Sexy Jerk

by Kim Karr

  “Fi, tell me,” I demand.

  Her voice grows low. “Don’t be mad.”

  “Okay, I won’t be mad, I promise. Now tell me.”

  “He’s worried Max will be too much for you to handle in your state.”

  I frown. “In my state?” I say in question.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “In my state!” I repeat loudly.

  “Max has been a lot to handle lately, and Ethan’s not sure you’re up to taking care of Max after everything that happened with Ansel.”

  “I was going through a break up, Fi, not a break down.”

  Yes, for a small period of time I might have felt like my world ended. And at the time I thought it had. My life was Gaspard—the restaurant—and it was taken from me. Sure, I had suddenly moved back to Chicago three weeks ago and cried on Fiona’s couch for seven days straight. I felt lost. Who wouldn’t? I’d spent years giving everything I had to my job. And yes, I might have even refused to go out of the house. And perhaps I had eaten nothing but ice cream for three of those seven days. But that was weeks ago.

  Slowly, I’d slipped out of the haze and realized I could do it again. The restaurant that is, not Ansel. This time it would be my way. Simple. Easy. No show. No glitz. No glam.

  And I got my shit together.

  I moved into my own place, a very affordable studio just west of the South Side. I haven’t unpacked, or bought furniture, but those are minor details. I’ve been busy getting started on my new quest.

  Fiona thinks I’m crazy to attempt this alone. She says she knows a guy who would be perfect for me. “Why not settle down and buy a house with a white picket fence?” she has said over and over. I put an end to that crazy idea before she could even blurt the guy’s name out.

  I’m not cut out for relationships.

  I can never be what men want me to be.

  I’ve proven that over and over.

  Managing the restaurant made me feel like I mattered. Like I was in control. It made me feel like maybe that is who I am.

  So, my answer is to be me. Or a version of me that seems closest to who I am, anyway.

  That doesn’t make me crazy or unfit.

  It just makes me closer to the me I think I could be. It seems I’ve moved away from that person over the years.

  Besides, putting all of my woes aside, I had planned to watch Max for the two weeks Fiona and Ethan would be gone way before Ansel and I broke up and I moved back to Chicago. I was flying here to stay at her house. If I could handle it then, I could handle it now.

  “His words, not mine,” Fiona states. “And you said you wouldn’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad, Fi, but you don’t think it’s a little late to start second guessing the person you both entrusted to take care of your son in the event of your death? His Godmother. His guardian,” I remind her.

  “That’s what I told him,” she whisper yells.

  “And?”

  “He said he’s having cold feet.”

  I slam the steering wheel. “That’s bullshit. He’s going on a vacation, not getting married again. He’s just using me as an excuse to get out of it for his own reasons, and that is completely unacceptable. Now how about you get Max out of the tub, dry that hot little bikini of yours, and get packed. You are going on your honeymoon tomorrow as planned.”

  She sighs yet again. “Tess, I don’t think I can change Ethan’s mind this time. He seems determined to postpone this trip.”

  Switching lanes, I prepare to make a U-turn. The offices of Fitz, Graham, and Wheeler are only minutes away, and I am going to pay Ethan Miller a visit. “Fi, you might not be able to persuade him, but I guarantee I can.”

  “Tess, what are you going to do?” she asks hesitantly.

  My wheels skid on the black ice as I make the illegal turn. “Why, Fi, what all unstable, broken-hearted women like me do. Put him in his place.”

  And that I say with a smile.

  Tess

  THE PRESTON SCHOOL in Lincoln Park is where Max spends three afternoons a week. Even though Fiona stays home, her and Ethan felt Max needed the socialization skills that accompanied attending preschool.

  I don’t disagree that Max should attend preschool. My reason though is completely different—Fiona needs that time for herself.

  Don’t get me wrong, the school is the best of the best, and besides, Max does need to be around other children his age.

  But Fiona is having a hard time adjusting to staying home, still.

  She’s lonely.

