Birthday Girl

by Penelope Douglas

  Over a week later, and the house has settled into a routine, thanks to our pizza and movie night.

  Jordan is usually already up when I come downstairs in the morning, and I notice there’s a nicer sheen on tabletops and countertops that wasn’t there the evening before. The floors feel clean, the refrigerator is magically free of bad food and three-day-old leftovers, and the appliances shine.

  Everything smells fragrant, too, and sometimes it’s because she made muffins or pancakes, and sometimes it’s because of the scented candles I no longer mind her burning in the house. She uses a French press for coffee, and I’ve stopped using my Keurig in favor of it.

  Anything Cole left laying in the living room, like shoes or soda cans, the night before are suddenly gone, and I can’t remember the last time I had to unload the dishwasher.

  And I don’t, for one moment, believe it’s thanks to my kid. He’s become pretty damn lazy, it seems, and I hadn’t realized how he’d changed.

  The more he grew up, the less time he wanted to spend with me, and I see hints of how his mom was with me in how he treats Jordan now. He’s neglectful, and I find myself grinding my teeth to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.

  I love my kid, but it’s hard to see why he deserves her.

  He’s hardly ever home except to sleep, and when he is, Jordan’s at work until two in the morning. I was worried I’d walk in on them having sex on the couch or something when I offered to let them live here, but thank God, their schedules don’t mesh well so they’re hardly here at the same time. And if they are, I’m at work, and I don’t have to hear or see anything.

  Still, though, she’s alone a lot. He won’t even stay home on her nights off, and I wonder why the hell she puts up with it. She seems capable and strong-willed. A girl who can handle herself. What brought them together? She doesn’t seem to have anyone but Cole and that sister of hers, in fact. No friends or other family members have dropped by here to see her that I can tell.

  Either way, though, I’m enjoying having her around, even if I do wish Cole was home more. I break into a smile as soon as I walk through the door every afternoon, hearing her 80’s music carrying through the house and somehow making it feel even more like summer time in here. It’s nice not to come home to an empty house for a change, and I even find myself leaving work on time every day, because I actually enjoy being home now.

  She and I have chatted more over the last several days, inquiring about how work was or how school is going for her, and the girl has an uncanny ability to get me to talk. She likes to run shit, and she’s good about teasing or making jokes to put me at ease.

  I can do without her eggplant lasagna, that’s for sure, but if she weren’t here, Cole would be avoiding me even more than he is now, and I wouldn’t be holding my tongue with him as well as I am. I’m glad she’s here.

  Holding the bag of laundry over my shoulder, I charge down the stairs, swing around the bannister, and walk into the laundry room.

  After clearing my clothes out of the dryer, I moved the stuff from the washer and drop a new load in, starting both machines again. I catch sight of the dust on the front of my T-shirt from working in the garage this morning and pull it off, dropping it in the running water before closing the lid.

  Stuffing the bag on top of the dry clothes, I pick up the basket and head back upstairs. In my room, I dump the clothes onto the bed and sift through the pile, looking for another shirt.

  But I stop, grazing my fingers over a tiny piece of red fabric I don’t recognize. It lays nestled in a pair of my jeans, and I don’t have to think twice to know what it is.

  I stand up straight, steeling my spine.

  Shit.

  Hooking my finger through the little band, I eye the see-through, red G-string hanging from my finger.

  “What the hell?” I say under my breath, looking down at the laundry to double-check I have my clothes. “How did this get in my stuff?”

  “Jord—!” I call out for her but stop, realizing how awkward it’s going to look if I have her underwear. I’m going to look like some creeper, getting caught with her panties. Jesus.

  I drop the undergarment like it’s a hot pan.

  They fall to the bed, and I rub the back of my neck, feeling the light sweat on my skin. My mind wanders.

  It’s been a hell of a long time since any woman’s underwear was on my bed. Or in my bed.

  And it certainly wasn’t a G-string, either. An image of my son’s innocent, little girlfriend wearing this flashes in my head, and I round my eye, rearing back a little. “Fuck. I’m gonna go to hell.”

