Free Love, Suburban Style by Wendy Markham

muscular, masculine-hairy legs) and white Nikes without socks (which reveal that he’s been painting something in a reddish maroon color).
    He looks like… a guy. That’s the beauty of it. He’s just a regular Joe, handsome through no conscious effort of his own.
    In Meg’s world—or rather, in Astor Hudson’s world—guys like him simply don’t exist.
    The life she’s about to leave behind is populated by beautiful men, yes. Some are gay, some are married. Most of the ones who aren’t, she’s fallen for—and been dumped by. Some are in show business and some aren’t. What they all have in common is a highly motivated physical appearance.
    They’ve got hundred-dollar haircuts; they’ve been waxed, massaged, manicured. They use
product
as opposed to plain old soap and shampoo to maintain their hair and skin. They knock around in designer clothes and wear custom-made shirts, and when they go without socks, their bare, pedicured feet are clad in Italian leather loafers. Their muscles are buff, strictly courtesy of the gym.
    Somehow, Meg knows that Sam’s aren’t. No, he got them the old-fashioned way. Which is…
    Well, how
do
regular guys get muscles?
    She has no idea, but she really should stop looking at them.
    Sam’s muscles.
    Stop.
    She really should stop looking at
him.
    Even though
he’s
looking at
her.
    Looking at her as though…
    Well, as though he’s interested.
    At last.
    Oh, sure.
    Now that he’s a married dad, he’s finally,
finally
noticed her?
    Unless…
    Meg sneaks a peek at his left hand.
    Bare ring finger!
    Red alert: bare ring finger!
    Wait a minute.
    Is he just one of those guys who eschews jewelry of any kind?
    Or can he possibly be…
    Single?
    A single dad?
    Earth to Meg… come in, Meg. Did you forget that you’ve sworn off men?
    “So… we’d better get busy,” he says, reaching her side.
    Busy.
    Yes…
    Oh. The boxes. He’s talking about the boxes.
    Right.
    “Are you sure you don’t mind helping me?” Amazing how laid-back she’s managing to sound. “I wouldn’t even accept the offer if I didn’t have to get the truck back…”
    “I don’t mind at all. I’ll carry the big stuff; you just direct me where you want it to go when we get it inside.”
    He doesn’t even flinch as he reaches into the truck and lifts out a large, book-filled box that took all three of them—Geoffrey, Meg, and Cosette—to hoist into the truck.
    Meg grabs a smaller carton and leads the way through the gate, which she has already propped open with a big rock. Plenty of those lying around the disastrous yard.
    “Wow. I still can’t believe it,” she says mostly to herself, shaking her head at the looming monstrosity before them.
    “Believe what?”
    “That I just bought the old Duckworth place.”
    “So you remember it? Don’t tell me—you didn’t
live
in this neighborhood, did you?”
    “No, but…”
    But I spent a lot of time here. A few years, pedaling and strolling up and down this very street, hoping for a glimpse of you.
    “Every kid in town knew about the haunted house,” she says instead.
    Following her up the walk, he asks, “Did you really believe it was haunted?”
    Something in his overly casual tone makes her turn to look at him.
    God, he’s handsome.
    He also seems to be holding his breath for her reply to his inane question.
    “Did
you
think it was haunted?” she returns, unsettled by the memory of that glint she saw—or thought she saw—in the attic window a few minutes ago.
    He grins at her across the boxes in their arms. “I asked you first.”
    “I sure did,” she admits. “Whenever I went past it I used to—”
    She breaks off. Oops.
    “You used to what?” he asks, and starts up the uneven steps, eyes cast downward to avoid tripping.
    Good. Then he can’t see how red her face must be.
    And he doesn’t seem to realize that she had no legitimate reason to pass the Duckworth house,
ever.
    “I used to just rush by it and get away from it as fast