by Salsbury, JB
When I look up, I find he’s tilted his head a little to gauge my expression. “Ben, I… are you sure? I may not be the best candidate for the job, ya know? Elliot’s cool and I like hanging out with her, but I’m like a sixteen-year-old girl in a twenty-nine-year-old woman’s body. I’m irresponsible and flakey, and I’m not smart. I’m a mess most of the time and—”
“Who thinks those things about you?” The fierceness in his voice brings my gaze up from the floor. “I’ve never thought those things about you.”
I laugh uncomfortably, trying to lighten the moment. “It’s true. I don’t think I’m fit for the job.”
His dark brows drop low over his eyes, and he stands close, towering over me. “Anyone who has ever made you feel less than the spectacular woman you are doesn’t deserve to breathe your air.”
A small gasp leaves my open lips.
His gaze fixes on my mouth, and his hand moves up. It looks as though he’s going to touch my lips, but he blinks and redirects his shaking fingers to push a strand of hair off my face. He makes a fist and drops his hand.
“One thing I will point out,” he says with a tiny grin. “You’re horrible at job interviews.”
I laugh, grateful for the crack in the swirling mass of tension between us. “I mostly get jobs based on what I look like.” I cringe because that sounds so bad even if it is true.
“Not this time. Although, you are very beautiful,” he hurries to correct himself. “But I believe you’re the right person for the job, and I’m never wrong.”
“Ha! You believe—”
“In you.”
I sober, feeling my chest swell with pride and accomplishment that somehow in all my fuckedupness, I managed to win the approval of the man I respect most in the world. “This isn’t a joke? Because it would be really cruel.”
“No.” He steps back, and I instantly miss the heat that had built up between us. “Not a joke. So do you accept?”
I chew my lip, thinking. “I’ll give it a shot.” Why the hell not, right? “Temporarily. Until you find someone better.”
“Deal.” He shoves his hand out for me to shake.
As I reach forward to do it, I’m so desperate to feel him I’m afraid I’ll throw myself into his arms. I slap my palm in his, and as our fingers wrap around each other, a zap of something alive sparks up my veins. “Deal.”
His fingers are long and powerful, and the protruding veins in his hands make him seem manlier somehow. I don’t let go, making him the one who has to pull free of the hold. He eventually does, with a rough scrape of his callused hand. I bite back a groan of pleasure.
“Great. Bethany will show you the ropes until she leaves.”
“Great.”
“Okay.”
“Cool.”
He licks his lower lip, and I almost fall into him before he turns away, saying, “You girls better get to dinner or you’ll be late for work.”
Dammit.
As if seeing Ben on Sundays alone wasn’t enough torture, now I’ll be seeing him daily. How long can I resist the sexual energy between us before I do something stupid that ruins our relationship forever?
* * *
“We, Bethany. He said ‘you’re exactly what we need.’” I shove away my plate of pasta. I’ve been picking at the thing for thirty minutes and haven’t made a dent on the mound.
“I can’t wait to tell Jesiah this. He’s been pushing for the two of you to get together since before he and I even got together.” She forks a bite of spaghetti into her mouth.
“What do you think Ben meant by that?” I pick apart a breadstick, keeping my hands busy after too many Diet Cokes.
“Honestly? I think he likes you.”
A sound that’s half elephant, half Donald Duck comes from my mouth. “That’s absurd! The guy is sold out to his wife who is very much still his wife.”
“Maybe he’s ready to move on.”
“Even if he was, which I highly doubt, he would not choose to move on with me.”
Her fork hits the plate so hard, it draws the attention of the people around us. “Why would you say that?”
I don’t answer because my head is already a mess on spin cycle.
She knows me well enough to read my mind and backs off. “Just focus on taking care of Elliot and let fate take care of the rest.”
“You’re right. I’m overthinking this. Ben’s a nice guy and he says things to make people feel good about themselves and feel hopeful about this shitty fucking life we get to live.”
