by Aria Ford
“Okay, okay,” he’d agreed, still grinning. He’d moved the van. That was the last time we talked.
I’d seen him around, and I couldn’t exactly deny that he was sexy. Stunning, in fact, with those broad shoulders, curly dark hair and those limpid brown eyes with their heavy lids and the crow’s feet in the corners that made him look like a tanned, adventurous seafarer. But his character didn’t match up.
Arrogant, rude, unthinking…I was running through the list when the phone stopped ringing.
“Yes?”
Oh, heck. There he is too. “It’s Mrs. Price,” I said quickly. “I have a problem with my ceiling.”
“Oh?” he drawled. “What kinda problem?”
“It’s leaking. Badly.”
“Probably the gutters. You’re in number three Ascot Street?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Just near you.” I said through gritted teeth.
“I know,” he said. I couldn’t help that those words made me shiver. Why did he have to be so stunning?
“Well, could you come ASAP?” I asked. “I have good furniture getting ruined in here.”
“Okay,” he drawled. “Be there in five minutes. Oh, wait…”
“What?” I said, trying not to shout.
“Where can I park?”
“Anywhere. You. Like.” I said it one word at a time. Did he have to make an issue? Right now? Three days before Christmas and in a state of minor crisis?
“Okay.” I could hear him smile. “I’ll be there now.”
“Thanks,” I grumbled. I shut off the phone with a kind of grim rage and turned to Parker.
“What’s happening, Mommy?”
“The repairman’s coming, sweetheart. It’ll be okay.”
As I walked through to the lounge with a roll of paper towel under my arm, planning to swab up the worst of it, I prayed inwardly that was true. I really wanted it all to just be okay.
CHAPTER TWO
Riley
I have to admit I’ve always been interested in the woman in Number 3. I remember when she first moved in. I was in my garage when the removal van rolled in and she jumped out. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a sweater. Nice ass, I thought.
Since then I had gotten to know her a bit better—if having an argument in the middle of the street is getting to know someone. I noticed more than the ass: the pretty face, the fiery hair, the sass. Now I stood with my phone in my hand and a funny grin on my face and an invitation to go into Number Three Ascot Street.
Hey, I thought. Christmas came early this year.
As I packed my tools and went across to my van in a leisurely manner, I found myself wondering what would happen next. I didn’t have to go far. I stopped and slid out of the door feeling strangely apprehensive. I rang the bell and the door opened. I stared.
“Hello?”
Whoever had answered the door seemed to have gone away.
“Hey!” a small voice lisped from round the height of my knees. I blinked down, surprised.
“Hello,” I replied. The little angelic face stared up, blue eyes round. She was so pretty it made me grin. “Where’s your mommy?” I asked.
“She’s upstairs.” the little girl lisped.
“Okay,” I nodded. I shrugged and went up the stairs. Chaos met me. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, decorations spilling out of boxes all over the floor. The mess was mixed with newspaper and a mop and a spreading stain on the rug. I couldn’t see Mrs. Price.
“Hello?” I called.
“Oh fu…fiddlesticks!” a voice came out from round the back of the tree. The ass appeared first, making my loins tense. Round and pert like two peaches clad in tight denim, it was a thing of beauty. I cleared my throat and tried to bring my mind back to the present.
“You called about a problem with the roof?”
“Yeah!” the word was vicious. “I did. Ten minutes ago. It’s up there.” She pointed at the ceiling just above my head.
“Where I expected the roof to be,” I grinned. She glared at me.
“Mr. Robson,” she said, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth. “I asked you to fix my roof. If I’d wanted Christmastime wisecracks I would be watching the TV. Are you going to fix it, or aren’t you?”
I wiped the grin off my face with effort. “Okay, okay,” I nodded. “I’m going.”
I went out and set up my ladder. While I climbed up I whistled between my teeth. I knew it would irritate her. I was right.
As I passed the window, I heard her in the sitting room again. She was swearing this time. Real swearwords. It made me grin. As I passed the window and went up on the roof I heard another sound, though. It was tears.
It wasn’t the little girl who was crying. I knew that immediately. Kids don’t cry like that; not the belly-aching sobs that adults make. I crawled onto the roof to clean the gutters, my own heart tearing as I heard those heart-wrenching cries.
“I can’t do this anymore…I can’t get anything right! Oh for shit’s sakes.” the woman sobbed. “For crying out loud. How much am I supposed to take?”
I sighed. Cleaning the gutters and covering the leak were easy jobs. I did them with a sort of guilt as I listened to those cries. I wished I could really help her. Fixing her roof wasn’t even a beginning.
By the time I’d finished, she was silent again. I climbed down the ladder and let myself in through the kitchen door. I stood, listening for any signs of life, but there were none. I washed my freezing-cold fingers in the sink, dried them on my trousers and went into the hallway.
There, I found the little girl. She was standing facing the wall, her little face buried in an overcoat. Her shoulders shook. She was crying too.
That was almost too much for me to bear. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She tensed, then looked up at me.
“Why’s Mom so sad?”
I wanted to say something, but I had no idea what to say. How must I know? I wish I knew.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I said. She stared at me, surprised. It was only after I had gone up the stairs that I realized that I had called her sweetheart.
