As I lean over to get my bag out of the passenger seat, a male voice rings out: “Hannah! Time to get ready for bed.”

I get out of the car again and almost can’t believe it: it’s Condor. He’s silhouetted in the beam of light from the streetlamp.

“Abby?” He squints, and the girl—Hannah—turns to stare. A smile creeps over his face. “You following me?”

“Seems like it’s the other way around.” I slam my car door, and hitch the bag a little higher on my shoulder.

“I don’t know.” He gestures to the little girl. “Hannah and I have been living here for a long time.” He puts a hand on Hannah’s head when she tries to get behind him. “Small town.” I can’t tell if he means that as a good thing or a bad thing. “This is my daughter, Hannah. Go on,” he says, when she doesn’t greet me. Then he turns back to me. “She’s shy,” he says.

“That’s all right,” I say. “Looks like you’ve got some moves on that hula-hoop, Hannah. I’m impressed.”

This earns me a cautious smile. “Thanks,” she says.

“Hannah’s in a big hula contest next week,” Condor says, and she says “Dad,” and glares at him.

“It’s not a contest. It’s a competition,” she says with great disdain, and Condor gives me a what-can-you-do-kids-these-days kind of look. “There’s a trophy and everything,” Hannah goes on. “I could teach you, if you want.”

“Uh-uh, no way. I’m wise to your tricks.” He grabs Hannah by the shoulders and turns her in the direction of the house. “No more stalling. This hula girl is twirling off to bed. Run upstairs and I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Nice to meet you, Hannah.” I give her a wave and she sprints upstairs, slamming the door behind her. “Cute kid,” I say.

Condor shrugs. “She’s a handful, but I’ll probably keep her.” He’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off his tattoos, bare feet, jeans rolled up to the ankle. He looks like he smells good, like he feels good, and I suddenly imagine his hands all over me.

Dangerous.

“So we’re neighbors, huh?” Condor says.

“For a little while,” I say quickly. Before I can regret my tone of voice, I start for the door. I’m going to take my cue from Hannah. “Good night.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the early-to-bed type,” he says, before I can make it across the yard.

I hate it when people read me. I turn around to face him. “It was a long day.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You’re cocky,” I say.

“How was the wine, by the way?” he calls out again as I reach the door. “Did you like it?”

“No idea,” I say, and then, before I can stop myself: “Want to find out?”

Just then, Hannah appears in an upstairs window and shouts: “Dad! I’m ready!”

“One minute, sweetheart.” He smiles. “I’ll come by after I tuck her in. Can’t let a lady drink alone.”