“When did you become so pessimistic?”
I drop my head back and stare at the air conditioning vent above me. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m having an existential crisis.”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking a good hard look at your life and making changes. I think Ben was right. I think you spending time with Elliot will be great for everyone involved.”
I drop my chin and stare at her. “Promise you’ll answer your phone if I call you in need of nanny advice—oh my fucking shit… I’m a nanny.”
“Of course I will, and you’ll be great. I promise.”
If only I had her confidence in me.
Chapter Ten
Ben
Tuesdays are my most important days outside of Sunday mornings. It’s the day I get started on my studies for the next week’s sermon, as well as meet with my staff in preparation for the week.
I’m nose-deep in study when there’s a knock on my office door. I know it can’t be Donna—knowing I’m studying, she would call. But I’m surprised that whoever it is got beyond Donna to knock at all.
“Pastor Langley, do you have a minute?”
I set down my pen and groan. I want to holler that I don’t have a minute, but knowing Kathy, she’ll keep trying until I give her the airtime she needs. “Come in.”
She opens the door and scoots inside, turning to close the door.
“Leave it open, please.”
With her hand on the knob, she looks over her shoulder at me. “I’m afraid what I have to talk to you about is sensitive in nature. I think privacy is best.”
“I’ve never allowed a woman alone in my office behind a closed door in the twelve years I’ve been pastoring, and I don’t intend to start now.”
Not in my office, but yesterday, I was very alone with Ashleigh in my daughter’s room with the door closed and didn’t consider for a second whether or not it was appropriate. I try not to think too hard about why my first experience alone in a room behind a closed door with a woman who was not my wife didn’t even register on my radar until just now.
She nods and walks away from the mostly closed door, papers clutched to her chest.
Rather than ask her to open it, I get up and do it myself. When I return to my desk, she’s already made herself comfortable across from me. I notice right away that something is different about her. Maybe a new haircut? Makeup? I know I’ve never seen her wear jeans before and she’s wearing them now. Maybe that’s it.
“I’m afraid to inform you that we’ve had some complaints about one of our volunteers from last Sunday.”
Oh, this should be good. I fold my hands together on my desk. “Is that right?”
“Unfortunately.” She acts truly upset, expression downtrodden, sad sigh escaping her lips. “Apparently”—she shuffles through some papers—“this volunteer was calling people the wrong names as well as turning her back so that some people didn’t even get a bulletin.”
“Unforgivable.”
Her eyes light up. “Right? It’s awful.”
And yet, she’s smiling.
My entire life, I’ve run into people who refuse to go to church. I’m convinced it’s because the one time they tried they ran into someone like Kathy.
“Who is the volunteer?” I already know, but I want to force Kathy to say her name.
“Let me see,” she says, sorting through the papers. “Oh dear.” She frowns.
I want to laugh, rol
l my eyes, and offer her an Academy Award. Instead, I wait.
“Ashleigh Kendrick.” She refuses to look at me because she knows she’s being a petty asshole.
“I’ll have a talk with her.”
“Pastor, if I might suggest…”
“Go ahead.”
She leans in. “I noticed a few of the men ogling Ms. Kendrick on Sunday. I wondered if you might need to discuss with her what is proper church attire.”
My blood simmers. “Grace Church welcomes all people regardless of their past, sexual orientation, and clothing choices.”
Her expression remains impassive except for the tiny flare of irritation I see in her eyes. “Surely those representing the church should be held to a higher standard. Fishnet stockings belong on street corners and strip clubs. For the sake of the men she distracts—”
“A distracted man is not a woman’s responsibility. There are men who find a woman’s feet erotic, so then should all women cover their feet?” She opens her mouth to answer, but I cut her off. “Surely you’re not suggesting it’s Ms. Kendrick’s responsibility to keep men from having impure thoughts about her. If that were the case, she’d need to cover more than her legs.”
She’d need to wear a bag over her head to keep those hypnotic blue eyes from making men dream about things they can’t have.
