She pauses mid-bite, eyes wide. They’re so huge, if she even thinks about crying, I’ll be able to tell.
“Okay.” Something shifts. She finishes the bite and nods. “Would you, um, mind explaining?”
“I’m too old for you.”
3
Get off
Jerusha
I fight the desire to look away from his steady gaze. To focus on my plate or my hands or any acceptable location. I was brought up, after all, not to look a man in the eye.
And, goodness, Papa wouldn’t approve of this one.
Which is something I’ve questioned over the last week. Is that what draws me to him? Is it the forbidden thing?
No, I tell myself again. Only this time I can be a million times more certain, because he’s right here—in my house, sitting on a rug I made with my own hands, watching me with warm, dark eyes that are more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen. No, this isn’t about home. This is about me. And him. And the way I feel when he’s near.
Too old for me? No, way. “Why?” I force myself to ask.
“Why am I too old?” He looks astonished. “You’re, what? Twenty-five?”
“Yes.”
“I’m forty-three.”
I nod, waiting for more. When nothing comes, I put my plate down, reach for my beer and take a sip. I like the bubbles—that’s not something we had growing up—but I’m not too fond of the bitterness. I’ll have to see if I can find one more to my taste.
“So far, you’ve given me two numbers.” I feel my expression shifting into what my family called my know-it-all look, but I honestly can’t help it. I know when I’m right. “When’s your birthday?”
“It was in January.”
“Mine’s in March.”
He cocks one dark eyebrow. There’s a little hole above and below it, as if it’s been pierced. I wonder what that feels like, having a needle poke through your skin like that. I’d never felt a needle at all until this year, when I went and got all my vaccinations done after enrolling in grad school. It was a big move for me. I almost laugh. What hasn’t been a big move for me? “Okay.”
“I’ll be twenty-six this year.” I give him a smile. “And since you like numbers, here’s some math. Forty-three minus twenty-six equals seventeen.”
He grins behind his beer and I love that look. It tilts his nostrils up and cuts a dimple into one cheek, so deep I can see it through his beard. The whole look’s positively devilish. I want that. Whatever’s behind that look. Whatever a body and face and brain like that can give me. I don’t want the boring Jeds and creepy Scotts and bossy Brians of the world. I don’t want any of the guys I’ve gone out with. I want him.
But does he want me?
Everything inside me sinks to the floor. Of course not. It’s not age holding him back. It’s that he’s not interested. Fool. That word floats around again, judgy and mean, but so honest it hurts.
No. Not honest. It’s a relic from the past is what it is.
Honesty would be getting all the facts. Honesty would be telling him everything.
Do I have to? A voice whines from the back of my head. I wouldn’t be here today if I’d listened to that voice.
“I liked the kiss.” The words tumble out. “Did you not like it?”
The smile disappears from his face. He’s all dark energy, thrumming so hard I can feel it where our knees touch. Neither of us seems to be breathing.
“I liked it.” He sets down his beer. “I just don’t think I’m the right person for you.”
I give a little nod, though there’s nothing acquiescent about it. If he knew me better, he’d get that I’m trying to find another way in.
“Am I the right person for you?”
The surprised-sounding laugh he lets out must be involuntary, but he doesn’t stifle it. I get the impression he enjoys it when I make him laugh.
“I think you like me as much as I like you.”
“Yeah?” Oh, his eyes are glimmering now, something wicked and fierce in their depths. I want to unleash it, to see how that feels.
Keeping my gaze glued to his, I nod.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you’re here.”
One massive shoulder lifts in a shrug. “We’re neighbors. You’re having me over for pizza.”
“You sit around eating pizza and drinking beer with your daughter’s friends?”
“Hell, no.” He shakes his entire body as if the mere thought gives him the willies. “Never.” He shoots me a look. “You’re sneaky.”
“I’m right.”
Slowly, carefully, he puts down his beer. “About what?”
“I knew a kiss from you would be amazing.”
“Yeah?” His eyes narrow. They’re so black, I can’t tell the difference between iris and pupil. It doesn’t matter. I want to dive in and discover all his dark thoughts.
“Yeah.”
“You think about it before the other night?”
I bite my lip and nod.
His gaze lingers on my mouth before sliding back up to my eyes. “What do you want from me, Jerusha of the Valley?”
“I want you to show me everything.”
Shock widens his eyes, his pupils blowing up to engulf every bit of warm brown. “You don’t even know what that means.”
I’ve never felt excitement like this. Even taking the bus here from the Shenandoah Valley wasn’t nearly this…big. I’m breathing hard and fast, feeling wild and fierce.
“No. But I want you to show me.”
“Fine.” He stands, forcing me to tilt back my head.
For a few wide-eyed seconds, I expect him to pull down his zipper, maybe force himself into my mouth.
I’m so nervous, I can’t even tell if I want that or not. How would I respond? There’s a curiosity running through me. A dangerous curiosity, my parents called it. And I guess they were right, because this situation is exactly what they’d wanted me to avoid.
Here I am, running headlong at it. Choosing the danger.
