by Penny Reid
Greg’s impolite words and clipped tone pulled me from my stupor and I smacked his shoulder. “Greg!” I pulled my towel tighter and walked around my rude husband to stand in between the two men.
“Oh, you’re Greg,” Matty said, sounding less confused, but more wary.
“Yeah. I’m Greg,” he growled, making no attempt to disguise his hostility; but then, he never did.
“Greg, this is Matthew Simmons. He is our next door neighbor.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” I ground out, “that is so.”
Matty, holding a kitchen towel, gave his palms another wipe before reaching out his hand to Greg. “Nice to meet you . . . ?”
Greg made no movement to accept the handshake, instead opting to narrow his eyes threateningly. “Why don’t you have a shirt on, Matt?”
Matty’s eyes widened and he dropped his hand as he glanced at his bare chest. “I, uh-I was just—”
“He was replacing the garbage disposal,” I supplied, irritated with Greg’s bad-mannered behavior. Furthermore, I was irritated that I was irritated, because my husband was home. He was home! He was here and I’d missed him and, instead of taking advantage of his presence, I was standing in my towel in the living room being irritated.
“My garbage disposal?” Greg’s frown was severe as his gaze moved to me, ripe with accusation. “You let him replace my garbage disposal?”
“Your garbage disposal? What are you talking about?”
“I just installed that disposal.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s been three years. And Grace ruined it in January.”
“How did she do that?”
“She put Jack’s rock collection in the sink and turned it on as revenge for him hiding her Barbie dolls.”
Greg blinked and he appeared to be digesting this information with some difficulty. At last he said, “Grace has Barbie dolls? When did she get Barbie dolls?”
Sigh . . .
I glanced at the ceiling and shook my head, then turned to poor Professor Matthew Simmons. “Thank you for your help, Matt. I really appreciate it.”
Matty’s eyes moved between us, then finally settled on me. “No problem. I’ll just get my tools and . . . other stuff.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder, lingered awkwardly in the doorway for two seconds, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
I slid my eyes to Greg and found my husband still staring at the spot where Matty had been standing, an angry frown creasing his tired features.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked in a tight whisper, gripping the towel at my chest.
“What is wrong with me?”
“Yes. What was that?” I motioned to the kitchen, to Matt, keeping my voice low.
My husband’s eyes flashed and he spoke through gritted teeth, “A man, who happens to live next door to my family, takes off his clothes in my home while my beautiful wife is walking around in nothing but a towel . . .” Greg’s typically dry delivery was intoned with an extra helping of scathing sarcasm as he added, “Yeah. Seems legit.”
It took me a few seconds to recover from his insinuation, but when I did I forgot to lower my voice. “I used to babysit him, Greg! I changed his diapers.”
“Babysit him? What?” He looked truly perplexed, like I’d revealed Matt was responsible for all the Star Wars prequels, but then his eyes narrowed again as though he’d just realized something important. “Wait, so you’ve seen his penis?”
I gasped, then inadvertently laughed my frustration. “Really? That’s the take-home message? That I’ve seen his penis? If it makes you feel any better, it was about this long.” I held my thumb and forefinger apart to indicate an inch.
At the same moment Matt reappeared in the living room—shirt on—and unwisely said, “Hey! I was only two years old. It’s at least fifteen times larger now.”
“Fifteen times? Prone to exaggeration, aren’t you?” Greg drawled, giving Matt a look of plain disbelief.
“Not longer, larger.” Matt shrugged innocently, like he was clarifying the size of his sofa and not his man parts. “I was referring to volume, not necessarily length—though it is—”
“Oh good Lord.” I spoke over him, my fingers coming to my forehead. I rubbed the space between my eyebrows where a new headache flared, causing me to wince.
“Not helpful or pertinent information, Matt.” Greg’s eyes sliced to Matt, but then he did a double take. “Hey, wait a minute. Is that a cake? Who said you could have that cake?”
Matt looked from me to Greg, then took a step back and toward the front door, shifting the cake in his hands like he might make a run for it. “Fiona. She said I could have it. It’s my cake.”
Greg’s eyebrows jumped, his mouth fell open with livid shock, and he turned his glare back to me. “You made him the coconut cake?”
Pointedly not looking at my husband, I turned to Matt and said sincerely, “Please, take the cake. And thank you again for your help this morning. It made all the difference. If you wouldn’t mind, could you please stop by the basement and turn the water back on in the apartment?”
My neighbor gave me a quick smile, opened his mouth to respond, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he nodded solemnly and quickly made for the exit. The sound of our front door opening and closing was followed by a long silence, during which I took several deep breaths, attempting to calm and arrange my thoughts.
I decided I wouldn’t waste time being angry. I would ignore Greg’s boorish and slightly insulting behavior. Seeing him, having him here in person was a rare gift. I would determine how long he’d be in town and make the most of it.
And then I was going to distract him while I hid all the kids’ contraband in their rooms, including but not limited to Grace’s Barbie dolls and princess dress, as well as Jack’s soccer bag and uniform.
“So . . . you babysat him?” Greg was the first to speak, his tone laced with the barest hint of an apology.
I sat on the couch and gathered a deep breath. “I did. I babysat him for four years until he was eight.”
“He’s how much younger than you?” A shade of curiosity colored his words.
