I was just bumming around the house in sweats and a wifebeater on a warm summer afternoon when the doorbell rang.

I hoped it wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness. Those were about the only people who came to the front door. Anyone who knew me knew to come to the kitchen door around the side of the house.

“Hold on!” I called out as I grabbed my cane and tried to lever myself off the couch.

I had to untangle myself from the sheet I’d draped over the couch to protect the upholstery.

The cane was necessary as I continued to recover from an accident back in the spring that had kept me out of work for nearly four months. The facts that the accident was beyond a doubt not my fault and the idiot who was responsible had more money than sense had my lawyer and his lawyer discussing a settlement that, once it came through, would severely diminish my desire to continue working for a bunch of assholes who’d repeatedly changed my job description and responsibilities.

At the time of the accident — which happened while I was on the clock, meaning I was living off workman’s comp for the time being — my duties were almost 180 degrees removed from what I’d originally been hired to do. But my hiring had been before the takeover by a bunch of greedy corporate bastards whose first priority was to slash expenses and lay off anyone above a certain level of experience and pay grade.

The fact that I was about to move up to that level in the next year led my know-nothing supervisor, a corporate drone who’d never worked in the industry, to start jerking me around in an effort to get me to quit so he could hire some recent college graduate at half the salary. The stupid fuck should have pulled his head out of his ass. I had enough documentation of federal labor violations — texts, emails, voicemails, etc. — dreamed up by the guy and approved at the highest levels to get him a nice vacation at Club Fed and me another seven-figure settlement. I planned on filing as soon as the accident settlement was reached. I’d give notice if the stupid fuck didn’t fire me for doing so.

My lawyer needed to get his ass in gear and get me my money.

I wasn’t permanently crippled, according to the docs, but had spent more than a month flat on my back. There was enough metal in my legs now to make me real popular with airport security should I ever fly commercial again. The rehab, which was still ongoing, had been anything but pleasant.

Once I got to the front door, it took me almost as long to unlock it as it had to reach it.

I opened it to see my neighbors’ teenage daughter, looking absolutely frantic in the midafternoon heat of late August.

“Hey, Shelby, what can I do for ya?” I asked as I tried to hold the storm door open.

“Can you please, please help me out, Mr. de Valer?” she pleaded. “I forgot my keys this morning and Mom’s not home and Daddy won’t be in until late tonight.”

“Sure, c’mon in,” I said, edging out of the way to allow her to enter. “Would you like something to drink? I have iced tea and lemonade in the fridge.”

“I’d love something cold,” she said as she flapped the bodice of her dress in an attempt to circulate some air over her skin.

“You know the way to the kitchen,” I said, moving farther out of the way as she set her schoolbag on the little table I kept next to the door.

I closed and relocked the door, the hobbled after the girl.

Shelby was a sweetheart and had been as long as I’d known her. Her family had moved next door just before she started kindergarten a decade ago. She was now 15, just starting her sophomore year of high school, and had grown into quite a looker.

She stood about 5-foot-5 with a slender frame, coltish legs extending from a knee-length dress. While the dress tended to obscure her shape, I’d seen her in shorts and T-shirts enough over the summer to know that her hips were starting to gain that womanly swell and she had the makings of an incredible bubble butt. Her breasts were also starting to fill out as she exited that awkward phase of adolescence. She was probably still an A cup, but looked like a nice handful.

Wavy, sometimes frizzy, light brown hair hung past her shoulders and framed an oval face that was almost perfect. Eyes somewhere between brown and hazel, button nose and round cheeks under a light dusting of freckles, Cupid’s Bow mouth just begging to be kissed.

If you looked up the word “nubile” in the dictionary, you’d probably find a picture of Shelby.

I found myself envying whichever pimply faced punk attracted her attention.

“I didn’t realize how long it’s been since I’ve been in this house,” she said as I entered the kitchen. “You’ve had the walls painted.”

Shelby increased the pace of her flapping as she leaned into the cool air of the fridge, giving me some tantalizing glimpses of her developing décolletage. I quickly averted my eyes. I shouldn’t notice such things about a child nearly 30 years my junior.

“it has been a while,” I said, opening a cabinet and getting out some glasses. “I had that done before you started junior high.”

Shelby settled on the lemonade and brought the gallon jug to the table. She poured us both a glass, downing half of hers and refilling it before she took a seat. She resumed flapping the neckline of her dress, a long-sleeved number that looked like black velvet or velour.

“That’s not exactly the best choice of outfit for this time of year,” I observed.

“We had to give a presentation in one of my classes today and were told to dress nice,” she said. “Mom offered to let me wear one of her business suits, but it was too baggy on me.”

And probably would be until she gained a couple of cup sizes, I thought.

“I was going to change as soon as I got home, but ... well, you know,” she said. “At least I didn’t wear pantyhose.”

“So, how’s school going?” I asked. “Already got a semester’s worth of dates lined up?”

“No,” she moped. “Nobody’s asked me out. Daddy wouldn’t let me date last year and any boy that asked back then has moved on. He still won’t let me go out with seniors. That basically leaves the juniors if I want to go out with a guy who can drive and all the good ones are taken. There are a few boys in my class who have their license, but Daddy doesn’t want me riding with an inexperienced driver. He says the accident rate for new drivers is astronomical.”

“Well, just give it time,” I said in what I hoped was a comforting tone. “At least he doesn’t sit out on the front porch with a shotgun looking to shoot any boy who gets too close.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” the teen grumped.

