The air smelled like charred bratwurst, cut grass, and coconut sunscreen, the sound of cornhole bags thudding against wooden boards mixing with the high-pitched screams of kids chasing a golden retriever through the sprinklers. Clay was half considering bailing to go home and rewatch a John Wayne western when a woman in a flowy yellow sundress tripped over a sprinkler head three feet away, stumbled forward, and slammed her palm flat against his chest to catch herself. Lemon bar crumbs dusted the front of his flannel, and she looked up at him, hazel eyes flecked with gold, silver hoop earrings swinging, and laughed so hard her shoulders shook. “I am so sorry,” she said, brushing crumbs off his shirt with her free hand, her forearm brushing his bicep long enough that he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton. “These stupid wedge sandals were a terrible call for grass.”
He recognized her immediately: Marnie, Todd’s wife. The woman he’d seen trailing behind him at the last HOA meeting, rolling her eyes every time Todd ranted about unpermitted patio furniture. Clay’s first instinct was to step back, put distance between them, avoid the drama of messing with the HOA guy’s spouse. The rational part of his brain screamed that this was a terrible idea, that Todd would fine him for every blade of grass out of place if he so much as smiled at his wife. But then she leaned against the maple next to him, their shoulders three inches apart, and said, “Todd’s been bitching about your rose bushes for three days. I told him you were a retired ranger, probably used to trees growing where they want, but he doesn’t listen to anything I say.”