More: A Body Work Novel (The Body Work Trilogy Book 4)

by Sierra Kincade

  “How’s our little girl?”

  Amy froze.

  “She’s not our little girl,” she said between her teeth. “You gave her up.”

  “Come on, don’t be like that.” Danny stayed where he was against the car and folded his arms over his chest. “I send money.”

  As if that was all it took to raise a child.

  She couldn’t help it. A bitter laugh snuck up her throat.

  “Your last check was three months ago and it bounced, thank you very much.” She hadn’t expected it, and therefore hadn’t been too disappointed when the teller came back citing insufficient funds.

  His gaze narrowed, and again, she fell back. She hated the fear he kindled in her. She was stronger than this now. She shouldn’t have been afraid.

  “But you got money from me before.”

  “Two checks total,” she said, holding up two fingers. Even though the first had been for $3,000, it didn’t cover a quarter of what he owed.

  She’d saved the money, telling herself she was going to use it in part on a down payment for a house. But part of her had wanted to rip that check up. She didn’t want anything from Danny. She didn’t need anything from Danny. Amy had suspected Alec had pulled some strings to pressure her ex after the bridge incident, but she hadn’t asked questions. However it came, the money felt dirty, and she wasn’t sure what to do about that.

  “You don’t plan on seeing Paisley, do you?” Amy asked. “Because that would be a bad idea. Like, possibly the worst you’ve ever had.”

  He looked straight at her.

  “I’ve had worse, believe me.”

  Like you, he might as well have said.

  “I bet,” she told him, holding back the fuck you on the tip of her tongue. “Stay away from my daughter.”

  “Relax,” he said. “She’s better off without me.”

  Well. That was the truth, at least.

  He looked in the direction of Rave, and she felt another wave of defensiveness. Her job was hers. Not his. Even looking at it made her feel like he was going to tarnish it.

  “Nice place you work,” he said. “Pretty upscale. I bet they pay you pretty good.”

  Her shoulders settled. Of course. Why didn’t she see it the second he’d shown up? He hadn’t gone next door to visit with friends. Their meeting wasn’t an accident.

  “You need money,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to check in on my girls.”

  “You need money,” she said again.

  He kicked at the ground. For a moment she was reminded of how his hair used to fall forward over his eyes when he was thinking. How he’d drum two pencils on the tabletop while he worked something out.

  Paisley did the same thing with her fingers when she was concentrating.

  Her reserve faltered.

  “I need a loan,” he said.

  Any nostalgia she’d felt dried right up.

  “It’s my money anyway,” he added.

  “You can’t have it back.”

  “I need it,” he said. “I got bills.”

  “You’ve got bills?” she said, knowing she should reign in her sarcasm but unable to. “What’s that like?”

  He pushed off the car, and she shuffled back, recognizing the razor sharp glint in his eyes.

  “I spent it,” she said quickly. He had no way to know if she was lying; she’d taken his name off the accounts the day he’d dropped off the divorce papers. “We had expenses. Paisley’s babysitting. New clothes for school.”

  “Shit,” he said. “New clothes for both of you is what it looks like.”

  She straightened, hating the way he looked down over her outfit, and the dresses she’d placed in the car. Hating that he thought she was frivolous. Hating that she cared.

  “I take care of myself,” she said.

  He laughed. Like this was hilarious. The sound of it echoed off the brick buildings around them.

  “Sure,” he said. “Right.”

  She wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean.

  “Forget it,” he said. “I knew you’d be a dead end anyway.”

  Her hands made fists. He didn’t get to put her down. She was done with that.

  “You need to go,” she said, standing as tall as she could. “Don’t come back. I mean it.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Nice to see you haven’t changed, Amy.”

  He walked toward a beat-up red Volvo, two cars down, and got inside. A minute later he’d disappeared down the alley to the main road.

  She returned to the front seat of her car and locked the door. Pulling the collar of her shirt over her mouth, she screamed as loudly as she could, trying to rid herself of the sickness rolling through her. Then she took a deep breath, fixed her hair in the mirror, and returned to the salon.

