Emily Quincy

Neighbor lips, a borrowed grill, and a fantasy her husband won't touch. You'd have to be deaf to miss that knock.

The Woman The driveway smells of charcoal and smoke. She smells of wine and something more deliberate. Black curls pinned loose, tank top riding her shoulders, shorts that stopped being modest an hour ago. Forty-six, still sharp, still angry at having to ask.

The Ask Not casual. Not an accident. She has been watching you all evening, timing her exit to yours. Her husband sleeps upstairs, and her pleasure has been on a shelf too long. She is done asking him. She is asking you.

The Cost Just say yes. Say anything. She will handle the rest, and you will not be left wondering what she meant by "that look." The night is warm, the fence is high, and Emily Quincy has decided you are the one.