I expect my argument to shut Kathy down, but she doesn’t let up. “This is a church. We should have a dress code that promotes modesty.”
“I tell you what, if she shows up next week in a bikini, I’ll talk to her.”
“How can you be so permissive? Especially with the DOEE lurking the hallways?”
Tires screech in my head. “How do you know about that?”
“They’ve been interviewing us. And it’s only a matter of time before they interview Ms. Kendrick. If her responses to their questioning are anything like her responses to the volunteer questionnaire, then you might want to start looking for a new job.” With that, she gathers her papers and walks out.
Ashleigh would never make her jokes with something that truly mattered. Her answers on the questionnaire were undoubtedly for Kathy’s benefit.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give Elliot’s new nanny a heads-up though, just to be safe.
* * *
I’m halfway to my front door after a long day when the scent of a home-cooked meal wafts from the open windows of my house. As I approach, I realize the scent of food isn’t the only thing spilling from the windows. I stop shy of the door and take a moment to soak in the sound of laughter. And not just the trill of my daughter’s contagious giggle, but the sound of two grown women laughing with her.
Music to my ears.
I open the door and take in the scene. Bethany’s sitting on the couch while Ashleigh and Elliot sit cross-legged on the floor, facing each other and smacking their hands together in some kind of rhythmic hand-dance. Their hands freeze in midair and all three pairs of eyes come to me.
My daughter seems disappointed to see me. “You’re home already?”
“It’s nice to see you too.” I close the door and drop my things on the catchall table. “No hug for Dad, huh?”
“Not yet, I’m trying to teach Ashleigh Miss Suzy Had a Steamboat.” She swings her attention back to her nanny-in-training, who smirks at me before frowning in mock frustration. “Let’s try it again.”
“Okay, I’ll try, but this is so hard!” Ashleigh lifts her hands.
Bethany laughs.
As the two start back up with all the clapping while Elliot sings the nursery-rhyme type song, Ashleigh bites her lip to concentrate and completely flubs up her hands. Elliot falls back laughing, and the sound is so pure and lovely we all join in.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Ashleigh says through her laughter. “I never finished high school, so this is very difficult for me.”
“This is why you need to focus on school,” Bethany says with laughter in her voice.
“That’s exactly right,” Ashleigh says. “Now let’s try again.”
As much as I’d love to sit here all night watching my daughter bond with the only women in her life, I know Ashleigh has to get to work, and Elliot makes it impossible to end any kind of playtime.
I step up to them and take the seat just behind Ashleigh. I take shallow breaths to avoid breathing in the scent of her hair, which drives my thoughts to unhealthy places, and angle my body to keep my knees from brushing against her back. “Why don’t you let me give it a go?”
“No.” Elliot draws out the single syllable word. “I want Ashleigh to do it.”
“Ash has to get to work,” Bethany backs me up. “Why don’t you play with your dad while I get dinner on the table?”
I feel a strange twinge of disappointment that Ashleigh won’t be staying for dinner.
“Sorry, midget. I gotta go.” Ashleigh hops to her feet, and I realize then I’ve never seen her dressed so casually. Baggy jeans hang low on her round hips, rolled at the bottom with bare feet, and her shirt is simple. Still short and showcasing a sliver of tan, smooth skin, but not too tight. Her long hair is down, and she looks a lot younger. “Another reason to stay in school, kid. Better jobs.”
Ashleigh turns to me, and the second our eyes meet, our gazes snag and hold. I refuse to let go first.
Eventually she blinks and stares at my shoulder. “Mind if I get changed in your bathroom before I go?”
“You don’t have to ask.” Why does it sound as if I’m whispering? I clear my throat, blaming my esophagus for the misuse of my voice. “Help yourself.”
She spins around, grabs a bag at the mouth of the hallway, and disappears. With her absence, Elliot hops on the couch, picks up the remote, and flips on the Disney Channel.