We finished our drinks, Shelby again gulping hers down but declining the offer of more, and set the glasses in the sink. I’d get around to rinsing them out one of these days. Maybe even by the end of the month. Labor Day at the latest.

It was times like these when I faced the prospect of doing my own housework that I sometimes regretted remaining a bachelor. I just never got around to asking a girl who might say yes. Watching a number of my old classmates and work colleagues go through some nasty divorces left me a little gunshy.

“Why don’t we go back into the living room?” I suggested. “The AC’s better in there and you can watch some TV if you want.”

Shelby eagerly agreed and returned the lemonade to the fridge, again leaning in to let the cool air waft down her top. I could only imagine what that did to her nipples. It was a good thing the fabric was too heavy to make it obvious. I needed to get my mind out of the gutter, I chided myself.

In an effort to maintain decorum, I let Shelby have the couch while I plopped down in my recliner. She slipped off her low-heeled Mary Janes and straightened the sheet before sitting down. Curling her legs under her, she grabbed the TV remote. She almost immediately began channel surfing once she saw what was on the screen.

“ESPN?” she snorted before her thumb went to work.

“What can I say?” I replied. “I’m a guy. I watch sports.”

Shelby eventually settled on some teen dramady that I’d once heard referred to as this generation’s Buffy. Of course, I’d never watched either program and couldn’t comment. All I could tell about this one was there were a lot of people pushing 30 trying to convince me they were still in high school.

During a commercial break, Shelby tried to roll her neck, but stopped midmotion with a groan.

“Anything wrong?” I asked.

“I think I slept on it wrong,” she moaned. “I haven’t been able to turn my head all day. I think I need a heating pad.”

“Maybe I can help,” I said, getting out of the recliner and limping over to sit beside her.

Part of my rehab included therapeutic massages after enduring their torture sessions. One massage therapist was particularly chatty and explained what she was doing as she worked over various parts of my body. I paid attention and picked up a few things, especially how to massage my legs at home.

I would have much preferred letting the massage therapist come over and handle the task. She had a great rack.

Shelby turned her back to me, indicated the afflicted area and draped her hair over a shoulder to get it out of the way. I started on her neck above the neckline, earning an appreciative groan as I kneaded the supple flesh. I noticed the dress buttoned down the back instead of zipping. She must have to do up all but the last couple and slip the garment over her head unless she had someone to help her with the fastenings.

Moving to her shoulders, I worked my way from the outside to her spine, then moved down to the shoulder blades. I’d been working in that area for just a minute when Shelby stopped me.

“The fabric’s rubbing,” she complained. “It’s getting uncomfortable.”

I pondered my options. Taking the dress off was the obvious choice, but I was pretty sure Shelby wouldn’t go for that. And I knew her father damn sure wouldn’t.

“Do you trust me?” I asked hesitantly.

“To do what?” she replied only a little suspiciously.

“Undo a couple of buttons and make direct contact with the skin,” I said.

Shelby mulled the offer for a few moments before reaching her decision.

“Maybe if I lay face-down,” she finally said as if trying to convince herself I had no ulterior motive.

I pushed off the arm of the couch to stand and allow her to reposition herself atop the sheet. The couch seat was just deep enough that I could get one butt cheek on the edge without crushing her into the backrest.

I swear, my hands were trembling as I unhooked the first button, and all I was exposing was her upper back. She probably had several outfits that were cut much lower. I stopped before the backstrap of her bra came into view and slipped my hands under the fabric to continue.

That lasted just a couple of minutes before Shelby had another complaint.

“The seams are digging into my armpits,” she said. “Could you loosen it a little more, please?”

I barely hesitated this time, quickly undoing the rest of the buttons to the waistline and exposing a flawless expanse of skin. There were no tan lines, but Shelby was so pale I didn’t think she laid out regularly.

The adjustment allowed me to work on all her back except the bits covered by her bra straps. She tugged on the shoulders of the dress to get them just off the point of her shoulders.

“That feels sooo gooood,” she sighed as I dug my fingers into the muscles. “I should get you to do this more often.”

I can’t say I found the idea unappealing. This was more physical contact than I’d had with a female who wasn’t a healthcare professional in more than six months. I don’t think Shelby’s parents would approve, though.

I was pressing my knuckles into her spinal column, making the joints sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies, when we encountered the next obstacle. Here bra strap, though not that wide, covered a knot between two vertebrae.

“You can undo it,” she said so quietly it was almost a whisper. “It’s not like you’re going to see anything.”

If my hands trembled undoing buttons, they positively shook as I approached the hook-and-eye closure. I don’t know that I ever unhooked a 15-year-old’s bra even when I was in high school. Most of the girls I went out with back then didn’t permit that level of familiarity until they were older.

With her entire back now bare to the waist, I worked the knot loose and ran my elbow down most of the length of her spine as Shelby sighed contentedly.

I was about to call it quits before I did something I shouldn’t when Shelby pushed things up a notch.

“Would you rub the marks my bra makes on my ribs?” she asked timidly. “I think I need to get resized. This one felt like it was cutting me in two all day.”

OK, this was starting to get into dangerous territory. With a deep breath, I rubbed the red creases I could see, stopping before I slid under her arms. The action still caused the shoulder straps to slide off.

Shelby giggled as I stroked her ribcage.

“Sorry,” I said as I pulled my hands back. “I didn’t mean to tickle you.”

“It’s not that,” she laughed. “I just thought it was funny that a guy’s getting that close to second base when he hasn’t even tried to kiss me.”