  I gather up all the laundry again, burying the garment in my clothes to hide it, so I can take the basket back downstairs. I’ll just toss the underwear on top of the dryer or something and let her find it.

  Picking up the basket, though, I register the soft rumble of the lawnmower start up outside and set the laundry back down, walking to the window.

  Jordan is in the backyard, marching up and down the grass and pushing my green Craftsman lawnmower. What is she—

  I lock my jaw, aggravation setting in. I told Cole to mow the goddamn grass. Helping with the yard work is his responsibility.

  I watch as she bobs her head, and that’s when I notice the high-pitched whir of guitars and the beats of a drum. She must be listening to music.

  I quirk a smile. What awful 80s hair band is she listening to today?

  Sweat darkens her gray T-shirt at the middle of her back and even from here I can see her hair, some having fallen free from her ponytail, sticking to her neck. Her short, white shorts show off the muscles in her thighs and calves, flexing as she pushes the machine. Her skin glistens with sweat, and I zone in on the small of her back, seeing her damp skin shine in the sunlight.

  Heat pools low in my stomach, and my smile falls as I watch her.

  I’m frozen. I don’t want to look away.

  But finally, I blink, averting my eyes and swallowing through the dryness in my mouth.

  Doesn’t she have a project or something to be working on for her summer class? She mentioned that a few days ago. Cole can do the damn lawn.

  Reaching down, I lift up the window and stick my head out, opening my mouth to call her out, but all of a sudden she releases the handles, whips her head back and forth, and breaks into air-guitar mode.

  I stop and watch her, furrowing my brow but damn near breaking into a laugh, too.

  “Pour some sugar on me!” the Bluetooth speaker screams. “Ooooh, in the name of love!”

  She lip syncs, bending herself backwards, and then breaks into other moves, dancing and getting carried away in the song.

  Gripping the handle again, she uses it for support as she throws her head side to side, flipping her hair and swaying her hips. The rubber band from her ponytail falls out and the locks whip around, the beautiful kink in the strands falling in her face and making her look absolutely beautiful. My lungs ache for air as desire rips through me, watching her move. God, if she’s yours, how do you not touch her twenty-four seven?

  I stop the thought in its tracks, though, and start to pull my head back in, but I catch sight of Kyle Cramer next door, standing on his bedroom balcony.

  He stares down at Jordan, watching her dance.

  My fingers tighten around the window frame.

  Asshole. His kids are probably in the house, and he’s leering like a fucking pervert.

  I try not to think about how I’m practically doing the same thing, but I feel a protective urge to get a damn shotgun or something. This one’s not babysitting for you, dickhead.

  The lawnmower suddenly dies, and I turn back to Jordan just in time to see her walk up to the edge of the pool, breathing heavily and wet with sweat. She pushes her hair out of her face, inhales a deep breath, and then takes a step, falling into the deep end of the pool and sinking beneath its surface, clothes and all.

  I stop breathing.

  It’s hot. It’s in the nineties t
oday, and she needs to cool off. But I jerk my gaze back to Kyle as he inches his chin up, trying to get a better view. Jordan then pops back up the surface, floating on her back and resting there, her T-shirt molded to her body like a second skin. Hard, little points jut toward the sky from under her shirt, and I see a smile curl his fucking lips.

  “Fucking hell,” I hiss under my breath. Swinging my head back into the bedroom, I slam the window closed.

  Leaving the room, I charge down the hallway and jog down the stairs. Moving across the kitchen, I head through the laundry room and out the back door. Jordan is swimming for the edge of the pool again, getting out.

  I dart my eyes up and see Kyle still watching as she climbs out, her clothes plastered to her body and water running down every inch of available skin.

  His eyes flash to me, and I shoot him a middle finger. He just laughs and shakes his head, going back in his fucking house.

  Jordan fists her hair, bringing it over her shoulder and ringing it out. My gaze falls down her legs, water dripping down her toned thighs and her shorts melted to her ass.

