"Rio! Nico! Come here!"

I beckon to the kids as they sprint towards me across the little patch of scrubby, unkempt lawn. Each holds a small, rubber band propelled plane. Colliding with me, they bury their faces in my shirt and then slip around behind my back, using me as a human shield as our neighbor, Mr. Stevens, draws nigh.

Mr. Stevens, first name John, is in his early seventies and seems to have made it his mission in life to embody the stereotype of a crotchety old man.

"What happened, you guys?" I ask quietly, as they sniffle against my back. "You know better than to go in Mr. Stevens's yard."

"We were jus' tryna get my plane," Rio whimpers. "It went over the fence by accident."

"Yeah," Nico concurs tearfully, "but Mr. Stevens yelled at us."

"Alright. You two go inside and see if Sky needs any help in the kitchen. I'll handle Mr. Stevens, okay?"

With a sniffled, "Okay," the pair release me and dash towards the house.

A little reluctantly, I walk forward to greet the neighbor.

"What can I do for you, John?"

"Damn hooligans were 'cross the fence again," he says by way of greeting. "I told you to keep your brats on a leash."

Pinching my lips together, I shake my head. "Don't talk about my kids that way. They were just after their toy. They didn't mean any harm."

"Meant it or not, they trampled the flower beds and broke a branch off my pear tree. That's trespassing and property damage right there."

I sigh. There's no reasoning with some people, and it's best not to try.

"I'm very sorry about that. I'll speak to them and make sure it doesn't happen again."

"See it doesn't," he says, and narrows his rheumy blue eyes. He scowls and peers past me towards the half-renovated garage, shaking his head and wobbling his grizzled jowls. "Best be sure that's up to code, 'specially if you mean to rent it out. They'll hit you with some hefty fines otherwise."

"Thanks. I've had the county inspector out already," I say, interpreting his words as a veiled threat and keeping my tone as level as I can. "I have a permit."

He nods. "Good. Don't want the place looking like some kinda crack den. Neighborhood's going down the drain as it is."

I bite back the first few replies that come to mind, wondering if he's even aware he's said something offensive, or if he'll start ranting about the evils of immigration next.

"Tell you what, John," I say at last. "You stay on your side of the fence, and we'll stay on ours."

Abruptly, I turn and walk away, leaving him to ponder this as he will.

〜〜〜

At the kitchen's threshold, I stop and stare, feeling as if I've stumbled into a strange, but not unpleasant dream.

Sky stands at the stove, pouring broth into a steaming pan, his long golden hair bound in a messy bun and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The strength of his forearms shows against his smooth, pale skin, and I spot what look like rows of greenish-blue, scale-like tattoos running up the undersides. The rich aroma of sauteed garlic and tomatoes perfumes the air, while Nico and Rio huddle around the ice chest on the floor, happily absorbed with whatever it contains.

Sky glances up at me and smiles.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

I smile. "Yeah. Just your typical old man who hates things like children and progress."

Sky laughs. "Your politics are one thing I've never mastered, I'm afraid."

I blink in surprise. "Are you not from the States? I mean... I thought I detected an accent, but..."

He shakes his head. "Nope. I'm from... Well, actually I was born at sea, so I'm a man without a country, you could say. But I've spent a lot of time in the Mediterranean — Spain, Italy, and Greece especially. I'm drawn to coastal places. This is the farthest inland I've ever lived. Speaking of..." He gestures at the ice chest. "... I hope you like seafood."

Leaning over between Rio and Nico, I spot mussels, calamari, and whole shrimp packed in ice.

"There's a specialty shop in downtown," he says. "Their supplier drives his fresh catch up every other day, all the way from the sea."

Taken aback by the effort (and probably expense) he'd made for the sake of the meal, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "The boys said you only knew how to cook rice."

Thankfully, he laughs. "That was true for a time," he says. "I used not to like cooked food very much at all, but once I developed a taste for it, I've come to love many cuisines. Maghrebi, Mediterranean, Japanese, Korean — anything with a lot of fresh seafood, really."

I join him at the stove and peer at the pan, which bubbles gently. "Is there really nothing I can do to help? I'm, um... not used to having someone else cook."

He winks. "Then I imagine you're due a night off. And no — it's really not involved. You're not even meant to stir it after adding the rice. Gets a nice crispy coating on the bottom that way. Then, once the rice has absorbed most of the water, add the shellfish and shrimp, cook until done. Simple."

I laugh easily. "If you say so."

"Have you always done the cooking?" he asks. "Or only since..." He glances at the boys with raised brows.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I look away. "Rio, Nico," I call. "Why don't you two go get cleaned up for dinner, okay? Mr. West... I mean, Sky... is making such a nice meal, let's be on our best manners, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy."

With one last lingering glance at the shellfish, they dash away upstairs, giggling, tears and tribulations left behind.

"They're good boys," Sky remarks, looking after them.

Inexplicably — probably because of the recently cut onions — my eyes sting. I rub at them hastily. "Yeah, they are. Anyway, yes, I've always cooked. My... ex-wife is a pediatric surgeon."

Not because she was particularly interested in helping children, I see in retrospect, but because she didn't particularly mind cutting them up.

"I was happy to take on the domestic role while she pursued her career," I continue, "I work from home, anyway."

"Oh? What is it you do?"

"I'm a novelist."

"Really? What do you write?"

Again without apparent cause, I blush. "Crime fiction."

"Tell me about it." Sky leans against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon in hand, and a look of apparently genuine interest on his face.

Taking a deep breath, I obey, and for the next forty minutes, I somehow end up talking about myself more than I have in the last twelve years.

I hadn't realized I had that much to say.

"I'll never make the New York Times Bestsellers List," I conclude, "but if I can make a living and put my kids through school, that's more than most writers can claim these days."

Sky frowns. "That sounds exhausting. And you do all this while also caring for four children and managing a house? What of yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

He waves a hand. "Well, surely you don't want to be alone the rest of your life."

Just like that, I'm snapped out of whatever rose-hued fantasy I'd fallen into, guard back in place.

"I'm not alone," I say stiffly, turning away from him. "I'm surrounded by family, in fact."

"I mean in terms of a partner."

He speaks plainly, I'll give him that.

"Love may be the one thing I think I am allergic to," I say, and shake my head, laughing under my breath. "No; I'm perfectly happy on my own."

"Ah, I see. But what I mean is—"

He cuts off as the door opens and Flora and Miguel traipse in, black instrument cases in hand. Flora plays the French horn, Miguel the clarinet. They pause in the entryway, sniffing the air and then fix their eyes on me and Sky.

Miguel gives a slight nod of acknowledgement and heads upstairs, but Flora marches straight towards us.

"Dad? What's going on? Why is he here?"

I huff a laugh at my daughter's natural protectiveness. She's not an Alpha, but probably a strong Beta, like Freya — pack warriors, ready and willing to defend.

"Nothing, sweetheart. Didn't your brothers tell you Sky was coming over?"

She shakes her head, eyeing Sky with distrust. "No."

"Well, he's been so kind as to cook us a special dish — paella."

Flora's suspicion intensifies. "Why?"

I shake my head, perplexed by her unwelcoming reaction. "Because... he's a friend, now."

Her brows pinch, but she nods. "Kay. If you say so, Daddy."

She turns and dashes upstairs after her brother.

I sigh and give Sky a rueful smile. "Sorry. She's a little protective, sometimes."

"No need to apologize," he says easily, with a slightly wistful smile of his own. "I wish my family were so... willing to come to my defense."

My curiosity stirs, but he turns away quickly and checks the pan.

"Ah — it's ready," he says. "Suppertime."