by Kristi Rose
“Okay then, I’m done. I’m saving room for gelato,” Cordie says, pushing from the table.
Child alert! Child alert! my brain screams.
Dear Lord! I’ve just had a sex fantasy with a child in the room. And it was about her father.
I gulp.
“Are you two going to work or just sit there and hold each other’s hand?”
I jerk my hand from his, clasping mine together.
“Why don’t you go watch TV?” Stacy turns to me. “That’s okay with you, right?”
“Oh, sure. The er...thingy is on the...er—”
“Remote is on the table?” Cordie looks between her father and I, likely wondering what’s wrong with me.
“Yes,” I say relieved that not all basic language has escaped me.
She walks the few short feet to my living room and throws herself on my couch. Her hair, pinked tipped like Pippa’s, reminds me how lonely it must be for her having no mum. I spent a few years without a Dad but losing him was less impactful. I never wanted to talk clothes with a man, or boob issues, much less puberty and the always poorly timed and never welcome period.
Too bad Pippa has no interest in Stacy. Who better to mother a motherless child than a woman who was one herself?
“So.” Stacy clears his throat in a husky, scratchy manly way. Sure, other men have cleared their throats in my presence before, but they’ve been the nasty boogie-clearing variety. Not the raw, carefully bridled sex way Stacy does.
Or so that’s how I choose to interpret his throat clearing. I’m also going to assume his desire for me leaves him choked up. I’m not going to question what he thinks of my height, or the width of my hips. Or that we can’t do anything about this powerful sexual tension between us. I’m going to ignore, briefly, that a child’s emotions are involved. Instead, I’m going to bask like a goddess in the sun, embraced by the warmth being desired and wanted brings.
All this from a handshake. I’m a pathetic sod.
“About your business.” He takes the container I’ve been eating from.
And...moment over.
Back to the realities of the cold truth that makes up my days.
I try not to glare at him, instead watch as he eats directly from the container. The familiarity of it actually causes a prick of pain. This is what people call the Small Things. This is what broken-hearted women lament once their lover has moved on.
“How’s it going?” This conversation requires sustenance of weight. I forgo the basil spring rolls, reaching instead for the fried version.
“You’ve done a great job of keeping records on the shop.”
“Really?” Yes, I’m surprised. Bookkeeping is my least favorite part of owning a business. It’s drudgery. Healthy eating, exercise, bookkeeping, and sex with a man at least six inches shorter than me are also ways I define drudgery. To name a few.
I have avoided it at all cost, doing my books only when I had to. Read: when quarterly taxes were due.
Stacy chuckles. “Yeah. You should give yourself more credit.”
Curious as to his meaning, I stop dipping my egg roll in the sweet and sour sauce and look at him.
He holds up his hand, prompting me not to say anything. “All I’m saying is you’re great with clothes. And you know it. I’m case and point.” He taps his chest. “I would have never thought I could put on a shirt with pink in it—”
“A hint of pink,” I correct. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with the palest of a blue, green, and pink pinstripe. Not overly manly on the rack but on a form like his, de-lish.
“Yes, a hint of pink. As I was saying. I never thought I’d wear this and still be comfortable and feel like myself. You did me right.” The right side of his mouth lifts and becomes his adorably crooked smile.
It’s powerful, that smile. Only men like him and Mr. Darcy possess it. Commonly mistaken for their normal everyday expression of pleasure, it’s oh-so-much more. It hints to something underneath, something delightfully wicked or mischievous.
He continues. “You are so good at clothes; it’s reflected in your numbers. Which you’ve done an impeccable job of keeping...for the store.”
Wait. I cease focusing on his smile and play back the last few words he said.
“What do you mean, for my store? That is my sole business.”
He shakes his head. “No actually, the personal shopping should be taken out of the store finances. They are two different beasts. And you haven’t done as good a job keeping those numbers.” He sets his chopsticks down, likely expecting to have an intelligent, articulate conversation about what he just said. “All I can give you right now are the numbers for opening a business similar to the one you have here.”
“Right. That’s all I need.” Why do I feel as if the rug is about to be pulled from beneath me?
“Don’t kill the messenger.” He shifts in his seat before pulling out a piece of paper.
“These are the numbers your business, the brick-and-mortar store, makes. My best guess is it’s bringing in twenty to forty percent of your revenue. Probably closer to twenty.”
I shake my head. How can that be possible?
Did he just tell me that my store only makes a twenty percent profit? “Tell me in a different way.”
“I’m saying that when I look at your profit but tease out what’s from the store versus the personal shopping, it looks to be about twenty percent of your income. That’s going high, to be honest.”
“Hang on, you just said up to forty—”
“Yeah, you had one month that was high and I used that to ease the pain.” He grimaces.
“So my store isn’t profitable?” I blink slowly, processing the info.
“It is. It’s just not the bulk of your income. Any chance you have kept a different log for the other portions you do?”
“You mean the personal shopping?” I’m still reeling.
“Yeah and the photos you send. I noticed you charged people for that.”
“In a way. I’ve been meaning to sort it out and get it plugged in.” I gesture to the computer.
