by Kristi Rose
“Just give it a look. I’ll get something to your email before your plane takes off. If nothing else, think of it as medicinal, the tool to help you sleep through your flight.” His laughter is just as light and breezy as his demeanor and I’m laughing with him before I realize it. There is no affront. No force. Just a suggestion to keep an open mind and that I can do. Right, I do it all the time when selecting clothes to purchase or outfits for my clients.
I extend my hand. “Okay. I appreciate your patience.”
He clasps my hand in between both his and gently squeezes. “I hope we see each other again, Jayne. Even if it’s not about this building.”
The taxi slides up to the curb, causing my skirt to dance in the wind. I feel womanly and desired and the combination, something I first experienced with Stacy, makes me lightheaded.
Funny how there is little threatening about this man before me. If I held him to my Wickham list, he’d likely come away a winner. Yet in a moment of clarity I admit that my list has changed, practical must-haves replaced with those driven by desire and passion. Davis would have been a winner on the old list. But on the new list, one with several blanks, he’d never get past the first entry.
Must make my pulse race.
It’s uncharacteristic of me to put something this incorporeal on my list.
But I like the way it feels. The way it makes me feel. Even if it will fade with time. Perhaps if it was once present it can be found again?
Chapter 20
Stretching out my legs, I appreciate the wisdom in Stacy’s choice of vehicles, as he favors the SUV varieties.
“Do you guys go to these games often?” Stacy asks, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, his other arm resting on the center console.
“I know that Paisley and Josie have but I’ve avoided them for the most part, to be honest.” Happily, I leave all thoughts of the shop behind. My attention on Stacy. Well, not in the lustful way. I mean I must hook him up with someone soon, because in the week that I’ve been home he and Cordie have had dinner at my house three nights, we’ve played one board game (I did not get bored like I did when Pippa and I played as children), and I’ve had six erotic dreams about his taut stomach, broad shoulders, and those long fingers of his.
He’s got to go. A girl only has so much self-control.
Last night, while sharing a carb-rich meal of pasta with loads of meat (veggies pushed to the sides of both mine and Cordie’s plates), and several rounds of bruschetta, I found myself staring at Stacy’s hands. The way he held the tiny bread so as to not lose any toppings or how strong they looked as he held his beer. I caught myself mooning over how sweet and endearing it was to see him stroke Cordie’s head, tangling her locks between his fingers before dropping a fatherly kiss to her forehead.
Soon, I’ll need an intervention, but Mum would be the only one to show up.
“Are you a football fan?” I scan my phone for the few tidbits Paisley gave me about her friend, Evie, who is the latest in Operation Jayne Hates The Idea Of Sex With Hot Men, as Paisley has so eloquently termed it.
Even though I do not hate sex with hot men. Particularly Stacy. But no matter how much I protest that casual sex between us is a guaranteed, to borrow a term from Paisley, clusterfuck, my words fall on deaf ears. Josie shakes her head and laughs at all my reasons.
“I’m not a big college ball fan. Having grown up outside Seattle, I’m a Seahawks fan—”
“SEAHAWKS,” Cordie yells from the back seat and pumps her fist.
“That’s my girl!” Stacy lifts his hand and they high five.
Cordie comes between our seats. “Can I play Minecraft now, Dad?”
“Yeah, but know that this is eating into your screen time. Wear the headphones. If I hear that music anymore I’m going to go berserk.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She’s gone in a flash, headphones on and face buried in a tablet.
“She’s a good kid,” I say without thinking. Because she is. More like a miniature adult than a child.
“She is. Moving here, not having my mom around, and adjusting to this new routine has been difficult but she’s done a fantastic job.”
“You’ve done a fantastic job.”
“We’ve had our struggles. Learning to be just the two of us, without my parents, has been good for us. And all the vitamin D she’s getting now has probably helped with her mood and made that transition easier.”
I chuckle. Having grown up in overcast Oxfordshire, I can relate. To this day I’m not sure which climate I like the best, as there are attributes to both I love equally.
Then it dawns on me. Stacy and Cordie learning to be a family was not something I had considered when I made the blanket assumption they needed a woman in their lives. I’m reminded of that common adage about the word assume.
Undoubtedly, I’ve made an arse of me. Hopefully, though not of Stacy.
And all this while driving to a football game where set up number two is waiting to meet the lovely single father and his equally adorable child.
“Er...may I ask a personal question?” Like I’m not going to anyway.
“Sure.” He turns slightly in his seat toward me.
“She told me about her mum. Do you know where she is?”
He glances in the rearview mirror before shifting closer and saying in a low voice, “Yeah, she’ll send cards occasionally. Honestly, I think the day is coming soon where Cordie will want to meet her. Though I’m not sure Karen will ever be ready for that. Guilt’s a terrible thing.”
I shrug because the truth is guilt is only a terrible thing for people who have a conscience. I doubt my biological father has ever once given me a second thought. The one time I accidentally shared space with him on the tube, heading back to University from Nana’s house, he showed no recognition whatsoever when he caught me staring at him. Me, unable to close my mouth or look away. Him, annoyed by the stranger who didn’t have the wherewithal to avert her gaze.
