At 52, I thought I’d seen every stunt in the book when it came to flirtatious women and their wandering eyes. I’d been married three decades. I’d seen the winks. The “accidental” touches. The little sighs that said, “I wish my husband were more like yours.”
But nothing — and I mean nothing — prepared me for Amber.
Let me back up. Three months ago, a moving truck rolled into the quiet cul-de-sac where my husband Andy and I have lived for over 20 years. And out stepped trouble in heels.
She was 25. Blonde. Fresh off a suspiciously short-lived marriage to a man nearly 50 years her senior — poor Mr. Patterson, who now lived alone in a retirement condo after she “took what she needed” and vanished.
So now, Amber had a house she didn’t pay for, a closet full of yoga pants, and an attitude that screamed: “Your husband’s next.”
Oh Andy, Come Look at Our New Neighbor!”
Andy peeked out the window. “Well… she’s young.”
“She’s trouble,” I said flatly. “Mark my words