  ***

  Mike lived in a stucco, two-story house near the Air Force base. It was magazine-cute, with a red door and matching shutters on the windows, a front porch, complete with a swing, and a palm tree, right in the middle of the yard. The neighborhood was within walking distance of the girls’ school, and surrounded by an eclectic assortment of neighbors. A cat lady, an overweight old man who liked to sunbathe in his front yard shirtless, and a ton of kids who regularly crashed their bikes into the back of Amy’s car.

  She didn’t mind about the cats or the kids. The old guy with the economy-sized bottle of tanning oil she could have done without.

  Leaving the car in the driveway, she gathered the groceries from the back of the car and climbed the front steps. She managed to open the door by juggling the keys with the paper bag, but the apples spilled over and thudded onto the tile entryway.

  “Shit. Shoot,” she amended. “Girls, I’m home!”

  The distant squeals from the backyard brought a smile to her face.

  “Iris?”

  Mike’s mom, who watched the girls a couple days a week, didn’t answer. She must have been outside as well. Mike was working security at Alec’s old apartment building until eight, and then had night class. He’s already left for his construction job in the morning when she’d taken the girls to school. Days like this she didn’t even see him, which was somehow both totally disappointing and a huge relief.

  Still, it would have been nice to see him today. Danny had left a raw, unsettled feeling inside of her, and Mike had an uncanny way of getting her mind off things.

  Amy snagged the bruised apples, kicked off her shoes, and padded through the dining room into the kitchen, where she set the grocery bags on the counter. The place wasn’t exactly clean—dishes piled up in the sink, and an exploding backpack in the middle of the floor—but the décor was sweet and homey, all Mike’s mother’s doing.

  She peeked out one of the curtains, dotted with small red strawberries, at the two girls running back and forth across the sprinkler. The October days had been cooling down, but they’d caught a heat flash today, which had apparently sent both girls straight into their swimsuits. They chased each other, laughing uncontrollably.

  She blew out a breath, feeling the tension release from her shoulders.

  Turning, she grabbed the hamburger and eggs out of the grocery bag, and opened the refrigerator door. The freezer was cluttered with pictures the girls had colored and art projects from school, all tacked up by a random assortment of colorful magnets. There were photos of the girls together, of Mike and Chloe at Disney, and a new one she hadn’t seen before she’d left for work this morning: both girls hugging her waist at their school’s Fall Festival two weeks ago. Mike had taken it with his phone. She remembered because she was dressed like a scarecrow and had thought, awesome, the hottest guy in the universe is about to immortalize me as Dorothy’s brainless companion.

  She wondered what that picture meant. She wasn’t so out of touch she didn’t know the way things were supposed to go. Step one: date. Step two: sleepover. Step three: key to the apartment. Step four: move in together. Step five: make babies, drink coffee, and pretend
to be awake for the next ten years. Somehow she’d managed to bypass dinner and a movie and go straight to pictures on the fridge.

  Her eyes lifted to the left-hand corner of the freezer, and the picture of a young, pretty African American woman holding a baby. Chloe’s mom.

  Amy felt her brows pinch together. She didn’t know what had happened, but this woman wasn’t around anymore. At least, Amy hadn’t seen her, and she’d lived in this house almost two months. No one talked about her, and the timing had never seemed right to bring her up. So she hadn’t.

  She was sort of an expert at avoiding important discussions for as long as humanly possible.

  Laughter filtered through the screen door. She finished unloading the cold items, stuck the other boxes and cans in the pantry, and stepped out onto the small wooden deck.

  “Mommy!” Paisley waved furiously from the grass below, her hair in a messy blonde braid.

  Danny was right. Paisley was a million times better without him. After he’d left them, she’d been too quiet, painfully introverted. But she was coming out of her shell now, and Amy would do whatever it took to keep her safe and happy.

