by Jewel E. Ann
“What is—”
“Oh my god … get it off!” I flinch as if I can disconnect the rest of my body from my leg and the huge, thick, yellow toenail partially embedded into my skin. “Yuck! Get. It. Off!” I flick at it, but it doesn’t move.
Nate laughs. “Hold still.” He pinches the end of it and pulls it away. A drop of blood pools on my knee.
“Eww!” I fly off his lap and bolt into the kitchen, hopping up on the counter by the sink and turning the water on hot while I douse my leg with soap and scrub it with a sponge.
Nate saunters into the kitchen, still holding the weapon between his fingers. I nearly vomit. He drops it in the trash.
“Wash your hands! That’s so disgusting. Who leaves their gnarly, razor sharp, fungus toenails on the sofa?”
He pumps the soap into his hand. I cease my scrubbing for a second to pump the foam soap three more times.
“Are we good? Will this suffice to remove the toenail fungus germs?” He smirks, scrubbing his hands in the other side of the sink.
“It punctured my skin. I should probably get a tetanus shot or something.”
He bites his lips together and narrows his eyes at my frantic scrubbing motions while he dries his hands with a paper towel. “I think you’ve got it covered. It just nicked the skin.”
“It was like a dagger in my kneecap!” I run my leg under the hot water. It burns, but I need to kill the bacteria, fungus, Ebola … whatever might have been living on that toenail.
Tearing off several more paper towels, Nate shuts off the water and guides my leg over the edge of the counter. His eyes find mine as he presses the towels to my knee—where the injury is undetectable. I try to keep a straight face after my meltdown over a toenail, but a minuscule grin pulls at my lips. Nate doesn’t even try to hold back.
“I’m not sure he’ll refund your deposit when he sees the cracked tile, but you might be able to make a case for calling things even if you tell him about the toenail and show him the extensive damage to your kneecap.”
“Shut up.” I roll my eyes.
He shifts to the side and nestles himself between my spread legs, keeping one hand pressed to the towel on my knee while his other hand moves a few strands of hair away from my eyes.
“I’m …” I glance away. “Sobering up a bit. Now I’m a little …” My teeth dig into my bottom lip and my nose wrinkles.
“You’re a little what …” He brushes his lips over my cheek, letting his hand slide to the back of my head.
I draw in a shaky breath and whisper, “Nervous.”
“Have you gone a decade without having sex?”
I pull back an inch, eyes narrowed. “No. Have you?”
He nods slowly. It makes my chest hurt.
“Why?”
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Morgan. When she turned two, we left. And we haven’t been back to Madison in eight years. Traveling with a young daughter doesn’t bestow that many opportunities to be intimate. And never staying in one place very long makes it even harder.”
“So … not once? Not a quick hookup after she was in bed? Nothing?”
He chuckles. “Nothing.”
“Do you even …” I can’t say it. I’m not sure why I even started to ask the question. Of course, he does. Right? Surely all men do.
His face turns a vulnerable shade of pink as he scratches his forehead and tips his chin down. “Uh … yeah. I’ve done that.” He sets the wad of paper towels aside and fiddles with the clasp of my white gold bracelet that Brandon gave me.
Surely my dead boyfriend has something to say now. I wait for his voice in my head—although it never sounds like it’s in my head. The clarity and volume always sound like he’s in the same room where anyone else in the room could easily hear him.
“How’s your book coming along?”
Nate’s lips corkscrew as he continues to fiddle with the bracelet, head bowed. “I’m trying to figure out how to end it. I thought the ending might be our arrival back in Madison at the end of summer. Sometimes I wonder if the book ends when Morgan goes off to college, but I’d have to cut a lot from the book if that were the case, and only include major events and highlights.”
“Will Gabe, Mr. Hans, and I be in it? Will we make the cut?”
With a grin sliding up his face, he lifts his head. “I’m not sure about making the cut, but all three of you have made an appearance.”
“What’s my name?”
