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Tate thumbs over one shoulder in the direction of the only vacant house left on the block.

“You could park next to the empty place, but you’ll have to run electric somewhere else since it’s not turned on there.

” He grins. “And if you’re planning to use my bathroom, you’ll have to run across the street in a towel after you finish taking a shower. ”

Again, my eyes drift to the roof of Myra’s house, and this time I’m imagining finding my way into more than just her backyard. This time I’m wondering if the scent of her skin lingers in her shower long enough I’d be able to breathe it in while I fuck my fist under the spray.

“I’ll figure it out.” I give Tate a slap on the shoulder and force a subject change before I end up with a raging hard-on. “What about you? How’s fatherhood?”

He flashes me a wide grin. “It’s fucking fantastic.” Tate lifts his brows as he starts backing away. “You should probably get on that yourself. Don’t want to be an old man chasing around a two-year-old.”

The pain of loss jabs me from the inside. It’s nowhere near as sharp or biting as it once was, but that fucker lingers. Reminding me why I do what I do.

And why I can’t park behind Myra’s house. No matter how much I want to.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I tip my head toward my truck. “I’ll be out of your way in just a sec.”

“You’ll have to come over and see the baby later on. And tell Piper how good she looks while you’re at it.” Tate gives me a wave before ducking into his house.

He can’t hear me scoff as I shake my head.

“Like fucking hell I will.” Tate’s wife Piper is a loose cannon, and I don’t want to be the one who pisses her off by dishing out manufactured compliments.

I’m sure she looks great, but I’m not the kind of guy who would ever point something like that out.

Not to a woman who wasn’t mine. If I came at her with that, Piper would immediately know something was up and she’d put both me and Tate on her shit list before either of us knew what happened.

And ending up on Piper’s shit list could very well get me shanked. Or tased. Or spray starched within an inch of my fucking life.

After climbing back behind the wheel of my diesel half-ton pickup truck, I go to work maneuvering my thirty-four-foot fifth wheel across the street.

I’ve pulled a camper of some type nonstop for the past six years, so I’m used to fitting it into tight places.

Luckily, it’s early enough none of the kids in the neighborhood are out running wild yet, so my backwards trip to the last remaining vacant building on the street is uneventful.

Just like the rest of my fucking life.

Once I have the fifth wheel in place, I go to work separating it from my truck.

Again, it’s a process I’ve done countless times, so it’s only a handful of minutes before my pickup is free.

After looking over my options, it’s clear running electric from one of my brothers’ houses isn’t going to be an option.

I don’t have an extension cord long enough.

Even if I did, I’m not sure anyone has the power to spare now that they all have wives and/or kids sucking it down, and I don’t want to be tripping breakers all night.

“Fuck.” I rake one hand through my hair then scrub my palm over my face, pulling in a deep breath of the crisp morning air.

It’s not cool, but it’s not warm either, and it drags me back to my earlier conversation with Myra.

It hadn’t even occurred to me that she was probably cold standing there in a sleeveless shirt, and now I feel like even more of an asshole.

Not only did I selfishly press her for more than she may have wanted to share with me, but I also let her stand there fucking freezing, never once considering how the temperature might be affecting her.

I was too busy being focused on how she was affecting me.

I should fucking hitch my camper back up and drive away. Leave everyone here—including Myra—behind to live their happy lives.

Except Myra didn’t seem all that happy. She seemed.

Sad. Like me.

I stand out in front of my fifth wheel, eyes finding their way to the building she calls home. The home she claims is a mess.

I could help her with that. I’ve got a month’s worth of time to fill before I have to head out to my next job, and I can’t think of a better use of those days than helping Myra find the happiness she deserves.

Rocking my head from side to side, I settle into the idea, and a plan starts to form. I should be talking myself out of it, but the longer I stand here, the better the idea—and the plan I now have to go with it—sounds.

Myra didn’t seem totally against giving me a tour of her house. Actually, she made it seem like all I’d have to do to earn a ticket inside was bring dinner.

Swinging my eyes away from her place, I let them rest where my home sits. Powerless.

If I want to bring Myra dinner—home-cooked, not takeout—I’m going to have to get my ass in gear and come up with some solutions. Luckily, I love coming up with solutions almost as much as I love making plans.

Even if they’re only going to create more problems.