  “Come out here,” said Chloe, hose poised in a way that made Amy think that probably wasn’t a good idea. “Put on your swimmy suit!” Droplets of water sparkled on her pretty cocoa skin.

  Maybe not a swimmy suit, but she could definitely trade her plaid skirt for sweatpants. She turned back inside, wondering if Iris was upstairs—she’d been sleeping in the guest room since Mike had moved them all in. Climbing the carpeted steps quickly, she was just about to call out when she heard a creaking in her bedroom.

  Not her bedroom. Mike’s bedroom. That she was staying in. Alone.

  She stuck her head around the corner and her breath caught.

  It wasn’t Iris, but Mike.

  And he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  No shirt.

  Her brain started frying. She could practically hear it hissing. Right then, any thoughts of her ex-husband went up in smoke.

  Mike’s skin was deep brown and perfectly smooth. Even his head, which he kept shaved, made her fingers itch to touch. He was reaching into one of the higher drawers in his dresser—one of those he hadn’t cleared out for her. His arm flexed as he reached forward and showcased the muscles that cut from the sides of his waist down to his hips, revealing for just a moment, a hint of a tattoo she’d never seen before cresting his side. It was all she could do not to drool.

  He was wearing grey basketball shorts, and as he pulled out a T-shirt, she finally exhaled. Or maybe sighed in relief. It was hard to tell.

  He glanced her way.

  “Shit,” she muttered. Caught. She willed herself to speak.

  “You’re naked,” she said, a little too loudly. “Wow. You’re really, very naked right now.”

  For the millionth time since she’d met him, she considered investing in duct tape. Or maybe one of those S&M ball-in-mouth things that made it impossible to say stupid things.

  Ball. Mouth. Mike.

  She turned a deeper shade of red.

  He smirked. God. That dimple made her knees weak.

  “Not completely,” he said, his voice a low, warm sound that always had a way of making her blood heat. “But that can be arranged.”

  Oh wow. Mike naked.

  Her mouth was hanging open.

  “Why are you here?” She hadn’t seen his truck in the driveway; he must have parked in the garage. Glancing to the dresser, she saw what looked to be a completely soaked T-shirt. He could thank Chloe for that, she imagined. Or maybe she should be the one thanking Chloe.

  “I live here,” he said, still smirking. Still shirtless. He was facing her now, showcasing all his abdominal glory. The swell of his pecs gave way to the six pack below, and those dangerous lines that cut beneath his waistband and pointed straight at his crotch. He might as well have worn a belt that said, TAKE A NICE, LONG LOOK, LADIES.

  It wasn’t right for him to look so good. He was a dad. A good one. And he was smart, and funny, and nice, and single. At least, she thought he was. It was an anomaly. He violated like, fifty rules of the universe.

  “I mean, you’re early,” she said. “You have work until eight downtown, and then class at nine. You’re not usually home until eleven or twelve.” She swallowed, realizing she was being a bit overly familiar. “Your home. You’re not usually back here until then. On the days you have school. Not that I’ve memorized your schedule or anything.”

  She laughed. And kind of choked.

  He kept right on smirking.

  “I’m not an idiot, you know,” she added.

  His smirk finally faded. “I didn’t say you were.”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “I just...don’t normally sound so ridiculous.”

  Cue mortification.

  “It’s cute,” he said.

  “Cute.” Their daughters were cute. Hamsters were cute. Women Mike Stroud took to bed were definitely not cute.

  Not that she expected him to take her to bed or anything.

  “Ridiculously cute,” he said, smiling again.

  Damn that dimple.

  He took a step closer.

  “Come here, Hummingbird,” he said, and tossed the dry shirt beside the wet one on the dresser.

  Holy shit.

  “Hummingbird?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Quiet. Graceful. But those wings are moving a mile a minute, aren’t they?”

  He had a name for her. At least it wasn’t Hamster.

