, flailing against me like a wild animal. His tiny fists pounded my upper arm as I hit the pedestrian crossing button with my hip.
My unforgivable offense in this case was trying to take him home from the park for lunch. Maybe it was that I waited too long, and hanger had kicked in, or maybe it was because it's a day that ended in 'y'.
Unfortunately, my sweet toddler recently entered a more challenging phase. Terrible twos? Nope. Two was lovely. Two was downright sweet. Cuddles, garbled sentences, sloppy kisses on the cheek. But three? Three was a wild ride.
"Jackson!" I yell-whispered, trying to get his attention.
It failed and he continued to writhe against my grasp. My shoulders were aching, biceps burning, and I was afraid I might drop him or collapse.
"Hey, buddy. Mama will put you down if you promise to hold my hand and use walking feet to the front door."
He took a shuddering breath and froze, looking up at me with big brown eyes while he considered my offer.
"Okay." His body relaxed. "Jackson walk."
He must've been tired from fighting me for the past two blocks. He wasn't the only one. I kissed the top of his head and gently slid him down to a standing position while my arms sighed with relief.
A sleek black sportscar raced by, bass blasting from its open windows. It wasn't not the type of car you saw around this area often, if ever. I assumed the driver was lost, but then it was unclear why they were driving so damn fast in the first place. A flicker of irritation rippled through me. There was a playground down the street.
I tightened my grip on Jackson's hand, securing him so that he couldn't dart out onto the road. As we crossed, the car zoomed into the parking lot... and pulled into stall 103 directly in front of my apartment.
I managed to stay pretty calm through the earlier assault by preschooler, but my patience had been exhausted and this instantly pissed me off. 103 was my stall. Presently empty, because my rusted silver Corolla was in the shop—again—but that wasn't the point. It was mine. Part of what I paid rent for every month. And maki
We drew closer and the driver of the black car stepped out. It was like it happened in slow motion. Mr. Leadfoot was tall and well-groomed, dressed in black jeans and a white t-shirt, with silver mirrored aviators that probably cost the same amount as my rent.