  I steel myself, fixing on a stern expression. “Jordan,” I call.

  She turns, seeing me, and hesitates only a moment before heading my way. She must have some idea that she’s not completely appropriate right now, because she folds her arms over her chest.

  “I thought I told Cole to mow the lawn.” I try to hide the growl building in my chest.

  She nods and picks up her ice water off the lawn table. “As long as it gets done, right?” And then she looks at me, inquiring, “Am I doing a bad job?”

  “Of course, n—no,” I reply quickly, hating how easily she can make me feel like an ungrateful asshole. “It looks fine, but you’re already doing enough. More than enough. He handles the yard work. He can find the damn time.”

  “It’s fine.” She brushes me off and sets her water down, turning back for the lawnmower. “I need the sun and exercise anyway.”

  “I’ll finish it.” I stop her, walking ahead toward the mower.

  But she catches me by the arm. “I got it,” she maintains, anger growing in her eyes. “Seriously. We’re not here on a free ride. I can handle a few chores.”

  “Not dressed like that, you don’t.”

  Her eyebrows pinch together. “Excuse me?”

  I inch forward, dropping my voice as I speak to her. “My neighbor has been glued to his balcony watching your every move out here,” I bite out. “God knows what he’s thinking.”

  “That’s not my problem,” she argues. “I was hot. I jumped in the pool. My clothes are on.”

  “Yeah, like a second skin,” I finish for her, my teeth baring. “You can’t pull that shit here. It’s a family neighborhood. Not your sister’s strip club.”

  “I’m in the backyard!” she growls, her face tensing. “What does anyone care how I’m dressed?”

  “Their wives will!”

  She arches an eyebrow and her chest heaves with angry breaths.

  I look down at her, calming my voice. “The wives in this neighborhood don’t appreciate cock teases strutting around and taunting their husbands, okay?” I state in plain English, so she gets it through her head.

  But she just lets out a bitter laugh like she can’t believe I’m for real. “Uh…yeah, wow.” She nods and takes in a deep breath, lifting her chin and looking at me head-on. “Um, okay, here’s the thing…. I realize things were probably a little different back when you were a teenager—EIGHTY-NINE YEARS AGO!—” she fires back.

  “It was twenty, thank you.”

  “But nowadays,” she keeps going, “we don’t hold a woman responsible for a man’s behavior.” Her eyes pierce, and there’s a little snarl on her lips. “If he wants to look, I can’t stop him. If he wants to step off somewhere private and do a little self-lovin’, hey, I’ll never know. Not my problem!”

  I clench my fists. Damn brat.

  I can’t catch my breath, but we don’t break eye contact.

  She’s right.

  I know she’s right. She’s not doing anything wrong. I just…

  I don’t like him looking.

  At her.

  After a few seconds, I collect myself and straighten, taking pleasure that I’m half a foot taller. “Cole does the yard work. Or me,” I tell her, moving around her toward the lawnmower. “Got it?”

  I don’t wait for an answer as I spin around, heading for the lawnmower.

  But I hear her small, sweet voice behind me. “Yes, Daddy.”

  I blink long and hard, my hand tingling with an urge to give someone a spanking for the first time in my life.

  Jordan

  I haven’t spoken to Pike since the argument yesterday. I refuse to call it a fight. We barely know each other. How can we be fighting?

  I also haven’t talked to Cole since yesterday, either, but for some reason, that’s not bugging me. It’s how we roll. He was gone yesterday, helping a friend with his car, and by the time he made it home I was at the bar. I slept in this morning, more as an effort to avoid Pike in the house, and only woke up once when Cole left a goodbye peck on my cheek before heading to work himself.

  My stomach has been in knots all morning. Why the hell was Pike so angry? I thought we were getting along. I didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I was mowing his fucking grass, and the next thing I know he’s ripping into me like I’m sunbathing topless on the front lawn while six-year-olds race their bikes down the street.

  He’s so volatile. Very unlike his son who never takes anything seriously.