“Can I take a look?”
I swivel the computer to me and pull up my emails. “They’re all in here. I can do a search for bills and print them.” I reach into my messenger bag that hangs on the back of the chair. “Here’s more.” I hand him a notebook bound by a fat rubber band. Papers stick out from all sides.
He takes the book. “I’ll go through this.” He faces me again. “Are you determined to open a second shop?”
“I am.” It’s been my life’s dream. I picture Mum’s goal thermometer. I see the OVERDUE stamp on their bills.
“Then based on what I have in front of me, this is what you can afford to finance, unless you want to take on a partner.” He turns a paper toward me and I search for the number, scanning the sheet.
I gasp. “I don’t want a partner.”
“I wouldn’t suggest you get one either. Just shift your focus.”
“But....”
“If you want to expand here, in Daytona, there are lots of small business loans that can help you do that. But a new location? That’s your hurdle.”
My gaze falls on the number he’s referring to. It’s shockingly low. It’s two-thirds less than the number I had established. I can’t buy a building with a two-thirds cut. I can’t rent something reasonable with the one third left.
I blink.
I blink again. My brain can’t compute and staying true to my fashion, I look for an escape.
I find it with Stacy.
Chapter 18
He sits back and rests his arm over the chair’s back, his t-shirt pulling taut across his yummy swimmer’s chest and I instantly go somewhere else. A place with sheets tangled between legs and hands caressing flesh. A place that brings me happiness and not grief.
“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” With his free hand, he takes an egg roll from the carton and stretche
s ever so slightly to dip it in my bowl of sauce.
I can’t stop staring at his long fingers, remembering what they felt stroking my flushed skin. How eager he was to touch me. How he’d tell me he wanted more after I’d just given him everything.
Inadvertently, because I was daydreaming, I drop the remains of my egg roll into the sauce, splashing it all over his hand and roll.
“Oh dear. So sorry,” I say and in my haste to grab a napkin, I knock over the bottle of soy sauce. Stacy, in the process of reaching for his own napkin, is leaning forward at the same moment the soy sauce bottle bounces against the table, on its side, spraying soy on his shirt with each bounce.
Now, I’ve done it.
See Jayne be a klutz.
“Bloody hell, I’m awfully sorry. You better go home and spray that shirt right away if you want those stains to come out.” Profusely, I feed him napkins and go so far as to make one awkward attempt to dab at the splatter.
“I don’t have stain remover. I keep forgetting to get some.” He’s wiping the sticky orange sauce off his hand without any sense of urgency.
One crisis at a time I suppose is his motto. Though I do want to scream that he needs to hurry before the stain sets.
“Here, hand me the shirt. I’ll spray it and try to get the spots out. You can go grab another.” I stand and wait with my hand out.
He blinks once and smiles before pulling his shirt off by reaching behind his head and grabbing it from the back collar.
The rippling of his shoulder muscles begs me to run my hands over the hills and valleys and maybe tangle my fingers in the small smattering of his chest hair.
Cripes, he’s yummy.
He places the shirt in my hand and I jerk into action, rushing to my laundry room. I’m spraying the special stain mixture I make at home, taking care to get each of the little spots, when he says my name.
Startled, I squeal. Having not expecting him to follow me into the room, I jump as well and clutch the spray bottle to my chest.
“Bloody hell you scared me.” I take a deep breath, forcing my gaze to be anywhere but on his naked chest.
“I only wanted to say you don’t have to go to all this trouble.” He steps into the small room. The only way out is either around him or back into my dark and dusty garage.
“It’s no bother. I should have this worked out by the time you get back from getting a shirt,” I hint.
He closes the door behind him. Would it send the wrong message if I dashed away through my garage and ran the ten plus miles to the pub? I’m not sure I can be in this space with him without compromising myself.
“Jayne,” he says in a low, husky whisper. “I was wondering; do you think of that night we shared?”
I stare up into his blue eyes. And involuntarily step toward him. “Sometimes.” My voice is breathy and the word quivers off my tongue. I lick my parched lips.
“Me too. Or more often than that.” His nostrils flare slightly.
I fling the shirt and bottle to the floor and leap on him like the starving woman I am. I want to lick him from head to toe. Binge eat until I can’t stand another taste and then I want to do it all again.
He wraps me in his arms and hoists me so I’m able to wrap my legs around his waist. In two steps, he has me against the washing machine and is pushing the hem of my dress up while simultaneously sliding his hands up my thighs.
I moan, cup his face between my hands, and kiss him with all I have, sweeping my tongue against his.
“Jesus, I want you,” he says when we come apart, and he roughly tugs my hips forward, grinding me against him.
“One more time,” I propose. “What harm is one more time?”
“No harm. None whatsoever” is his answer before he spreads sucking kisses down the column of my neck.
I caress his chest, rubbing my thumb over his scar and have one of his nipples between my thumb and index finger, ready to pinch the way he likes, when a small voice calls from the other side of the door.
“Dad? Are you in there?”
No sooner does Cordie’s question penetrate my brain do I shove him away.
