A small grin spreads on her face, as she dips her hand into her purse and produces a black elastic band. “No, I insist. You were horrible last time. Have at it.”
She drops to the floor, scoots over to me, and with her shoulder, she nudges my right knee.
Hello, slippery slope. Funny to see you again so soon.
7
Simon
* * *
Her other shoulder bumps my other knee. There’s no need to think—I widen my legs more and let her settle in between them. I’m seated on the couch, she’s on the floor, and she waits for me to braid her hair.
As I stare at her lush, blond locks, the breath escapes my lungs. For a moment, it’s as if I’m hovering in a state of suspended want. Like this is the real line we’re crossing. Not me bringing her dessert, or touching the corner of her lips, or gazing at her face longer than I should. Not even sending texts about a pair of wild birds or making comments about showers and nudity.
But this.
Touching her hair.
Fuck, I love her hair.
I slide the tie over my wrist, then gather up some strands near the top of her head. “Confession,” I say in a quiet voice. “I watched a few YouTube videos after you taught me.”
She leans back, and I can feel her smile. “Like I said, prove it.”
“It’s on.” I focus on the task of separating her honey-blond hair into three sections, running my fingers through them like a comb. I lift the first strand and lay it over the middle one, then the left, gathering more hair into the next section.
After I failed at her first French braid lesson, I took it upon myself to learn. I don’t like not being able to master basic skills. A man should be able to braid his daughter’s hair.
And his woman’s hair.
“How does it look?” Her voice sounds a little breathy.
“Like it was braided by a man who learned by watching YouTube videos,” I answer.
She laughs lightly and leans into me more, inching closer. My hands still for a moment. I feel like I’m in high school again. Like I have a crush on a girl, and I don’t know what to do, where to go next, what to say.
The thing is, I do know. I just don’t know that I should. But I know what I want. There’s no doubt in my mind. I want to touch her, to kiss her, to feel her body press against mine. Even the chance to touch her like this is intoxicating, a rush of blood to the head. Her waves of hair are soft, and they feel spectacular falling through my fingers. I can’t picture a single thing besides running my hands through these strands as I kiss her, as I touch her, as she moves beneath me.
Just like that, I imagine her in bed.
Yeah, it’s not the first time. It’s not the hundredth, either. I’ve pictured this countless fucking times, but it’s a fantastic image. Her softness, her sweetness, her curves. I see her mouth falling open, her breath coming fast, her arms roped around me. I blink, trying to eradicate these images from my mind, but I’ve no doubt they’ll return later when she’s gone and I’m alone under the sheets.
I continue the braid, trying my best to focus on the simple task as I move farther down her hair. I keep my eyes trained on the weave, one after the other, as if the act of braiding can erase all these other thoughts. She bends her head, exposing more of her neck, and I exhale hard.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
She tenses. “Is everything okay?”
I close my eyes, stopping my moves, reeling in my desire. “Yeah. You just . . .”
I stop myself. I can’t go there. Can’t say this. Can’t do this. But my God, I dream about kissing her neck. I want to smother her neck in kisses, brush my lips over her skin, and feel her melt against me. I want to do things to her that make her knees weak and her panties damp.
“Just what?” she asks, her voice small, but desperate, as if she wants the answer as badly as I want to give it. The possibility that she feels the same sends a charge through me.
“You just have nice hair,” I whisper, then I want to kick myself.
You have nice hair? I mouth, grateful she can’t see me.
“So do you,” she says. A wave of heat crashes into me, and I let it lead me on. Let it pull me closer. Let it be the force that bends my face close. I bring my nose to her locks, inches away, and I inhale. The heat turns to fire, twisting and curling in my veins.
“Smells good, too,” I say, my voice husky. “Like coconut or something.”
“My shampoo,” she answers, her voice a bare whisper in the quiet of my home. “You like it?”
My throat is dry. I swallow thickly. Answer truthfully. “I love it.”
