I open a cupboard and reach for the flour, shooting a glimpse out the window as I do. I’m disappointed to see my hot neighbor has gone inside. Sighing to myself, I shake my head and turn my attention to the task at hand. I pull out containers of brown sugar, eggs, baking soda, butter. Bending down, I open another door and find my large mixing bowls.

The familiar gestures make me feel happy in spite of everything, just like they always do. I always used to make a big production out of making Christmas cookies when I was married. I would send them with Addi to school, bring them to social functions, participate in cookie exchanges with my mommies group, and of course have them out for our annual holiday party. Back when I was a stay at home mom, I would devote two entire days to the process — not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I’d make chocolate cookies with candied cherries, Russian tea cakes, Spritz, lemon meltaways, chocolate-dipped shortbread… Every year I tried to mix it up, choosing new recipes to go along with the old favorites. It was something I looked forward to every Christmas.

Now I’ve had to scale way back, of course. I can’t afford all the lavish ingredients I used to — besides which, I haven’t made enough friends here to get rid of dozens of cookies, even if I did. So this year, I’m limiting myself to classic peanut butter blossom cookies (the ones with the Hershey’s Kisses on top — Addi’s favorite) and sugar cookies.

I cast a fretful glance at the aging electric stove in the corner, hoping the unreliable heating element won’t burn the cookies. I turn it on to preheat, then come back to the island and start combining ingredients for the peanut butter blossoms — a recipe I’ve made so often I know it by heart. A tension between my shoulder blades that I didn’t even notice begins to ease as I work. I’ve always found baking so soothing. It takes just enough physical effort and just enough mental concentration to push any worrisome thoughts into the background for a while. As I work, I turn on the radio to a local station that’s playing Christmas songs. As I combine the wet ingredients with the dry, I find myself humming along with the music.

Consciously, I start to count my blessings, knowing it will make me feel better. I have my health, and Addi’s health, too. And even though she’s in a bad mood today, in general my daughter is doing well. She’s thriving in school, and because I teach there as well, I can keep an eye on her and see how she’s doing for myself. And I have a job that I like. I was lucky to get this position teaching first grade in the Ironwood school district, even though I had been out of the profession since before Addi was born. If I hadn’t, who knows where we’d be right now?

And though money’s tight, I’m getting better at figuring out how to live on a shoestring. Part of my problem is that I’ve really never had to manage my money carefully before now. I met Garrett in my third year of college, right around the time I was getting ready to do my student teaching. Six years older than me, he was already a successful mutual fund manager at a prominent firm in the city, and making a salary somewhere in the low six figures. He was handsome, rich, and determined to sweep me off my feet — which he did, by paying for lavish dates and presents that I could never have afforded on my own. By the time we got married two years later I was already living with him, and he had generously paid off my student loan debt as soon as we got engaged. I thought I had it made — and financially, I did. I stopped teaching a year later, because we wanted to start a family and Garrett wanted me to focus on getting pregnant.

A movement in the window catches my eye, and I look up to see that the hot neighbor guy has come back outside. I can count that blessing, too. Even though we’ve never actually spoken and he’s just eye candy, he is awfully fun to look at. And fantasize about at night, if I’m being honest. More times than I care to admit.

I had barely even thought about sex in months, much less wanted it, until the first time I saw him driving up on his motorcycle one day not long after the school year started. I had just gotten home from work myself, and Addi was off on an after-school play date at the home of one of her classmates. I had just pulled into my own driveway, and was reaching for the door handle to get out of the car, but one glimpse at the taut muscularity of the man pulling up on his Harley made me freeze right where I was. I hurriedly ducked down and pretended to be digging for something in my bag as I spied on him through my lashes. I was fascinated, a tiny bit alarmed, and captivated by the raw maleness of him — so unlike Garrett’s buttoned up, polished manner. This man looked like he could pick me up and toss me over his shoulder to carry me inside like I was a rag doll. And even more intriguing and thrilling, he looked like maybe he might.

Not me, of course. But someone. Some woman who was hot and sexy and maybe even tattooed, just like him.

God knows how many times I’ve spied on him since then. Never for very long, of course. Just little glimpses of him here and there. But it’s enough to sear him into my memory. A few days after I first saw him, I found my thoughts turning to him one night as I lay in bed. Feelings that I had almost forgotten came rushing back to me, and before long I was reaching down under the covers with trembling fingers to find myself soaked. The shudders that rocked me a few minutes later were because of him. And that wasn’t the last time I would conjure him during the night. The mysterious neighbor — just close enough to be tantalizing, but still far enough to be safe.

Now, as I continue to watch from my kitchen window, my neighbor stands up from his bent-over position under the hood of his car. Lazily, he reaches his arms up into a big stretch, revealing his abs under his sweat-stained shirt. He grabs the hem then, and pulls the shirt up and off. I’m practically drooling as I take in the muscles of his back, and then his pecs as he turns away from the car. I draw in a shallow breath, holding it as I gaze at a scene that’s going to be over far too soon for my liking, trying to memorize the way his naked torso looks, knowing I’ll be thinking about him tonight and trying not to feel too guilty about it.

Hot Neighbor uses the shirt to wipe his face, and then under his arms. And then, before I can register what’s happening Hot Neighbor raises his eyes to the window. To me.

Our eyes lock.

He winks.

I pull back from the window, my stomach lurching like I’m on a roller coaster. Oh, God. I am mortified. He must have noticed me watching him earlier. He did all of that on purpose! He must think I stand at the window trying to catch glimpses of him whenever he’s outside.

Which unfortunately isn’t that far from the truth.

Oh God oh God oh God… Is it too early to start drinking?

Cursing a blue streak in my head, I turn back to the kitchen island and cringe, knowing that the next time I see him is going to be unbelievably embarrassing. I wonder if there’s any way I can just stay inside and hide until spring?

Let it go, Bailey. You can’t do anything about this now. Besides, it doesn’t matter what he thinks of you. You’ve never even spoken to him. You don’t even know the guy’s name.

I wish I could believe it as much as my inner voice seems to want me to.

Heaving a heavy sigh, I turn up the Christmas music on the radio and resolve never to look out the kitchen window again. I even contemplate asking the landlord if I can install some blinds, and keep them permanently shut. I make myself start humming along with the music, and continue working on the peanut butter blossoms. By the time I’m portioning the dough out onto the baking sheet, I’m starting to feel a little better. Baking always does the trick.

Ten minutes later, the Kisses are sitting on top of the blobs of dough and the cookies are ready to go into the oven. Just then, I hear Addi come out of her room and down the hall.

“Hey, Mom?” she calls. Her tone contains none of the grumpiness of earlier.

“Yes, sweetie?” I suppress a smile, hoping this means her bad mood is slipping away and she’s ready to help me bake.

But her next words push all thoughts of cookies, hot neighbors, and Christmas from my head.

“Mom,” she asks, standing in the living room, “why is there a big puddle of water in the hallway?”