The sun hung high over Brook Hollow, casting warm light across the neighborhood. Birds chirped merrily, and the breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut grass. It was the perfect Saturday for washing a car, Kindall decided.
A simple white tee, slightly oversized, clung to her frame where it was damp. Beneath it, she wore nothing but white bikini bottoms, tied delicately at the hips. It was casual, almost innocent… except the soaked fabric of her shirt made “innocence” feel like a fleeting illusion.
The sponge slid across the hood of her car, leaving foamy trails that gleamed iridescence in the sunlight. Reaching forward, up on her toes, she stretched out as far as she could, her lower back arched high.
The water from the sponge dripped freely—down her arms, across her chest—soaking the fabric even further.
She didn’t bother checking to see if anyone was watching. She could feel it.
Behind her designer sunglasses, Kindall surveyed the block. It was funny how lively the street had suddenly become.
Rick, next door, stood frozen with his garden hose in hand, a puddle forming at his feet. He stared—not even blinking. His flowers remained thirsty.
Across from her house, Mr. Romano had been seen answering his phone through his front window, then dashing out to his garage in such a hurry you'd think there'd been an emergency to rush off to. Now he stood near his workbench, gingerly shifting his tools around with theatrical slowness, his gaze drifting far more often toward her driveway than his half-built birdhouse.
Kindall suppressed a laugh, her lips curling with mischief.
Then she saw him. Joe’s truck turned the corner, the tires whispering over the pavement as they crept slowly near her house. Window down. Elbow resting on the sill. His dark eyes already locked in.
Perfect timing, Kindall thought.
She dipped her sponge into the pink bucket and leaned low—lower than she needed to—letting her arm sink deep into the suds. The white fabric of her shirt clung in a way that made gravity seem like a flirtatious co-conspirator.
Then, just as Joe reached the edge of her driveway, she rose sharply in one swift, fast-paced motion, sending her hand flying out of the bucket and her breasts colliding with one another like the balls of Newton’s Cradle.
“Hey, Joe,” she said nonchalantly, stepping toward his truck. Her smile was playful, open.
Joe blinked. Opened his mouth. And, finally, closed it.
She tilted her head. “Hey, Joe,” she repeated, this time pointing to her face. “I’m up here.”
She wasn’t sure if he was looking at her nipples or the outline of her sweet spot visible through her wet bikini.
He looked up—eventually. “Right, yeah. I, uh… I had something I was gonna ask you…”
Kindall crossed her arms under her chest, which didn’t seem to help his concentration. “Yeah?”
Joe scratched the back of his head, eyes flicking away, then back again. “Yeah… but I guess my mind just went… somewhere else.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, really?”
Joe grinned, his voice warm but caught somewhere between admiration and confusion. “I’ll, uh… catch up with you when it comes back to me.”
“Of course, Joe. Any time.” She gave a little wave, stepping back toward her car.
As he drove off—slowly—Kindall turned just slightly, watching him in her peripheral vision. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. She was in his rearview mirror.
Kindall found herself humming as she peeled a peach over her kitchen sink, the juice dripping between her fingers. The memory of Joe’s flustered face earlier kept replaying in her head like a song.
He’d looked utterly undone—like a man who’d just witnessed something he wasn’t sure he should have seen but couldn't bring himself to look away from.
And she knew he’d be thinking about it... for days.