He gives me a funny duh look. I recognize it as Gabe’s resting face. “Gracelyn.”
“What happened to changing the names to protect the identities of the innocent?”
“That would require you to be innocent.”
“Jerk.” I narrow my eyes.
He smiles a second before kissing me again. It’s not an upgraded version of our second kiss. It’s a third kiss. A standalone. And it’s slow, like the slide of his hands up my bare legs.
Slow like the brush of his thumbs along my inner thighs.
Slow like the need building between my legs.
Maybe he’s gone a decade without having sex, but these full lips of his sure do know how to kiss. I should be better at this … less nervous. Yet, I’m not. He shows no lack of confidence.
I’m a hot mess.
Insecurities make a single file line at the door to my conscience, each with a case to plead. The last time I had sex, my body was better, my confidence less wavering, my direction clearer. Even without opening the door, I can hear the chattering insecurities.
More cellulite.
Less perky breasts.
Emerging red dots along my chest—cherry angiomas according to the internet.
My ass isn’t as firm.
I have pubic hair that’s fairly maintained, but I’m not sure it’s groomed into the right configuration. Maybe Nate prefers no pubic hair. Well, he’s in for a surprise.
Does he have pubic hair? Michael always shaved his area.
Did he bring over a condom?
Does he assume I’m on the pill? I’m not.
Do I worry about STDs with a man who hasn’t had sex in over a decade?
Will we have sex right here?
I didn’t make my bed this morning.
Surely he won’t think we can resume on the toenail-infested sofa.
Maybe we’ll lose our pants right here and just go to town. That’s what Jamie and Claire do on Outlander.
It’s pretty hot.
Anal … oh god … what if he’s into anal. I read that it’s quite common. I don’t have lube. I assume I would need to douche, but I have not douched that hole. Actually, I haven’t douched the other hole either. My doctor recommends against it.
I pull away, breathless and burning up. It’s not my typical, premenopausal hot flash. It’s a Nate-induced one. “My brain is ready to explode.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Are you overthinking this?”
“No.” I rub my lips together. “Yes.” I drop my chin and shake my head. “Five minutes ago, I overthought it. Now, I’m just in crazy town.”
“We can talk about it.”
“No … god no.” I laugh as more heat pools in my cheeks.
“There’s nothing to worry about. You promised to not fall in love with me. I’m going to return the favor. If we become good friends, we can be pen pals when I leave. Morgan and I have lots of pen pals around the world.”
He bought condoms … and now he’s suggesting we be pen pals?
I’m thinking about the hairstyle of my muff, and he’s thinking about stationary and stamps. This gap might be too wide to bridge.
“Wow …” I trace the logo on his T-shirt with my finger. “If that kiss didn’t make us friends, I fear making it on your pen pal list might be an impossible feat.”
He wraps his hand around mine, bringing my tracing finger to his lips and giving it a soft kiss. “I fear the haircut fiasco momentarily derailed our friendship.”
God … he’s so sexy. Not Jamie se
xy. Nathaniel Hunt brings his own brand of sexy, and I’m completely bewitched.
Six weeks.
I can do six weeks.
Bewitched doesn’t have to lead to love. Kissing my neighbor doesn’t break my man ban if we’re not technically even friends.
Letting him keep my left hand next to his lips, I comb my right hand through his tragically short hair. “Would showing you my other tattoos put me back in the friendship zone?”
He perks an eyebrow. “I’m inclined to say yes.”
“Okay.”
He releases my hand and takes a step backward. I slide up my shirt, keeping my braless breasts covered while showing him the tattoo two inches beneath my armpit (usually covered by a bra).
“It’s a stemmed cherry.” He chuckles. “Is your third tattoo a halved avocado on your ass? Or is it a salted pretzel?”
“No.” I grin, pushing my tank top down.
He crosses his arms over his chest. Nate in a fitted tee with gray cargo shorts that hang perfectly from his narrow hips does it for me. He does it for me.
“Why a stemmed cherry?”
“I like them.”