It’s a relief when he bends for his can and his plate and carries them to the kitchen. I follow slowly, trying to figure out if my brain’s functioning correctly or if that even matters when I feel so very alive.
I put the plate in the sink, surprised when he washes it, along with his, and sets it in the rack to dry. I watch a drop of water roll down. Everything’s syrupy slow. The way he turns and leans his hips on the counter, the way he watches me, so clearly trying to read me, I almost want to laugh.
And then I do, ’cause if I can’t figure myself out, the man’s not going to get there.
“What’s funny?”
“You. Trying to see into my brain.”
“Might help things if I could.”
“I’m not so sure of that, actually.” I make a face at him. “I’m kind of incomprehensible.”
“Okay.” He folds arms that are thick as hams across a chest wide as a slab of beef. I’d laugh at my comparisons, but I can’t, because I’m suddenly overcome at the image he presents. Forearms sculpted out of muscle and bone, with those short, dark man-hairs I’ve never gotten the chance to touch, biceps he clearly uses every day, and hands that are big and tough, but also scarred. Someone needs to care for those hands. Someone needs to hold them. “Try to explain it.”
I meet his gaze, but have no idea what he’s asking for. “Excuse me?”
“Explain what’s going on in your head. So I get it.”
“Oh. I don’t know if I can.”
“Try.”
4
In between days
Karl
“I told you I’m from the Shenandoah Valley.”
“Yeah. Jerusha of the Valley.” I smirk. She’s so damn cute, with that fluffy cloud of hair framing her face, the big sweater and long skirt that in no way hide the voluptuous body beneath. All of her is an explosion of color—from her clothes to her face, with those blue eyes and auburn brows and brown freckles, pale skin and
bright red cheeks.
“Well, you know I’m…” The blush creeps below her high neckline. I brace myself for what she’ll say next. “Inexperienced.”
I nod, unable to keep my mind from returning to that sweet, short, perfect kiss on her porch the other night. I consider how to respond and come up with nothing. Couldn’t get my voice to work right now if I tried.
“I moved here of my own volition. Against my parents’ desires.” She grimaces. “Demands, really.”
“Okay.”
“They’re very religious.” This doesn’t surprise me. There’s something about the way she sits—straight and proper—that says she had an upbringing totally unlike mine. “I grew up praying and reading from the Bible every day. Papa and Mama homeschooled us. We grew what we ate and…” Her hands flutter in an impatient dance. “You get it, right? Papa wasn’t…mean. He was strict. Never hurt me, never yelled, though I know I was a trial.” Her grin is impish. “I love my parents. And they love me. They just had no idea what to do with me. My brothers and sisters are so different. Well, except for Rachel, my little sister. She’d love it here. The others all behaved. Married the right people. Still attend services, you know, have babies and…” She sighs and rolls her eyes. “They don’t want to live in the outside world. They love the community, the farms, the Almighty, which I get. I mean, it’s nice, right? But…” She shakes her head. “Not for me.”
I smile, envisioning her running around, wreaking havoc. Chickens flapping, feathers flying. “Yeah. I can see that.”
“You can?” Those lips. That smile. Fuck me, I don’t think I’ve ever been this charmed in my life.
At my nod, she goes on. “Anyway. I tried. I really did. I did everything like I was meant to, only…nothing came out right, you know? I’d cook and nobody could eat it. I’d recite verses as songs. My quilts were not what they were supposed to be and my knitting, well—” She indicates the wall behind her, where a massive panel of what looks like yarn is hung. Only it’s not knitting the way I’ve seen it before, it’s more like a painting. A landscape, or something, in three dimensions. I stare at it for a few more seconds and suddenly it clears up. Those are mountains, flowing into green, a river. Animals. It looks almost Biblical, now that I see what it is. And it’s sort of…heartbreaking. Which doesn’t make the least bit of sense.
“It’s beautiful.”
She snuffles out an embarrassed little laugh. “It’s not what they meant when they told me to knit a scarf.”
“Damn.” I’m shaking my head, laughing, smiling, bright inside in a way I haven’t been in forever. “Okay. I get that.”
“They love me, you know? I’m just too much. Of everything.”
She’s not though. She’s the perfect amount. Exuberant and bright, but with a deep strain of something serious. Maturity, maybe.
Shit, I hope.
“Anyway. I started making this stuff when I was about thirteen. Got in trouble. Made more. Snuck around making more.” She shrugged. “I sold my first piece by accident. My grandmother—she’s Mama’s mom. Not religious. At all. She hates that my mom married my dad and she… Anyway. She financed me. Everything, from the materials to the laptop to the university education.”
“She sent you to school?”
“I moved in with her and did it online. Then…” There’s a tightness at the corners of her mouth. I can’t tell if she’s holding in a smile or an unhappier reaction. “My first piece sold for thirty bucks. The last one I made? Fifteen thousand.”
“Holy shit.”
“Everything I’ve sold has been through word of mouth.” There’s defiance in her expression. It’s appealing. “I’ve got that big art show coming up.”
“That’s right. At the Werner Gallery.” He was impressed. “I’ll be at the opening.”
She nods and the defiance morphs into something softer. “I sent invitations out to my entire family last week.”