I weave the remaining strands, grab the tie, and loop it around the end, finishing the job.
“How does it look?”
I run my index finger along the French braid, tight against her head. “I’d never be mistaken for a hair stylist, but I think it’s safe to say I can braid French better than I can speak it,” I say, going for self-deprecating humor. Laughing lightly, she raises her hands and runs her fingers along my handiwork.
My eyes roam along her arms, her bare skin on display in her peach tank top.
In this moment, I am a dirty old man, because all I want to do is take this twenty-six-year-old woman and have her as mine. I want to run my hands along her arms, lift her up, turn her around, and bring her down on my lap, telling her to straddle me. Then I would kiss the hell out of her. Learn how her lips feel, how her mouth tastes, if she’s as soft as I’ve imagined. If she melts into my arms the way I picture. I want to strip her naked and have my wicked way with her.
I draw a deep breath, and my traitorous hand takes over as I cover hers where it rests against her hair.
She gasps—a surprised, sexy little sound.
I guide her fingers softly over the braid, as if all I’m doing is showing her that I pulled it off. As if I’m not trying desperately to find a way to touch her without letting on how much I want to touch her everywhere. How much I want more of her. All of her.
My skin heats one million degrees as I curl my fingers over hers, bringing our joined hands along her soft hair. I swear she’s holding her breath as we travel over the braid, and her reaction emboldens me. My fingertips brush the edge of her cheekbone. I’m taking chances left and right—chances I shouldn’t take. But I don’t want to stop.
She inhales sharply, and just as I’m about to knock some sense into my wandering fingers, she leans farther back into me and whispers, “Yes, you do know how to braid hair now.”
My home is so quiet, I swear I can hear the vibrations between us in the air, humming faintly with possibility, like the moment before a storm when you can sense that the sky is about to burst open. I’m confident she feels it, too. I sense it in her shoulders against my legs, her breathy voice, her words.
I can barely stand it anymore. The tension tightens, and soon it’s going to snap. Being this close to her and not taking her in my arms is insanity. I want to ask her what she’s thinking and if this feeling is as mutual as it seems with her between my legs and my hands in her hair.
“Abby . . .” I say, but then I cut myself off.
Soft footsteps pad against hardwood.
I yank my hand away, and Abby scoots forward in a flurry. My heart hammers madly, and my skin prickles as I back up into the couch cushions, putting distance between us.
But Hayden doesn’t even wander into the living room. The faint sound of water running tells me she simply got a cup of water in the bathroom.
Still, my pulse thunders as if I’ve been caught stealing, and by my own kid.
I stand. “Better go check on her.” I stride across the living room and down the hall, poking my head into my little girl’s room. She slides back under the covers.
A faint, sleepy smile spreads on her face. “Night, Daddy.”
“Night, sweetie,” I say, and tug her purple blanket up higher. She’ll kick it off in the middle of the night. But I cover her anyway then drop a kiss to her warm che
ek.
I turn away from her bed, drag a hand through my hair, and take a breath, letting it spread through me. I remind myself I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve crossed no lines. But my heart pounds relentlessly, so I press my palm against the doorframe and will my pulse to settle down.
Thirty seconds later, I return to the living room.
Abby stands, slings her bag onto her shoulder, smooths her top, and flashes a too-bright smile. The moment has vanished, and all that wild possibility is not just drained away—it’s erased.
An empty sensation takes root in my chest, but then I tell myself this is for the best. I shouldn’t have my hands on my kid’s nanny. Shouldn’t flirt. Shouldn’t braid her hair. I need her in Hayden’s life too much. I can’t risk that simply because I want her so fucking much. My longing for her shouldn’t occupy its own damn zip code.
It’s becoming really inconvenient.
“It’s late. I should go,” she says softly, a sweet smile pulling at her lips.
I nod.
“But let me know if you want to work on French again,” she adds, and it’s as if she’s tossing me a rope.