He rolls his lips together. “I see. You’re going to need to elaborate.”
“I was twenty when I got them. When you’re twenty, liking cherries is a solid reason to get a tattoo of one.”
“Fine. I’ll buy it. Looks like we’re one tattoo away from the friend zone.”
“I fear you’re going to be disappointed. I had to balance things out.” I lift my shirt on the other side—same area below my armpit.
Nate’s smile does funny things to my stomach and makes my heart race in my chest. When he laughs, I want to kiss his lips again, call it our first kiss, and promise a million more before he leaves in six weeks.
“Let me guess … you like elephants.”
“Very much. Maybe even more than cherries.”
He runs his finger over my three simple elephants. Small. Medium. Large. Even the large one isn’t very big. They’re interlocked—tail to trunk. And they hide nicely under my bra when I’m wearing one.
“Hockey. Cherries. Elephants. Got it.” Instead of withdrawing his finger from my tattoo, he feathers it down my side.
My heart instructs my lungs to stop breathing. I think they know on their own. It’s impossible to breathe with him touching me.
“No tattoos for you?” I manage to squeak four words without using oxygen. I release my shirt, but his hand stays on my side, holding my breath hostage.
“Nah. I’ve thought about it, but I think I’ve waited too long. You have to get started at a younger age, when choosing what to get permanently inked into your skin is as easy as a favorite fruit or animal.” He ghosts his fingers back up my shirt to my three elephants—and arrestingly close to my bare breast.
It’s a subtle show of intimacy—a patient seduction. Maybe he hasn’t had sex in more than a decade, but Nathaniel Hunt knows how to turn a woman on, and it’s effortless.
“Unmarred skin.” I swallow hard. “That’s intimidating. Or boring.” I relinquish a grin that wavers between smirky and nervous.
Hand close to my boob!
His confident smile takes over his face. “I have a birthmark.”
“Where?”
He leans into me, teasing his lips along my ear as he whispers, “You’ll have to look for it.”
I fist his shirt, pushing him away just enough to put us face-to-face. “You’re a tease. I think you’re hiding your insecurities under this false confidence.” Giving him another shove, I hop off the counter and head back to the broken wine bottle mess.
“What are my insecurities?” He follows me.
Retrieving the dustpan full of glass and the broom, I pad back into the kitchen, giving him a tightlipped smile as I pass him. “Hmm … let’s see. I think you’re feigning confidence.” I empty the glass and return the broom and dustpan to the garage.
“Feigning? What makes you think that?” he asks as soon as I close the garage door.
I lean back against it and cross my arms over my chest, mirroring his stance against the island. “Because you don’t have a slice of pizza tattooed on your bicep or a hockey puck on your calf. Because you said it yourself: things matter more now than they did twenty years ago. So you steal kisses. You look at me like I’m the girl in science class that caught your attention, but when you touch me, I feel your insecurities. Erectile dysfunction is nothing to be ashamed of. You’re not the young, virile man you once were. I’m not the limber seductress I used to be.” I shrug.
“Wow …” He rears his head back and presses a hand to his chest like clutching his grandmother’s pearls. “I feel a little violated. When did this go from a kiss to ED? You’re skipping a lot of bases. You’re assuming I’m planning on having sex with you. We’ve known each other a month. I …” He leaves his jaw hanging open while shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know what to say.” He pops his lips several times, eyes wide and rolled to the side. “I think I’d better go. I’ve tempted you too much. You need to cool off a bit.”
It’s official.
I’m in trouble.
“First, you know damn well I’m cool like a cucumber or your sex drive that’s been frozen in time. Second, I do have to work in the morning because I’m a real adult with a real job. Third, I have to finish my Outlander episode. So … yeah, you’d better get home and slip into your old man flannel PJs, grab your Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and bottle of lube.” I flash a toothy grin, feeling pride swelling in my awakened ego.
