Charlotte prevented herself from crumpling to the carpet by leaning against the window frame. The binoculars clicked against the glass.

This was so wrong. So illegal. So bad. And so incredibly gratifying!

She chuckled to herself and found a comfortable stance, immediately deciding that LoriSue's term "juicy piece of man" didn't go far enough in describing the image now framed in the binocular lenses. In fact, Charlotte didn't think there was a term for a man like him.

And he just kept punching, his back toward her, the little bag blurring and spinning from the impact of his boxing gloves. His longish hair was wet with perspiration and black against the nape of his neck. His cut shoulders, back, and arms rippled, glistening with sweat, an image made all the more surreal by the haze of moths drawn to the patio light.

"Moths to a flame," Charlotte said out loud.

She stared, stupefied, watching his feet dance and his thighs and calves bunch up and release, his tight backside bounce and jut, his lungs pump air in and out of his body.

And just then, a thick, slow-moving fog of deja vu began to roll through her. It was like she'd once had a dream about this or that her subconscious was whispering to her that this man reminded her of someone she once knew- or wait; maybe she'd once seen a movie where some pathetic, lonely widow stared at her attractive neighbor with her son's cereal box binoculars!

She groaned and was about to put an end to the whole sorry business when the man stopped. He pulled his hands out of the gloves, tossed them on the pool deck, then shook his sweaty hair. He reached around, grabbed a water bottle, and playfully tossed it up over his head.

That's the moment he turned toward her, snagging the plastic bottle in midair. She saw his face.

Charlotte's legs didn't hold.