“Does she want a mum?” A question I might have wanted to know the answer to before I thrust Pippa into their path.
“I don’t think she noticed she didn’t have one because she had my mother. Until now that is.” Whether he wants me to or not, I interpret his smile as a wee bit sad.
“How are your parents?”
“Great. They’re in Istanbul. It’s my mom’s every wish to travel and see the places my dad has and now she is.”
“Being a photographer, your dad must have seen some amazing places. Sounds wonderful,” I murmur, trying to think of a way to bring our conversation back to what I need to know.
He’s dressed in a short sleeve gray and maroon college t-shirt with MIT in bold athletic font.
“I see that the movers didn’t lose this.” I finger the fraying hem of the sleeve. When my knuckles graze the top of his arm I want to giggle as touching him makes me feel like a sixteen-year-old virgin excited to be so close to such a divinely arousing specimen of a man.
“Lucky, right?”
“I suppose. I’m sure they sell these online.”
“Yeah, but I’ve had this one since the first week I started college. It’s my good luck shirt.” He moves ever so slightly and the result is more of my hand coming into contact with his skin. Firestorms of desire shoot up my arm and course through my body setting me aflame.
I let myself get lost in the momentary fantasy of unclasping the safety belt, climbing over the console, and straddling him. I can feel his hands on my ribs moving upward while the car magically drives itself safely down the road.
When I snap myself from the brief reverie (remembering Cordie’s in the back seat was all it took), I find I’m caressing his arm, stroking his muscle with my index finger. Coyly scraping my nail across the peaks and valleys.
“Jayne,” he says gruffly, dragging out my name, weighing it down with need. The deep timbre of his tone makes my girly parts squeeze with hope.
I shift as f
ar away as possible, press myself against the door, and wrap my hands under my knees in hopes of making them behave.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I think we should stop for food. I feel a bit light headed.” Heat radiates off my skin and I swipe a bead of perspiration from my brow.
“Did you eat?” He glances between the road and me.
“A bit,” I lie, thinking of the bagels, bacon, and bowl of cereal I had before we met in the car park to begin our trip to Gainesville.
“Jayne,” he says again. This time the need is replaced more with frustration. “What’s happening between us?”
I twirl my earring before I speak, hoping I’ve selected the right words. “Chemistry, perhaps.”
“Meaning when my O2 mixes with your O2 we get combustion?” He gifts me with his adorably crooked smile.
“The end result of combustion is devastation.” I glance back at Cordie before continuing. “You know I’m more like a big sister to Pippa. As she lived with us from the time she turned six.”
Stacy shrugs. “She mentioned something about that.”
“Did she also mention that Mum worked long hours in our family’s tea shop so I was often in charge of her and frequently forgot to feed her or pick her up from school or—”
“Weren’t you a kid yourself?”
“Last year, Tyler, Heather’s son, asked me if he could play with some of my Sharpies. I gave him some paper and told him to knock himself out. He colored all over his legs, arms, and face. With a permanent marker. You caught that part right?”
Stacy coughs discreetly but gives over and lets his laughter free, briefly looking away from me, I assume, to gain control.
“My Sharpies were pink, blue, purple, and black. He looked like his skin had a bad tie-dye job.”
Stacy rubs his hand over his mouth. “What did Heather say?” His lips twitch.
“She didn’t talk to me for two months. She was that mad. It also took that long for the color to fade.”
“We all have moments we aren’t proud of—”
“I’m not good with children, Stacy. It’s not fair to the kid. You hear people saying things all the time about how some people shouldn’t have children.” I lower my voice. “I’ve never wanted any. Never. And knowing that, potentially taking on a child, would feel much like a huge injustice to the poor child.”
“You’re hard on yourself.” The twitch in his lips is gone, replaced by the puzzled, thin pressed lips look.
“These are the formative years,” I say quoting something Paisley has said a million times.
The silence that resides between us is laden with unspoken words, but to continue the conversation further to try to tease out a solution so we might have mad crazy sex against my washing machine will only take me on the one-way trip to heartbreak hotel, to borrow the term from Mum’s one true love, Elvis.
I’ve got to turn the conversation back to what I need to know, is he looking for something long term? But jumping right into it would add more to the awkwardness we’re trying to avoid. In a flash of brilliance, I go for what works with most men.
“You think I’ll draw any attention with this shirt?” I’ve worn my Oxford United jersey in defiance of the two teams playing, the Florida Gators and...oh, who am I kidding? I only know it’s the Gators because of how many times Paisley has said it. I haven’t registered the other team’s name. Nor do I care to. I pull out my jersey. “After all, it’s the original football whereas what you all—”
Stacy clasps his hand over my mouth. “Is something you should never say in public, at a stadium, packed with Americans who worship the pigskins as much as they do Jesus.”
I push his hand away, laughing. “That serious, you say?” I ease from the door.
“Without a doubt. Have you been to a game before?”