  She did as he asked, heart pounding. As she crossed the threshold into his room she became acutely aware of the bed, and of the crumpled sheets and the comforter she’d haphazardly pulled up this morning in her hurry to get out. Surely he’d seen the master bathroom counter, where her makeup, hair products, and the birth control she didn’t even know why she was still taking spilled out of the case she told herself not to completely unpack. Even her pajamas were half hanging off the nightstand.

  She should have taken better care of his things.

  She looked up at Mike. He was taller than her, and not just by a little bit. At over six feet, he towered over her petite, five-two frame. She wished she had on some platform heels, just so she didn’t feel so small before him.

  She hated feeling small.

  He reached for her hand, and lifted it between them. Her fair skin contrasted with his, and brought out the pink streaks on her wrists from a partial red coloring she’d done this afternoon. She shivered as his thumb stroked her palm.

  “What happened here?” His finger stopped at a Band-Aid around her middle finger.

  “Oh,” she said. “Sharp scissors. I tried to file workman’s comp, but Derrick just rolled his eyes.” Her boss at Rave had cut hair for years. He wasn’t exactly concerned about a few knicks.

  “Be careful with these hands,” he said, and she wanted to ask, why? But didn’t. She pulled her hand away before he could feel that her palm had grown damp.

  “I like the skirt.” His gaze lowered over her body. She tried to keep breathing, but it was hard with all the air sucked out of the room.

  “It’s from a consignment store,” she said, smoothing it over her nervous stomach. “It wasn’t expensive or anything.”

  She didn’t need to justify this. It wasn’t as if she was spending his money.

  She was just living in his house, rent-free.

  His eyes traveled back up to hers. They were lions’ eyes: lighter brown than his skin, flecked with copper, and surrounded by gorgeous black lashes. Slowly, he reached up and felt the white feather pin on her right hip. It was a little wild, but she liked the contrast it brought to the plaid pattern. When he touched it, she could imagine his fingers skimming over her skin. Soft and gentle. Just a tease.

  “You added your own thing to it,” he said, pointing out her flair. His hand rose to the long pearl necklace that fell over her breasts. He slipped one finger beneath the bottom of the loop, barely grazing her stomac
h. She sucked in her belly, giving a small gasp.

  “You add a little Amy to everything, don’t you?”

  “I guess,” she whispered.

  “I like that.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. She stared at his mouth, full and curved. She remembered how it had felt against hers, even for those few seconds. Tender but insistent. Testing the waters. Feeling for a boundary.

  Her tongue darted out to moisten her dry lips.

  His knuckles were rubbing from the bottom of her necklace, just a few inches below her breasts, to her belly button. A lock of her platinum blond hair swung in front of her eyes as she looked down to his hand. She’d taken out the pink extensions and the pigtails in the car on the drive home and was glad for the curtain to hide behind, even if it was small.

  “I like a lot of things about you,” he said.

  She heard it in his voice, saw it in his eyes when she glanced up. Attraction. The same need whipped through her body, stealing her breath. But just as she was leaning closer, a voice whispered from her memories.

  I’m just not attracted to you anymore.

  She hadn’t asked Danny why he wanted a divorce—she’d thought the reasons were obvious—but he’d felt compelled to give her an answer anyway.

  For a moment, she almost told Mike that she’d seen her ex today, but something stopped her. She didn’t want him thinking she couldn’t handle her own problems. Danny didn’t belong here, between them. She was strong and capable, not some weakling, loaded down with baggage and in need of protection.

  She forced herself to take a step back.

  “Of course you do,” she said, raising her shield. “I’m an excellent cook, basically a microwave expert. Obviously very neat and tidy as evidenced by your room. And though I’m totally capable of pulling my own weight, I choose to take full advantage of your hospitality.”

  “That’s just what the ad said.” He inched closer, subtracting the space she’d put between them. “I’ll admit, the website’s no return policy on mail-order-brides was concerning, but I think it’s working out just fine.”

  She snorted, and glanced to the side, to the fateful closet, and grimaced.