Nate’s grin shows commendable restraint. Then he rubs his lips together, wetting them. The full smile breaks out seconds later, one increment at a time, like a flower blooming or the sun waking up on a clear morning. “I sleep in the nude.”
“Me too.”
I don’t. Nope. I wear boy-shorts, ratty tees, and fluffy socks. In the winter, I sleep in a full sweat suit, hood up.
Nate’s gaze takes a leisurely stroll along my body before he pushes off the counter. “It’s been fun. Night, Elvis.”
Keeping a safe distance, I follow him to the door. “Night, neighbor.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nathaniel
Morgan calls me using Mr. Hans’s cellphone the following afternoon. I try to play it cool, but again, she breaks my heart with how grown-up she is way too early.
“We spent the whole day on rides. I went on the Tower of Terror, and this ride that makes you feel like you’re flying. I got my picture taken with all the princesses and Goofy too. Dad! It’s amazing here. You were so wrong. How could you not know that I’d love it here? Gabe rides with Mr. Hans on most of the rides, and I sit with Hunter. Dad, she’s so cool. She has a boyfriend. A boyfriend! So I’ve been asking her lots of questions so you don’t have to pretend you don’t know the answers when I ask you.”
Kill. Me. Now.
“I’m glad you’re having a good time. I miss you.” I cringe. Is it okay to say that? Or am I smothering her? I don’t know anymore.
“I miss you too. I wish you could have come too. You’d love it. Have you been on a roller coaster before? They’re amazing!”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’ve been on a roller coaster. Some people are scared of them.”
“Hunter is. So I ride with Gabe. You have to be forty-eight inches. I’m good. Tall like you, Dad.”
I lean back on the sofa and set my notebooks off to the side as a grin forms along my face. Of course, my daughter loves roller coasters. I love them too and so did Jenna. She’s the product of two very adventurous people. I imagine Jenna giving me an approving nod for letting our little girl spread her wings and soar on a new adventure—even if it’s without me.
“Your mom loved roller coasters too.”
“She did? I knew it. I’ve always known she was awesome.”
“Yeah …” I whisper as her words drive into my heart like a freight train.
“I have to go. We’re going to dinner and then to watch a
parade and fireworks. I’m so excited!”
“I’m excited for you. Love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
Daddy …
I melt. “Bye.”
After she disconnects, I toss my phone aside, right as Gracelyn arrives home, taking her usual stripping position under the balcony and behind the bushes. A better man would turn a blind eye and let her do her thing in privacy.
I’m a lot of things, but after last night, I’m not sure I’m a better man. Confirming my lack of chivalry, I make my way to the side of the house, finding my best smile for when she glances up after shoving her clothes in the plastic bag.
“Elvis.” I lean against the side of my house, crossing one leg over the other while slipping my hands into the pockets of my shorts—refusing to look like I’m doing anything else but watching her.
She frowns, hugging the plastic bag to her chest. “Pervert.”
“Bird-watching.”
“There are no birds in these bushes.”
“Not yet, but bird-watching involves patience.”
There it is … the grin she doesn’t want to give me. I’ll steal everything I can—grins … kisses.
“Turn around.”
“Why? It’s no different than wearing a bikini. That’s what you said. Right?”
Huffing out a quick breath, she rolls her eyes, almost as expertly as Morgan. She steps out with more confidence than I sense she’s really feeling. Basic white bra and orange boy-short-style underwear the same orange color as her hair. She looks like Halloween a few months early.
“Total perv …” She stomps up the stairs.
“I’m not even sorry.”
When she reaches the top, she pauses. “Here’s your bird.” She flips me the middle finger without looking back.
I laugh as she shuts the door and slings the curtains shut. Retracing my steps, I grab the mail out of the mailbox and take a seat on the porch rocking chair. There are several letters for Morgan from pen pals and a postcard to both of us from Swayze, the nanny I hired shortly after Morgan was born. The only girl, besides Morgan, I’ve kissed since Jenna died. Well … and now Gracelyn is on that short list. My relationship with Swayze was complicated—life-changing.