I follow Bethany into the kitchen. “Smells amazing. Did you make that chicken casserole with noodles?”
She pulls the bubbling dish from the oven.
My mouth waters, but I feel required to say, “You don’t have to cook for us.”
“Are you kidding?” She looks over her shoulder at me. “I never get to cook at home. Your brother insists on keeping an in-house chef who refuses to make anything with fat in it.” She looks longingly at the meal she’s prepared. “I need this just as much as you guys do.”
“Fair enough.” I pull down three plates and try to slip my question in casually. “How did today go?”
“Great.” Bethany goes on to tell me about Elliot’s day and a science project she has due next week.
Not exactly what I wanted to know. “And how did Ashleigh do?”
She grins slowly. “Really good. She’s great with Elliot.” She nods at the curse jar. “Except for that.”
I look over and see a twenty-dollar bill in the jar. “Twenty?”
“No, it wasn’t that bad, but she decided to prepay just in case.” I must look worried because Bethany follows up with, “I’ll talk to her about her mouth. Not that it’ll help. I’ve been trying to put a leash on her mouth for… well, since I’ve known her.”
“It’s okay.” I snag a pitcher of sugar-free KoolAid from the fridge. “I don’t want her to feel judged.”
Bethany’s eyes slip to something behind me and her smile widens. Naturally, I spin around and nearly trip over my own feet as Ashleigh steps into the living room.
Elliot rushes to Ashleigh. I assume it’s to give her a hug goodbye, but instead my daughter stops within her tiny arm’s length and feels the shiny plastic-looking material of Ashleigh’s painted-on pants.
“I like your pants,” Elliot says, her tiny hand running up and down the outside of Ashleigh’s thigh.
I try really hard not to focus on the velvet, lace-up top currently lifting Ashleigh’s breasts to the point where they’re overflowing the soft red fabric. Her hair is up, her long neck and slender shoulders dusted in some kind of something that catches the light and makes her skin look flawless and… wet. I lick my lips.
Bethany clears her throat, calling my attention, and she mout
hs, “She looks hot, right?”
I can’t stop my eyes from roaming back to the blonde without gouging them from my skull. “Yeah,” I say, my whisper returning, but oh well.
“Dad, come here, you gotta feel these pants.” Elliot’s still running her hands down Ashleigh’s long legs.
“Oh, um… I don’t need—”
Bethany shoves me from behind. “No, she’s right. You really need to feel them.”
I glare at Bethany, who’s grinning into her shoulder.
“Dad, they feel like when we pet the stingrays at the aquarium.”
“Yeah come on, Ben.” Ashleigh’s eyes sparkle behind long, thick lashes. “Feel me up already.”
“No, I can imagine what they feel like.”
All three girls stare at me and I can hear them silently asking why I won’t just feel the pants. As if saying no too many times is communicating the single thing I’m trying to avoid. Which is, yes, I want to touch Ashleigh.
Her heels click on the tile floor until Ashleigh’s standing a few inches in front of me. “Make your daughter’s day and feel the damn pants.” She pops her hip to the side. “Go on.”
Do I bend down and feel her calf? No, that’ll put my face right at her… um… yeah, so stay standing. But that means I’ll only be able to reach her hip—
“Touch me already,” Ashleigh says under her breath.
I stare at her legs that look coated in wet black paint. I rake my teeth along my bottom lip and flex my fingers before inching my hand forward and grasping her hip. My teeth dig deeper into my lip to hold back a moan as I feel the soft heat of her womanly flesh beneath my fingers. My thumb skates along the slick surface once. Twice. So warm. So feminine. Her scent envelops me, and without my permission, my fingers dig deeper. I want to pull her to me, feel her pressed against my chest, her pulse on my lips, her taste on my tongue—
She shivers beneath my touch.
What am I doing?
I rip my hand away and step back to put much-needed oxygen between us.
“See, Dad? Don’t those pants feel like a stingray?”