I want to be a good guy who doesn’t cross lines he shouldn’t. I’d like to be the guy who can walk away from her offer.
But I need to improve my skills. Hell, if I don’t learn a few more words, then the next time I try to speak in French, I’ll be asking Gabriel if he wants to cartwheel in combat boots or eat whipped cream off a steak. That’s enough for me to grab the end of the rope. I nod in Hayden’s direction. “She’s with her mom the next few days,” I say, even though Abby knows this, since she’s off.
Her tone is upbeat as she says, “Let’s teach you French, then.”
I’m about to ask when she wants to meet, but she’s faster. “Maybe we can meet at a coffee shop? Or the library?”
That’s as good an answer as anything. It tells me all I need to know. We’re not meeting here. Lord knows, we’ve done enough here tonight. It’s too dangerous. It’s the fire zone, and if we take another step, someone will get burned.
We’ll be safe out of my home. “Sounds like a plan.” Then I grin and repeat it in French.
She smiles, her eyes twinkling, as she says “Très bien.”
I walk her to the door and hold it open for her. “Goodnight, Abby.” My voice is quieter than usual, but rougher, too.
She looks at me, parts her lips as if she wants to say something more, but then she simply swallows and says, “Goodnight, Simon.”
And hell, if that soft, sweet voice of hers doesn’t stir up my desire for her once more.
But I shove it away.
When she walks down the hall, her hair falls in curls along her back. She undid the braid, and I miss seeing it more than I should.
8
Abby
* * *
I take my first ever cold shower that night.
I shiver under the water, and the chill seeps into my bones. My teeth chatter, and I’m dying to jack up the hot water and let it rain over me.
I resist.
I stay under the frigid stream, determined to win this battle with my lust.
Soon enough, the coldness gobbles up all the red-hot desire in me.
The Antarctica strategy worked. I’m officially a popsicle, but I’ve achieved my goal.
I’m 100 percent turned off.
With my tundra hands, I shut off the faucet, dry off, then wrap myself in a fluffy towel. When I’m done, I pull on a blue college T-shirt from one of my brothers and grab a pair of white underwear. Not the pretty lacy kind. The ugly cotton kind. The on-my-period kind. It’s not shark week, but my mission is sex repellent. Rooting through my drawers, I grab an old pair of workout pants, too. God, these gray sweats are hideous. I don’t even know why I own them.
I cinch the drawstring tight and give my fingers the evil eye. Especially the index finger, that busy bitch.
Don’t go there. Don’t even think about dipping below the belt.
Returning to the world’s tiniest bathroom, I yank open the medicine cabinet and snag a tube of face mask. Spreading it all over my forehead, nose, and cheeks is like applying frosting on an anti-lust cake. I’m covered in light blue goop that smells faintly of tofu and lemon. Quite possibly, I’m approaching revolting levels.
Excellent.
Closing the tube, I appraise myself in the mirror. My handiwork is astonishingly effective. I’m chilled like a seafood salad, I look like the newest member of Blue Man Group, I smell like a vegan café, and I’m dressed like my brother.
Mission more than accomplished.
My own hand doesn’t even want to get it on with the girl in the mirror. That’s a victory, considering what my favorite late-night activity for the last several weeks has been—getting off to fantasies of Simon. I have a lovely series of go-to gifs in my brain featuring that very subject.
Not tonight, though.
When I slip under the blanket, I grab my iPad and consider practicing Italian. But that language is far too alluring. It’ll lead me back to him. Sliding my thumb over my eReader shelves, I quickly decide that’s no better, given the array of romance novels mixed in with my language books.
I click over to Pinterest and, on a whim, decide to look up images of yellow raincoats, since that’s not sensual at all. I see kids in wellies, twirling polka-dot umbrellas, and small dogs wearing jackets while the sky pours, and I’ve definitely proved my own theory. Water’s not a lubricant at all.