  I know she misses her career, but there’s more to it. Something is missing from her life. Excitement. Fun. And I think she also misses the attention of a man. The attention of her husband.

  Yes, she loves Max with all her heart, but the fact that her husband works all the time isn’t making her happy. His political aspirations that take even more of his time from her aren’t making her happy. Their non-existent sex life isn’t making her happy. Her battery-operated vibrator isn’t keeping her satisfied. She really wants this vacation for them. A little me time and we time with her husband to reignite their passion and get their relationship back on track.

  And that is what I told Ethan.

  To man up and take care of his wife’s needs.

  I laid it all out on the table. He needed to know. Know his wife was feeling neglected, and not in a selfish way. She just wants a little bit of his attention. And she deserves it.

  Those words of wisdom, along with my slightly exaggerated, entirely put together plan to open the café, to prove my mental state was more than stable, was how I convinced my best friend’s husband to take his wife on her dream honeymoon.

  And it is nothing but the truth.

  How could the want-to-be senator argue with that bit of sanity?

  They left this afternoon for Fiji to drink fruity cocktails and have lots of sex for the next two weeks.

  Today is Wednesday. And on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Max spends his afternoons with eleven other preschoolers learning his colors, letters, and even how to speak French.

  Crazy, right?

  It’s no joke.

  Very soon my godson might be able to speak better French than me, and I dated a Frenchman for six years. Of course, my Frenchman only liked to talk to me in French when he’d had too much to drink and was extremely horny. That’s when the dirty French talk emerged. I didn’t care, I found it sexy as hell.

  Still, my knowledge of the language is limited to things like, “Je veux ta bouche sur ma bite,” or, “I want your mouth on my dick.”

  Then there was, “Votre chatte a un goût étonnant,” or, “Your pussy tastes amazing.” And let’s not forget the infamous, “I need to be inside you right now,” which translated in French is, “J’ai besoin d’être à l’intérieur de toi maintenant.” In English it doesn’t sound nearly as romantic.

  Drunk or not, his words always turned me on. Something about the dirty talk turned me inside out. Too bad it didn’t happen that often. Not that I encourage drinking, but . . .

  Anyway, don’t get me wrong, Ansel liked to fuck. I did too. The problem was I only wanted to fuck him. He, on the other hand, felt compelled to fuck anything in a skirt. I just didn’t know it. Shame on me for thinking I should have been enough for him.

  Enough time wasted on him.

  After spending the afternoon at an industrial interior design center just outside the city limits, I arrive at Max’s school promptly at five forty-five.

  The teacher is wearing a very nice black pants suit and she has her hair in a perfect chignon. Geez, I thought preschool teachers wore overalls and long dresses. Guess here they break that stereotype. Anyway, I try to recall her name. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but doesn’t come to me fast enough.

  The teacher looks at me with contempt. “Ms. Winters?”

  Curious as to what the look is for, I give her a nod and glance around the room. It is then that I realize Max is the only child left. “I thoug
ht pickup time was between five and six Mrs.—?” I let the phrase hang.

  “It’s Miss Eastling. And yes that is correct,” she answers sternly.

  “Great, then I’m not late,” I reply, and dutifully gather Max and his things.

  “But you should know, all the moms pick up promptly at five,” she mentions just as I head for the door.

  “Well, my name is Auntie Tess, not Mom, so between five and six will have to do over the next two weeks,” I reply.

  “Auntie Tess. Auntie Tess. Auntie Tess. Auntie Tess.” Max repeats over and over as soon as we get in Fiona’s BMW SUV.

  Hmmm . . . perhaps I had spoken out of turn at Preston, and this is karma’s way of calling me a bitch?

  I hope not.

  Tess

  THE QUAINT TREE-LINED street of Hudson Avenue is where Fiona and Ethan’s very old East Lincoln Park home is located. Originally built in 1886, the narrow brick building with three floors has a charm that I just love.

  Easing down the street, I take a left about ten homes from theirs to circle around to the alleyway where their driveway is positioned.

