Oliver Bateman is a jerk.

It’s been a decade since I’ve seen him last, and while time has been generous with his outrageously good looks, it wasn’t kind to his attitude. He was born grumpy, so I don’t know why I expected our first meeting as adults to go any differently than our final goodbye as teenagers.

The only thing worse than him not recognizing me is being stuck as his neighbour for the foreseeable future. We don’t get along in the slightest, and even my daughter’s infatuation with him can’t keep my temper from flaring when he purposefully pushes all my buttons just to get a rise out of me.

Yet even as I remind myself of that, it’s obvious that I haven’t had anyone bring this type of reaction out of me in years. It feels almost as good as the first brush of his hands on my skin and breath on my lips. He brings me out of my shell and reminds me that Mom doesn’t have to be my only label.