In the sitting room, I found marginally less chaos than before. The floor was still wet, but someone had cleared the newspaper off the floor and the tree was up.
“Mrs. Price?”
“I’m here.”
The voice was behind me, but it sounded as if it came from the bottom of a dark well. There was so much flat, cold despair in it that it made my heart stop. I turned around.
“Oh. Okay. I just fixed it.”
“How much?” The same flat voice asked me.
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
She frowned at me. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I mean, it’s for nothing.”
“What?” Now she sounded angry. “Mr. Robson. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but I don’t like it. Now tell me seriously: How much does it cost?”
Now I felt angry. “Mrs. Price. Look,” I said, not wanting to raise my voice but not able to help it. “I’m not doing anything funny.”
Her eyes went wide and, to my horror, they dampened with tears. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She went over to the wall and her shoulders shook silently.
“Oh, hell,” I said. “Listen, Mrs. Price,” I said, sighing. “It’s Christmas.” I shook my head. “It’s on me. A gift.”
She looked up at me. “Really?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Thank you,” she said.
This close, I could see the tracks of tears down her pink cheeks and her lips glistened with wetness. My loins gave a tug and I wanted to pull her into my arms and put my tongue between those shiny, plump lips. Of course, I didn’t.
“It’s a pleasure.”
She sniffed. “I…” her voice trailed off. “At least let me give you some coffee,” she said shyly.
I nodded. “I could take that,” I said, with a grin.
She laughed. The sound of that high, tinkling laughter made every second worthwhile. Her brown eyes danced and I felt my heart glow.
“Mr. Price,” she said, voice teasing. “I’m glad to know my coffee is acceptable. “Now, let’s go down to the kitchen. This place is a mess.”
I nodded. “It is,” I said lightly.
She glared at me, then laughed. “Okay, I accept it. It’s a mess.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said. As she walked down the stairs ahead of me, I found myself patting her shoulder. She jumped, her eyes staring up into mine.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “I understand.”
We went down to the kitchen together. The little girl was standing by the sink, trying to wash up. I went over and, while her mother busied herself with the kettle, I lifted one of the plates out of her hand.
“Let me do that,” I offered. She looked up at me with round, surprised eyes. Said nothing. But she turned and walked away.
“Parker?” her mother called from the depths of the cupboard. “Can you get some cookies out of the jar for me?”
“Okay, Mom,” she nodded. A moment later we heard her rummaging in the jar. She turned around to Mrs. Price a moment later. “I ate them all.”
She looked like she was about to cry. Mrs. Price caught my eye and her shoulders shook with mirth. I couldn’t help it. I laughed too. Soon we were both helpless with laughter, leaning on the table.
Parker—or so the little girl seemed to be named—looked from me to her mother and back again. The expression on her face turned from sad to bewildered to indignant.
“Okay, what’s so funny?” she asked.
That set us both off even worse.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. Price said, coming around the table and giving her daughter a hug. “We aren’t laughing at you, I promise.”
Parker looked up into her mother’s face and her indignation turned into a sunny smile. I looked abruptly away. I didn’t have kids of my own—Jess and I split long before that was even considered—but the tenderness between Mrs. Price and her daughter moved me deeply and made me feel my lack.
“Come on,” her mother said, wiping away a tear. “Let’s get the table set. Mr. Robson is staying for coffee.”
“Riley,” I corrected automatically, bending to put a plate in the dishwasher.
“Sorry?” she asked.
“Call me Riley,” I said quickly.
“Riley.”
The sound of my name on her sweet lips brought a surprising tingle to my body. I coughed. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Price.”
“Brooklyn.” She grinned.
“Brooklyn.”
Her eyes met mine and I swear I felt a jolt like I had touched a live wire. Her eyes were a sort of chestnut brown with little gold sparkles in them. They were a shade darker than her hair and they pinioned me in place like I’d been stapled there.
She cleared her throat. “I guess I can’t offer you any cookies,” she murmured, setting the mugs of steaming hot coffee down on the kitchen table. I chuckled.
“I guess not.”
Just then, Parker cleared her throat. “If Mr. Riley can’t have cookies, maybe he can come for dinner? Auntie Sheena isn’t coming an’ so there’s lots of extra,” she informed me angelically.
I looked at Brooklyn—now I knew her name!—and she turned to Parker.
“Now, lovey,” she began warningly. I interrupted.
“It’s really sweet of you to offer to have me, Parker,” I said sincerely. I was surprised that my throat was raw. The offer really moved me. I would have been spending Christmas alone, and the prospect of even being offered an invitation somewhere else really moved me.
“Will you come?” Parker asked. She sounded excited, bless her heart. I looked at Brooklyn.
She shrugged helplessly. “Mr. Robson?”
“I would be honored to accept,” I said simply.
“Okay,” Brooklyn said stiffly. “I guess I just got outnumbered.”
“I really don’t want to intrude, Mrs. Price,” I said quickly. “If you’d rather I didn’t, I’ll say thank you for the coffee, and I’ll be on my way.” I lifted my coffee and drained it—it had cooled off while we were chatting—put the cup in the sink, and headed to the door. My hand was on its way to the latch when she spoke.
