His Temporary Live-in Wife. Susan Crosby

assuming Marcy’s car was inside it. The house was dark. She hadn’t returned his call, so he figured she was asleep.

      Hesitant about giving her a shock, he approached the front door quietly, key in hand. He checked his phone in case she’d called back and he hadn’t heard it ring, but there weren’t any messages.

      Should he call her again now, before he went inside, so that if she woke up she wouldn’t think he was an intruder? What if she kept a gun for protection?

      He dialed, figuring it was better to startle her out of sleep than come face-to-face with her. They’d never seen each other. She could scream, wake the neighbors, get the police involved….

      Still no answer. He hung up without leaving a message.

      He slid his key into the lock, opened the door slowly. He didn’t turn on any lights, a streetlamp in front of his house and his porch light offering enough illumination to see where he was going.

      His furniture was in place but boxes were stacked to one side. He walked down the hall and into the dining room, stopping cold when he saw one window partially open.

      She’d gone to bed with the window open? What an idiotic—

      A slight noise reached him. He spun around. Someone was nearby. Marcy? No, she wouldn’t tiptoe….

      Was she all right?

      He rushed from the room and down the hall in time to see someone reach the front door. Eric picked up speed. The person flung open the door and ran out … and crashed into someone—Marcy, Eric decided, hearing a woman yelp. Knocked to the ground, she’d slowed the intruder’s escape long enough for Eric to grab him and slam him against the side of the house, driving his shoulder into him to prevent him from going anywhere. A kid, Eric thought. A teenager, maybe only seventeen.

      “Eric?” Marcy asked breathlessly, warily. She stood up and backed off at the same time. She was looking at him as if he was the bad guy.

      The kid tried to wriggle away. Eric pushed him harder into the siding and grunted. “Yes, I’m Eric,” he said to Marcy, who looked nothing like he’d expected. He’d imagined her as young and petite. She was close to thirty, he decided, above average in height, with generous curves and long, wild, auburn hair.

      She smiled a little, shaky but sassy, too. “Welcome to California.” She pointed at the boy. “That’s Dylan. He’s looking for work.”

      “You know him? You invited him to stay in my house without asking me?”

      “Of course not. I have no idea how he got inside.”

      “Through the window you left open,” Eric said.

      She frowned. “What window?”

      “In the dining room. Wide open.”

      “I didn’t, I promise you. The lock—”

      “Let’s take this inside.” He would deal with her incompetence later. He didn’t want his new neighbors observing this scene as their introduction.

      Eric maneuvered the teenager into the living room and onto a chair then stood over him. Marcy followed, turning on lights. The boy was tall and skinny, with dirty brown hair and eyes teeming with belligerence.

      Great, Eric thought. Just what I needed tonight.

      “Do you want me to call the police?” Marcy asked, leaning against the front door.

      “Not yet. So. Dylan what?” Eric asked the kid.

      He glared back silently.

      “You’re telling me or you’re telling the cops. Which is it?”

      A flash of hope sprang in his eyes. Eric had already come to some conclusions about him.

      The boy remained silent. Eric reached for his cell phone.

      “Anthony,” Dylan said in a rush.

      Eric wondered if that was really his name. “How old are you?”

      “Eighteen.”

      “Prove it.”

      “I can’t.”

      “Where do you live?”

      “Nowhere. Everywhere. Here, for a while. It got complicated once she—” he jerked his head toward Marcy “—moved in.”

      “You ate my peanut butter,” she said.

      He lifted his chin, gave her a dark look. “You don’t look like you’ve missed any meals.”

      “Knock it off,” Eric said. “You want to save your hide, be respectful.”

      Dylan looked at the floor.

      “I gave you money, and this is how you repay me?” Marcy asked.

      “I didn’t ask you for anything except a job, lady. And I did stuff— Never mind.”

      “Are you hungry?” Eric asked, knowing the answer. They could sort this out when everyone calmed down.

      “Wait,” Marcy said. “You did what stuff?” she asked Dylan. “Finish your sentence.”

      He shrugged.

      “It was you. You broke down the boxes and put them out for recycling. You put the trash out so the drywall could be hauled off. You even did the dishes!”

      After a few seconds he nodded, not making eye contact.

      Apparently there was a lot more to this kid than appeared on the surface. He hadn’t just stolen. “Marcy, would you please fix Dylan a sandwich or something,” Eric said. “Whatever you’ve got on hand.”

      She sighed. “Would you also like one?”

      “If you don’t mind.”

      “Oh, no. I’m here to serve,” she muttered as she strode into the kitchen, although “marched” might be a more accurate description.

      Eric pulled a chair close to Dylan and sat. “Tell me about living here. How’d you do that?”

      “Opened the window. Climbed in.”

      Eric dug for patience. “Be more specific.”

      “I saw the place was empty. I needed a place to stay.”

      “Did you break the window?”

      “It was already broken.” He finally made eye contact, although only briefly. “I broke the lock on the other window so I could get back in, in case someone fixed the glass.”

      “How long did you stay here?”

      He shrugged.

      “Days? Weeks? Months?”

      “When I needed to.”

      Eric waited, his gaze steady. Silence usually brought discomfort and therefore answers, but this kid handled empty silences well.

      “Go wash your hands before we eat.” He reckoned the boy was hungry enough not to climb out the window. “I think you know where the bathroom is.”

      Dylan had perfected the teenage saunter. He didn’t act scared or nervous, but Eric figured he was plenty of both.

      Eric joined Marcy in the kitchen, planting himself where he could see if Dylan tried to escape. She glanced at Eric then returned to fixing what looked to be turkey sandwiches and chips.

      “The boy’s cleaning up,” he said.

      “I could hear your conversation.”

      “Need help?”

      “No, thanks.”

      She went silent but he noted how stiff-backed she was. “You don’t approve of me not phoning the police.”

      “At