“No.” I shake my head for further emphasis. Had this not been the venue of a setup I would not be going at all. I don’t understand American football. Nor do I understand painting one’s face in team colors. It looks itchy and hot and the beads of perspiration across nearly every painted hooligan’s face tells me I’m correct.
“Paisley says they’re a blast,” I say, mimicking Paisley’s accent, which causes Stacy to laugh.
“They can be if you’re in the right frame of mind.” He eyes my jersey and I guess he’s meaning my attitude toward real football and the American version.
So begins the gentle probing. “Speaking of Paisley, she mentioned she’s bringing a friend. Sounds quite lovely. Evie, I think her name is. Isn’t that a lovely name?”
Stacy gives me a puzzled look. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“She went to therapy school with Paisley, which means she’s a good caretaker. Has that gene that enables her to selflessly give to others in a meaningful way.” I clamp my teeth together to shut my mouth. Gives to others in a meaningful way? What’s that shite about? Who says that other than a person trying to set another up? Why not tell him what my intentions are? It would be easier.
Briefly, I close my eyes and try to picture the list Paisley sent me about Evie, searching for my next teaser, but when I open them Stacy is casting me curious glances.
“By that do you mean I’m to assume you’re selfish?”
“Oh, terribly. How do you feel about redheads?” I hope my action of digging in my purse makes it seem like it’s casual conversation and not probing.
“I guess they’re okay. I’ve never dated...wait a second. What’s going on here?” He jabs me in the shoulder with his long index finger. “Is this Evie a redhead by chance?”
Dammit, how do I get out of this? He knows I’ve never met her, so how am I to know if she’s a redhead? I shrug and purse my lips as if I’m trying to recall but can’t. Do I feign ignorance and then when he sees her claim happenstance? Or should I come clean?
I hear an imaginary clock ticking loudly as if my delay is about to time out.
“Er....” I twist my earring hoping, praying for inspiration when it hits. “Paisley might have mentioned something in passing.” I shrug one shoulder. “But all this talk of mums and children and I did the math, so to speak. You can appreciate that. What are the odds of you meeting an eligible, lovely, child-friendly woman? Hmm, answer that. You should—”
“You forgot willing,” he says deadpan.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A willing and eligible, lovely, child-friendly woman. You forgot willing.”
“Who wouldn’t be willing after one look at you? You’re a catch. A fantasy. And what you do with your hands is...oh my word...should be illegal.” I open my mouth and insert both feet without thinking about it. I should keep snacks there as my feet are often visiting. Stacy stops at the red light. I know I shouldn’t look but I’m desperately curious to see his reaction.
He breaks me with his unwavering glacial blue-eyed stare. “You’re not willing.”
I lean across the console before I say quietly; overly cautious for fear Cordie might hear, “I’m willing in the carnal sense but what good would that do us? How would that work out for Cordie?”
“Can’t I be the judge of that?”
It’s a relief when he turns his attention to the road and I ease back into my seat.
“So you want to set me up with Evie of the redheads?”
“I thought maybe it should be something to consider. You mentioned you were just out of a relationship so I’ll understand if you aren’t ready but...you do the math on the odds of meeting someone.”
“And if it isn’t right? Are you going to set me up with another friend? And then another? What about Pippa? How about her? You gonna add your own cousin to the list?”
I don’t require a mirror to know my face is aflame. I can feel the heat wafting off me.
“Jesus, Jayne.” He glances over his shoulder at his daughter then back to me. “We’ve had sex,” he says before looking back at the road, shaking h
is head. “You really can deliver a hard blow to the old ego.”
“It’s not like that. You’re perfect. I’m—”
“Don’t give me the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line, and don’t tell me that if Cordie wasn’t here and I pulled this truck over, reclined this seat, and pulled you on top of me, nothing would happen.”
He’s got me there.
Chapter 21
All it takes is one remark from him about pulling me across his lap and I’m gone.
Just imagining makes me salivate.
As wide as the seats are in his SUV, I think it could work. There’d be enough space for both our legs and if not then the seats in the back lay down and....
I’m a pillock.
Cordie’s in the back seat. I know we’d never do any such thing with her around. But why am I always picturing her not being around? Quite endearing of me, how I’d like to make her disappear much like my father, my biological father, did me. All for my own selfish reasons.
It’s the reality check I need.
I once had a fortune cookie that read: Your reality check’s about to bounce.
But not this one.
I try to pick my words carefully. “I won’t deny that I’d have a difficult time walking away from that opportunity. But should lust be acted upon every time? Aren’t there other issues to consider?”
He says nothing.
“We live across the street from one another.”
“I’m aware of the arguments.” He ends his statement by clamping his mouth closed, the small muscle in his cheek popping intermittently.
“We need a buffer. Like an electric fence between our places.” Shock treatment is what I’ve been reduced to.
“So you figure if I’m dating other people that might act as a buffer.”
“I don’t poach.” It’s true. If he were dating others I might still be strongly attracted to him but I wouldn’t find myself on my wash machine with his hand between my thighs.