“Wait. Stay.”
I turned around. “I don’t want to be a nuisance,” I said softly.
“You aren’t,” she said.
We looked at each other and that feeling was back. The subtle electricity that seemed to hum from her body to mine. She was wearing tight jeans and a pink sweater and they clung to her sweet curves. I breathed in like I was drowning in treacle.
“Thanks,” I said.
We kept on looking at each other. I studied her surreptitiously. Her neck was long and the skin was soft and pale, and I found myself wishing I could take her in my arms and kiss my way down that pale, plush expanse and to those high, rounded breasts, taking the nipples in my mouth to suck. I imagined them to be reddish pink—she was a redhead and they usually had pink nipples—and I couldn’t help but lose myself in wondering what she looked like under there.
“I should get some things done in here,” she said, looking quickly away.
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I should go.” My poor body was helplessly wanting her now and I was grateful for the cover of my overalls.
I went back to the door. She said something.
“Sorry?” I asked. My voice came out all raspy and I coughed aloud.
“See you tomorrow?” she said softly. “Twelve p.m.?”
“See you tomorrow,” I agreed.
She nodded and I turned around and left.
I went out to my van and packed it silently. Got in. Put the tools on the seat beside me and drove away. I felt so dazed that I barely found my way back to my garage. I arrived on autopilot and unpacked and then sat down heavily at my kitchen table.
“Whew,” I said.
The day had taken a route I would never have expected. I had woken up feeling kind of depressed and down, and now I had an invitation to Christmas dinner and, even better, I had met Mrs. Price.
“Oh, hell,” I thought, wiping a hand down my face. “How am I going to sit through Christmas dinner tomorrow?”
Being at a table with that woman would mean things were going to get hot. And it wouldn’t be because of the Christmas pudding.
I was distracted for the rest of the day. I tried to finish the month’s accounts, tried to make a log of my tools—something I’d been promising myself I’d do for ages. I even decided to go out and buy something to take with me. I picked up some chocolates and cookies for the kid and went home.
While I was sitting at the table, an idea occurred to me. I was barely ready to entertain it, even to myself. But when I had thought of it, I couldn’t exactly unthink it.
Come on, Riley, I told myself. That’s a dumb idea.
It was a dumb idea. Crazy, inane and completely mad. But maybe it was mad enough to work. The only way I was going to find out was if I asked her.
I decided I would have to do that tomorrow.
CHAPTER THREE
Brooklyn
I was scattered and distracted for all the rest of the day. I went up and finished decorating the tree with Parker. Her mood had improved greatly, and she sang under her breath as we hung up the decorations. I realized I hadn’t seen her quite this cheerful since we moved in. It made me feel at once happy and a bit guilty. I had been so sunk in my own misery that I hadn’t even noticed until now how quiet she had become.
“Mummy?” she asked me once we had finished and stepped back to admire the effect together.
“Mm, sweetie?”
“Is Mr. Riley a nice man?”
I frowned at her. “I guess,” I said. “Why do you ask, sweetie?”
“I mean, is he a nice nice man?” she asked, twisting and wringing her hand
s in her skirts. “Like, do you like him?”
I gave an astonished breath. “Parker!” I was blushing and had no idea how to hide it.
“What?” she asked.
“Parker Price,” I said sternly. “That is not a question I can answer.”
“Oh,” she said. She seemed to decide to accept that at face value—a fact for which I was grateful—and skipped off. “Can you come and sing to Bluesy with me?” she asked. “She’s sleepy.”
“Okay,” I said, dusting the fluff off the carpet off my jeans as we went to her room. I finished in there, snuggled her and breathed in the soft fragrance of her hair as I did so. I felt a catch in my throat.
“Parker, baby—you do know I love you?” I said tightly.
“I love you too, Mommy,” she said and kissed me.
It was only when I was upstairs wrapping her presents that I realized she hadn’t answered my question—not exactly. I hadn’t asked if she loved me. I had asked if she knew I loved her.
I sighed. “I will work harder on showing her I do.”
That was all I could do.
I finished the present-wrapping, went down to check I’d marinated the chicken—Parker didn’t like turkey—and then made supper for us.
Later, when I was in bed, I found myself thinking about him. Riley. The question Parker had asked me was by no means as trivial as I had made out. I did like Riley. I liked him a lot.
I thought about his face—lean, strong, with high cheekbones—and his body. Let’s face it, the last time I saw something that built was in HQ magazine. Yes, fine, I hadn’t seen him without his shirt on, but I’d seen his biceps and the way he moved and the swell of his pecs under the shirt. You can guess these things.
I found myself imagining what it would be like to lean on that chest and have his hard, warm arms around me, drawing me against his solid body. I imagined the bulge in his pants pressing against my thigh and rubbing my body against it, purring as I did so. My body warmed and I could feel wetness between my thighs.
Hell, woman, I told myself, surprised. You want him!
I shook my head. I did like him, but I wasn’t going to commit. Not again, Not to anyone. At least, not before I’d done a lot of thinking. There was no way I was ready for that. At least, that was what I thought.