“I am,” Stacy says, raking his hands down his face before tugging at the crotch of his jeans.
What is wrong with me? We shouldn’t be doing this. The reasons why are numerous.
Hmm, let me count them, and in the meantime maybe my common sense will return.
One: Cordelia. She’s an innocent who eats at my house, hangs with my cousin, and is struggling with adjusting to a new school and friends all without the guiding hand of her grandmother, who she’s had up until now.
The last thing she needs is someone to cause more havoc. Namely, me.
“I dropped the spray bottle and your father’s getting it for me,” I say and shrug. I’m so lame.
“Or you’re making out in there,” she calls through the door before mumbling, “Cause that’s what I need.”
The child’s headed for a Mensa membership; clearly she’s not buying any of this.
I jump from the washer and smooth my dress before picking up his shirt from the floor. Stacy picks up the bottle, holds it over his crotch, and then swings open the door.
I try to hide behind him.
“Is there something you wanted?” he asks her.
“To go get the ice cream.” Her expression says it all: irritation but also a bit of fear. I saw it on Pippa’s a million times when she was younger. Born from the uncertainty of not knowing how or where you fit in.
“Why don’t you two go? You can bring me back something; drop it off on your way home. I need to stay here and look at those numbers you were telling me about.” And maybe finish what he started or else there’ll be no concentrating on anything, much less numbers.
I’m a rotten old slapper thinking these things in front of a child. His child.
“Fine with me,” Cordie says. Drawing the metaphorical line in the sand.
“They have a nocciolo that is my favorite. It’s hazelnut.” I try to smile in such a way that’s friendly and not threatening.
“I’m allergic to nuts” is her retort.
“You are not.” Stacy places a hand on her shoulder. He turns her around and pushes her to the door. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“I could be allergic to hazelnuts. When was the last time I had any?”
“This morning when you put Nutella on your toast.”
“Oh,” she says in a smallish voice.
“Thanks for dinner.” I hand Stacy his shirt.
“Let me know if you have any questions. We can go over the numbers in more detail. I have some thoughts about your business.” He gives Cordie’s shoulder a squeeze and turns her toward me. “What do you say, Cords?”
“Thanks for letting me watch TV.” She keeps her gaze on everything but my face. “It was really interesting. Educational. Though I’m confused about what a tossed salad is.”
“Anytime,” I murmur automatically. “Wait, what did you say?”
“A tossed salad.” She crosses her arms over her chest and finally looks at me.
Stacy glances at me, puzzled, and I check my watch. It’s after nine.
“Er, by chance were you watching The Food Network?” I pray fervently that she was.
“Nope, something called Babs and the Football Team. I like football, right, Dad? But this didn’t make any sense. One minute they’re in school and the next he’s pushed her against the locker asking if she’ll toss his salad. I want to go to a school that offers salads.”
“Jesus Christ.” He spins his daughter on her heel. “You know better than that go to any other channel than the ones you are allowed to watch.”
“It’s a naughty channel, right? Jayne watches naughty TV,” she says over her shoulder.
I cringe. Meeting Stacy’s gaze, I say, “I’m so sorry. I forgot to mention it. It’s a free subscription and—”
“I have to get
her home and bleach her eyes. If you want to run by your business ideas with me, I can give you the pros and cons. But I’m not sure a second shop is the best move for you.”
He hustles her to the door, talking to me over his shoulder. But I don’t hear anything. All I can think about is how his child watched soft porn at my house and once the girls catch wind of this it’ll go on my Jayne’s-a-bloody-awful-pseudo-parent list.
Once they’re out the door, I lean against it and try to catch my breath.
This is not good. NOT GOOD. What might happen between Stacy and I, how it affects Cordie, all of it is nothing more than trouble. And I mean trouble so large it’s made from one of those bold and puffy fonts used to scream its meaning from the page. TROUBLE.
More determined than ever, I know what needs to be done, and if it requires more alone time with the personal assistant I bought at Kenley’s sex party a few months ago, so be it. I’ll get over my craving for him, eventually.
Maybe find a kick-your-man-habit boot camp printout on Pinterest? I can make a board for it. Outfits and accessories that help a woman beat her addiction to a certain man.
Laughing at my own idiocy, I dig my phone from my purse then send a voice memo to Paisley saying, “Pippa’s out. They aren’t matching like I thought they would. Still interested in helping me set up Stacy? You mentioned a friend? I’m open to suggestions on how to bring them together. Let me know.”
Within seconds she responds with a text: Leave it to me.
An hour later, I receive a second text from Paisley: Two Saturdays from now. UF football game. All of us. More info to follow.
Operation Kicking the Stacy Habit has begun.
I crack open a fortune cookie only to find this stupid-arse message: The fortune you seek is inside another cookie.
Chapter 19
Atlanta—Buckhead actually—my once-contingency plan, has skyrocketed to the top of the list. I developed a business plan for the trendy, well-coiffed mum-town because Miami is officially off the table. Holding onto a lost cause will get me nowhere. It helps that I’ve had a recent increase in personal shoppers from the area and am developing a reputation.