  Spotting the black Range Rover parked there puts me on edge. The chrome wheels and tinted windows immediately give it away. It belongs to Nick Carrington, one of the biggest real estate developers in Chicago. Nick also happens to be Ethan’s former college roommate and best friend. Oh, and did I mention, he’s Max’s Godfather.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Last I heard he was in Miami for an extended amount of time working on a really big real estate deal. Then again it isn’t like I keep tabs on him. He and I don’t exactly get along.

  Yes, we’ve been forced together in the same social settings at least a couple dozen times since Fiona and Ethan met. But to be honest, I’ve never really given him a second thought—other than to say he’s kind of a jerk.

  Out loud.

  So he could hear.

  Many times.

  Sure, he’s tall, dark, and handsome. And yes, he has the best ass I’ve ever seen, and I mean ever seen quite literally. You see he mooned me at Fiona and Ethan’s Fourth of July barbecue last year, which pretty much defines his personality.

  He always has to be the life of the party.

  He’s also arrogant.

  Rich.

  And a playboy.

  Every time I see him, he has a different woman on his arm. I can say this about him—he doesn’t discriminate. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, they’ve all gotten their turn with Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. From what I’ve heard, he just never keeps any of them around long enough to give them a chance.

  Plain and simple, he’s a manwhore.

  And I’ve had my fill with manwhores. So seeing his vehicle in the driveway isn’t making me extremely pleased right now.

  Again I ask myself, “Why is he here?”

  Unless.

  No, please no, don’t tell me something happened to Fiona.

  Hitting the gas, I floor it into the driveway as fast as I can. Once I put the SUV in park, I hurry to get Max out of his car seat.

  Rushing inside with Max on my hip and his gear on my shoulder, I take the stairs up to the main floor two at a time, and come to a screeching halt.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Holy shit!

  Coming down the stairs is all six-foot-two inches, and I mean all six-foot and two inches of Nick Carrington in his glory.

  Wet.

  No towel.

  Completely naked.

  He looks at me, only a little surprised, and mumbles, “Shit,” or something like that. I’m not really listening right now. There is so much white noise in my head that I don’t think my ears are working properly. Or my hat is on too tight.

  Wait.

  Ignore that two inches part because he is, well, to be blunt . . . huge.

  “Uncle Nick,” Max screams in delight, jolting me out of the trance I had fallen into.

  “Nick!” I scream in outrage, while at the same time relieved that nothing must be wrong with Fiona or Ethan.

  He covers himself with his hands and shrugs.

  “Nick! What the hell!” I yell.

  “Uncle Nick!” Max exclaims again with glee.

  My head jerks in Max’s direction. Instead of following suit and covering his eyes like me to shade his vision from the sight of Nick’s smooth, tanned, muscular chest, tight six-pack, and well, his huge endowment, the almost three-year-old reaches out for him.

  Traitor.

  “Hey, Tess. Good to see you,” Nick says, seemingly unfazed in the least by his nakedness.

  Jerk.

  “Nick!” I manage again, beginning to worry I am taking after Max now with the repeating.

  Nick lets out a chuckle that really irritates me. “Shit,” he says again. “You got up the stairs much faster than I thought you would. Let me just grab some clean clothes and I can help you with Max’s things.”

  “Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick,” Max keeps repeating, squirming relentlessly for me to let him down.

  My eyelids remain squeezed shut, but I need both hands to help with my struggle to keep Max secured to my hip because he has now started to kick his feet. “What are you doing, Nick?” I ask without looking in his direction.

  “I went for a run and grabbed a quick shower. Like a dumbass, I left my bag down here with my clean clothes and thought I could mad dash it once I heard the garage door. Guess I was wrong. You don’t have to keep your eyes closed. I’m sure you’re not going to see anything your French guy Andy isn’t equipped with.”

  Dumbass is right.

  Feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the heart, I give up the struggle with Max and let him down just in time to see Nick’s back muscles ripple as he bends to open the large duffle bag on the ground beside his bare feet. “His name is Ansel, not Andy,” I correct, “but I’m pretty sure you already know that. And for the record, he’s not my guy anymore. We broke up.”

  Nick raises his gaze, and for the first time I notice just how blue his eyes are. “I’m sorry to hear that. Ethan hadn’t mentioned it,” Nick says rather sincerely as he pulls on a pair of jeans, opting to go commando.

  Not that I notice.

  Without bothering to button them, he then grabs for Max who is already by his side. “Hey kiddo,” he says, scooping him up and tossing him in the air a few times before setting him on his feet. “What do you say we get these warm clothes off?”

  Max giggles and nods his head, taking his own hat off and tossing it to the ground. His hair is a mess, much like Nick’s, and I think he knows it because he pulls on his own blond curls to try to make them stand straight on end, more like Nick’s. Nick copies him, making his dark hair look somehow put together despite the fact he is fresh out of the shower. Even if I hate to admit it, it is kind of cute to watch their interaction.

  As Nick starts to unzip Max’s coat, I clear my throat.

  Nick looks over at me.

  I am standing at the top of the stairs from the lower level and he is still standing across the room near the bottom of the stairs leading to the upper level. It’s odd, but neither of us has moved very far.

  Are we at a stand off?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask again. This time I added the word here to be more direct. And yes, I also did that so I wouldn’t sound like Max on repeat.

  Having already removed Max’s coat, Nick shoves Max’s hat and mittens in the sleeves and hangs the coat on the banister, all the while glaring at me with a look of utter confusion. “I’m here to help you with Max.”

  Dumbfounded, I drop Max’s things to the floor and take a step forward, pointing my finger at the very large duffle bag. “You’re staying here? In this house?”

  Nick nods.

  “With me and Max?” I clarify, now taking my own hat and coat off because even though it is only twenty degrees outside, it feels like a hundred in here.

  Again, he just nods
.

  “No, no you’re not. No way,” I insist.

  There is a slight rise of his brows. And then he does it again. He nods, like him and I living together is the most normal thing in the world.

  Max nods too.

  And then Nick sits on the floor and Max copies him, flopping to the ground in a burst of cuteness and landing right in front of Nick. “Let’s take your boots off,” Nick says, pointing to Max’s feet.

  Max points to Nick’s bare toes, which I have to admit, are pretty damn sexy. “Socks too,” Max says.

  Nick laughs. “Socks too.” And then he gets to work removing Max’s boots.

  “Nick,” I say calmly this time.

  “Tess.” He glances up.

  “You can’t take care of Max. What do you know about kids, other than being a big kid yourself?”

  Nick’s eyes narrow and he flips me the bird behind Max’s back. Okay, I deserved that one. I might have gone too far with that because obviously he is a big part of Max’s life. I, on the other hand, haven’t lived in Chicago since way before Max was born. To Max, I’ve just been the visiting auntie. So, what the hell do I know?

  “Okay, yes, clearly you can,” I concede. “Still, we cannot live in this house together for the next two weeks.”

  Nick merely grins. “Well, we are, so I guess we can.”

  It takes all I have to suppress my snarl of rage. “No, we’re not.”

  “Tess, we are. Both Fiona and Ethan have entrusted us with Max. Their son. And I don’t plan to disappoint them. And if you take a moment to think about it, I doubt you do either.”

  Way to put it. “That just sucks,” I say rather childlike under my breath. Then add, “You can sleep downstairs on the couch.”

  Nick laughs again. “It’s cold down there. How about we compromise. I’ll sleep in the guest room upstairs, but shower downstairs.”

  I cross my arms in protest. “Fine, but this sucks.”

  “I heard you the first time. I’m going to wager a bet that Ethan neglected to mention that I would be here.”

  It hits me then—why Ethan had been so accommodating last night. He must have been working on his back up plan all along.

  And Nick was it.

  “Yes, conveniently he did. And so did Fiona, for that matter,” I sputter.