  I climb out of Cole’s car, him catching a ride with one of his friends this morning so I could get to the library. I grab Pike’s lunch box he left at home and take a look around the job site. It’s busier than the last time I was here.

  Workers move about, dressed in hard hats with brown leather tool belts hanging from their hips, and dust kicks up from the trucks moving in and out of the area. Hammers hit steel and men with dirty boots and scuffed jeans straddle beams high in the air as they do whatever it is that they do to turn materials into a building. Not many get to see the bare bones view. I wonder why Cole doesn’t work for his father. This job has to pay well. I know some of these guys, after all. They support families off this job.

  My gaze wanders, looking for someone accessible to drop off the lunch box to, but I’m kind of on alert, looking for Pike’s tattoos, too. I don’t want to see him, really. My plan when I saw he’d left his lunch at home this morning was to do a nice deed, drop it off, and leave the ball in his court to get over the argument by seeking me out to say ‘thank you’. I want to get over whatever awkwardness is between us.

  Stepping over the dirt and debris laying around, I make my way for the structure and spot his friend, Dutch, bending over to pick something up just inside. He notices me and rises.

  “Hey, Dutch.” I smile. “Is Pike around?”

  His eyes drop to the black insulated bag in my hand. “His lunch?”

  “He left it sitting on the kitchen table.” I hold it up for him. “Thought I’d drop it off while I’m running errands.”

  “That’s nice of you.” But he doesn’t take the lunch box. Instead, he tosses a tool down into a box and gestures to me. “Come on, I’ll take you up.”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay,” I tell him. “I don’t want to bug him. I’ll just leave it with you.”

  “If you leave that with me, I’ll eat it. Or lose it.” He chuckles and leads me toward some stairs.

  My shoulders slump. Awesome.

  We head up to the third floor, taking what I assume will be the emergency stairwell once the elevators are installed, and reach a landing with only frames for the walls, showing how the offices and work areas will be divided once it’s finished.

  Pike is the only one on the floor, far off on the left side and hovering over a clipboard.

  He hears us approach and looks up from his paperwork, turning his head.

  His eyes narrow on me, and I bli
nk long and hard, feeling stupid.

  He’s wearing a navy blue T-shirt, and the color on him brings heat to my cheeks. I love how it looks against his tanned arms and the curves of his biceps.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  He doesn’t sound annoyed like I was afraid, though. Just puzzled.

  I lift up the bag. “You left your lunch on the table.”

  His expression relaxes, and the tension in his body eases. “Oh, thanks.” He walks over, and I hand it to him. “It’s okay, though,” he tells me. “I could’ve grabbed something from the food truck. You didn’t have to go through the trouble.”

  The food truck? “Well, I couldn’t let you eat crap from a food truck,” I say.

  And to my relief, he smiles a little. “It’s basically the same stuff that’s in there,” he points out, setting the lunch box on a work table.

  But I’m way ahead of him. “Well, I snuck in a turkey and cheese cucumber wrap, too, in case you want something different.”

  His face falls.

  “Don’t worry,” I tease. “Your lunch is still in there. I just made too much and needed help finishing the wrap.”

  The slight fear in his eyes dispels, and he takes a breath. “You’re not going to be happy until I’m eating hummus, are you?”

  I try not to laugh. “I’ll build you up slowly.”

  He rolls his eyes, and I finally take a deep breath. I guess we’re over the argument.

  I stand there, feeling his eyes on me, the sounds of hammers pounding and the breeze blowing through the structure slowly fading away.

  Then I realize that Dutch is still in the room.

  We both look over at him, his gaze shifting between us.

  “I’ll go…” He swallows and clears this throat. “do something,” he says and walks away, leaving us alone.

  I look back at Pike, and I guess I should go, too, and leave him to it, but instead, I slide my hands into my pockets and gaze around. “The sawdust smells good,” I tell him.

  A smile crosses his eyes, and he nods, looking around. “Yeah. It’s like home to me.”