My hands stay above my waistline. Yay me. I’ve succeeded in the Refrain from Finger-Painting While Imagining Your Boss event at the Sexual Abstinence Olympics.
“Gold medal for Abby,” I mutter, then I drift off. When I wake up, my pillowcase is caked with blue sludge, but I survived the night without diddling.
I tell myself that it’s a new day and nothing naughty will happen when I meet Simon at one in the afternoon.
I say it over and over again that morning as I go for a bike ride in Central Park for exercise (since I am convinced running was invented as a form of torture). I tell myself again as I head to a Spanish tutoring session at a management consultant’s office, and then as I take the subway downtown.
I repeat it one more time as I arrive at Café Gitane in NoLita, a tiny, casual restaurant that serves French Moroccan dishes. But I’m jittery inside, as if I’ve had far too much caffeine. The nervousness courses through me, because last night we teetered on the precipice, so close to caving. I’ve no clue what to expect today or if the cold shower therapy lasts longer than twelve hours. Maybe I should have taken another dose this morning, because I don’t know how I’ll feel when I see him.
The answer arrives in a heartbeat when I turn around. He walks toward me. Ten feet away, and my pulse quickens. Five feet, and my throat is dry. Two feet, and my stomach pirouettes.
Simon is scrumptious in his jeans and light-blue, short-sleeved button-down that shows off his arms, roped with muscles. I would say I’m an arms girl, but I’m actually an everything girl. Give me strong arms, a firm butt, a nice set of abs, muscular legs, a great face, soulful eyes, soft hair, and a beautiful heart.
I want it all.
Nothing wrong with that.
He has it all.
“Hi, Simon,” I say, and I’m impressed I said those two words without climbing him like a tree. I can do this. I’m a rock star at resisting.
“Hi Abby.” His lips curve up in a grin. “Should we grab a table?”
“We can grab a table or we can sit at one,” I say with a goofy smile. It’s a terrible joke. But hey, whatever works, right?
“I’ll opt for sitting,” he says, and we pick a table on the sidewalk.
He pulls out a chair for me. That’s another point in his favor—he’s polite. But I already knew he was a gentleman. I stand no chance.
“Thanks,” I say, sitting down, willing the organ in my chest to stop beating in overtime. Nothing naughty can happen at one in the afternoon.
The s
un is bright, the sky is blue, and we’re nowhere close to alone. Good. Sitting outside is the perfect antidote to last night. It’s protection from all those devilish hormones that threatened to derail me in the dark of his home. Here in the light of day, surrounded by New Yorkers scurrying along the sidewalk, I won’t be tempted. Even though he looks so damn handsome.
“I thought this would be the perfect spot to work on your French,” I say, spreading the napkin over my lap.
“I’ve heard great things about this place but haven’t had the chance to try it, so all the better. The avocado toast is supposed to be quite good, and so is the couscous with red peppers and toasted pine nuts,” he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief, because picking what to eat is now one less thing I have to think about.
Fighting off the desire to throw myself at him is hard enough. Add in trying to order food and my brain would short-circuit.
“Let’s get that,” I say. After we order, the redheaded waiter asks if we want wine.
Simon meets my eyes. “Glass of white?”
God, yes. A whole bottle please, and a funnel so I can down it quickly. “That sounds perfect.”
The waiter clears his throat and asks quietly, “Could I trouble you for your ID?”
Simon cracks up, looking away from me and covering his mouth. I laugh, too. “Told you so,” I say, then dip into my purse and flash my license at the waiter.
The guy reads it, then smiles. “You look young, and I mean that as a compliment.”
“I’m guessing you don’t want to see mine,” Simon deadpans to the waiter.
A faint blush creeps across the guy’s pale cheeks. “Um,” he stammers. “If you’d like to show it to me. But it’s not necessary, sir.”
Simon shakes his head, laughing. “We’re all good,” he says, and the guy walks off.
“And to think, having a drink with you didn’t even age me up in his eyes.”
The Sexy One Page 5