“Think they’ll come?”
Her half-shrug’s incredibly expressive. It tells me that she cares. She wants them to come and thinks they might not. “Guess we’ll see.”
“They’ve got to be proud of you.”
“I hope so.” There’s enough hope in her voice to make me angry. What kind of parents wouldn’t celebrate their child? Her expression shifts again, from wistful to outright happy. I’m proud of her, even if her family isn’t. “Yeah. So, I put money away and, instead of getting married and settling down like my siblings did, I came here. For grad school.”
“Interesting choice. You already had an income.”
“Yeah. But I like school. I love learning. Besides, I wanted a chance at what other kids had. And I figured it would be kind of like an in-between phase for me, you know? Not quite real life. Not quite like being all alone out here. A jumping off pad.”
“Makes sense.” She’s not the innocent I thought she was, she’s smart. I feel almost guilty at the assumptions I’ve made up until now.
“I did some research and decided that VCU was the right place to get my MFA. They’ve got a good fiber program and—”
“Fiber?”
She rolls her eyeballs toward the wall-hanging.
“Oh, right.”
“Anyway. I’m here now.” I can feel the long, slow breath she takes. It’s almost sensual, like she’s sucking in the world, consuming it, experiencing it every way she can. “And I love this city.”
“Richmond? Really?”
“Yeah.” I want to lick her smile. “It’s why I bought this place.”
“Dirt town. That’s what Harper calls it.”
“She doesn’t like it here?”
“Says everyone’s filthy. Greasy is the word she uses. Figure it’s mostly shorthand for tattooed and pierced and artsy.” I compress my mouth into a kid’s nowadays face and then wonder if it’s a look she’ll even understand. “But, hey, she’s spent her whole life here. Sometimes you’ve gotta leave a place to see the beauty.”
I follow her eyes as they make their way back to her art.
“You miss it? The Valley?”
“I miss my family and stuff. But I like it here in Dirt Town,” she says with obvious glee. “I love it. Of course, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with dirt.” Her lips fold in on themselves. “I ate mud as a kid.”
Impossible not to laugh. “You must’ve been a lot of fun.”
Her face goes serious, eyes narrowing right on me, their focus as solid as a touch. “I still am.”
Jerusha
Okay, so I didn’t mean to say it that way. I mean, I thought it, but I didn’t know he’d see what I was thinking.
Should have, though. I have one of those expressive faces, apparently. Everybody knows what I’m thinking.
“I just mean… I mean… You know. I’m cheerful. And… kind of—”
“Unpredictable.”
“Oh.” Is that a compliment? My parents didn’t see it that way. “What about you?”
He looks taken aback. “What about me?”
“I mean. What are you like? Sorry. That doesn’t make sense. I mean, what were you like, growing up?”
Karl looks off to the side, reminiscing, maybe. I watch close enough to see his jaw ticking and realize that his expression is anything but placid. “A pain in the ass, mostly. But not like you. Angry.”
I cock my head and squint, trying to picture him as a child. I imagine his high cheekbones and wide jaw rounder, his body lanky instead of thick, eyes huge, dark, serious. “When did you get so serious, then?”
His eyebrows lower, all beetled and broody. “Serious? I’m not serious.”
“Okay.”
“I’m…very…”
I lean forward, hands gripping the counter behind me. How does he see himself, this big, somber man, whose smiles are so rare. He’s smiled five times tonight. Laughed twice. I counted because they’re wonderfully hard won.
After a long silence, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“You
’re kind.”
“No. I’m normal.”
“You’re a good person. Generous.”
“Seriously, Jerusha, don’t—”
“My first week here, you fixed my door. And the step. You told me to knock if I ever needed to.”
“I’m paranoid.”
“Protective.”
“I’ve got a daughter your age.”
“Almost a decade my junior.”
He growls. “I’d better go. Thanks for—”
“Wait.”
This is it. My chance. He’s here. He’s kissed me. He said he liked it. “I like you, Karl.”
“I like you, too, Jerusha.”
“I want you to be my first.”
Those thick eyebrows almost fly off his head. I’d laugh if everything weren’t so twisted up inside.
“Come again?”
“I want you to show me.” I swallow, hard, and forge on. “Sex. Show me how to do it.”
There’s this gap, which one of us is supposed to fill. Him, probably, though I’m the one who created it. I should close it up tight. But I’ve never been the type of person to do that. I can’t fill gaps in conversations and I definitely can’t back off once I’m sure of something. And I’m sure of this.
“Do you know how many dates I’ve gone on in the last six months?” I finally find the words.
Appearing startled, he compresses his lips, shakes his head as if to clear it.
“Guess.”
“I don’t know. Five?”
“Twenty-seven.”
His eyes go wide. “Whoa.”
“Twenty. Seven.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Yes, well, I had a lot of time to make up for. But I didn’t want a single one of them to kiss me.” I raise my hand, palm out, before he says whatever he’s about to say.
“I like men. I mean, I’m attracted to them. I know that much. And some of my dates were good-looking, interesting, talented, polite…” But none of them were you. “But none of them are what I’m looking for.”
Daddy Crush Page 3