“He’s seven years younger. I was nine and he was two when I helped his nanny change his diapers, but I didn’t start watching him on my own until I was eleven and he was four.”
I felt Greg’s eyes on me, though I wasn’t ready to meet them. I was still upset. I needed another minute to bottle my feelings of offended frustration.
“I see. And he, what? Tracked you down and moved in next door?”
“No,” I responded evenly, though what I really wanted to do was call Greg out on his apparent jealousy. But what good would that do? I might feel better for three seconds—vindicated, superior, outraged—and then what? If I’d learned one thing over the course of our relationship, it was to pick my battles with the utmost care, because our greatest commodities were energy and time.
So I swallowed the urge and explained, “He moved in next door in January without realizing who I was. The kids and I took him dinner—as you know is my practice with every new person on the floor—and he recognized me.”
“And he’s been hanging around since?”
“No, Greg. He hasn’t been hanging around since.” I was abruptly exhausted and lifted my tired eyes to my husband. “Give me more credit than that. I had a doctor’s appointment this morning. Jennifer cancelled last minute with strep throat, Matt offered to pitch in—with taking the kids to school, and with the garbage disposal and dishwasher and grocery shopping. The kids like him and I needed the help, so I accepted.” I refused to feel guilty about accepting help . . . I refused. Yep.
Regardless, I still felt guilty for accepting help.
We stared at each other, me sitting on the couch, him hovering behind the large club chair. My throat was tight with regret because we could have been enjoying each other. Instead, we were studying each other, waiting for the other to react. I had to remind myself, it was al
ways like this at first. The first few days and weeks when he returned from abroad were typically strained, like we needed to relearn how to be married. But usually I knew when he was coming home, and I would have time to mentally prepare for it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding and looking remorseful. “I’ve been traveling for almost twenty-four hours, and I’m out of sorts.”
I nodded, giving him a small smile. “Thank you for apologizing.”
“I’m sorry I was . . . rude to the child you used to babysit.”
I barked a small laugh and shook my head.
Greg continued, “I mean, he looks like he’s sixteen. How old is he again?”
“He’s twenty-nine or so.”
“Poor chap hasn’t hit puberty yet.”
“Greg . . .” I made a warning sound in the back of my throat.
“I’ll go easier on him next time. Must be difficult walking the earth as a man-child.”
“He’s only a few inches shorter than you.”
“But with men, a few inches makes all the difference.”
This, of course, made me laugh. Despite my headache, despite the stress of the month and week and day, despite his terrible behavior, I was laughing. Thus was the magic of my husband.
Grinning like he’d won something, Greg moved to the sofa and put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to his chest so I was laughing against it.
“I miss your laugh,” he whispered as my laughter tapered, his lips next to my ear. I heard him hesitate before adding with dark desperation, “I’ve missed you.”
His tone gave me pause, the ferocity of the simple sentiment. It sounded like a warning, or a call for help. I lifted my head from his warm chest and glanced at him, searching his face. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, the intensity of his eyes, the hard set of his jaw, the slight frown hovering around his mouth sent a wave of alarmed concern through me.
I lifted my hand to his cheek and gently brushed my thumb over his temple. “Greg, honey, are you okay?”
He stared at me for a long moment. Stormy eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion . . . or maybe something else. As though he couldn’t hold my stare any longer, he pulled me tighter against him and reclined on the couch, pressing my ear to where his heart beat.
“Just lay with me. I want to . . .” He sighed, squeezing me tighter before his hand caressed me through the length of the towel—my back, over my bottom, pausing at my thigh—slipping beneath the parted fabric. “I need to feel your skin.”
We lay together for several wordless minutes, his fingertips skimming over my upper back and shoulders, my thigh and hip in an absentminded caress. I curled against him and kept my eye on the mantel clock, making sure we didn’t loiter too long and neglect picking the kids up on time.
This exit and re-entry into each other’s lives never grew easier. Rather, it became ritualistic, and this first silence was a sacred part of our ritual. We’d been doing this dance for fourteen years: voluntarily leaving each other, then coming back together after a prolonged period. Usually we would lie together, cuddling in silence, until we fell asleep. But we didn’t have that luxury at present, because the kids’ dismissal time was drawing precariously near.
Unfortunately, our wordless cuddling would have to be placed on hold. I was about to break the news when Greg, without any sign or warning, shifted to his side and peeled away the corners of the towel from my chest, stomach, and legs.
“Gorgeous. . .”
I frowned, trying to watch the progress of his hands and his face simultaneously. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to get you off, before I leave to collect our delightful children.”
My eyes widened in surprise. “As much as I appreciate the offer, we don’t have time for that.”
“Challenge accepted.” He placed a kiss on my chin, then traced the line of my jaw with the tip of his tongue, ending his exploration by sucking my earlobe into his mouth.
I shivered, tensing. “You just walked in the door. And I haven’t showered yet.”
“You know I don’t mind.”
“But I do.”
“Then I’ll lend a helping hand.”
I was pleasantly trapped between the couch and the wall created by my husband’s long form. I watched as he leaned away, his eyes hungrily moving over my bare skin. He gently brushed the underside of my breasts with the back of his knuckles, making me shiver again.
I sighed, wanting to protest, but finding I had no will to voice a refusal. We hadn’t been physically together since just after Christmas, seventy-nine days ago—but who’s counting?
He felt so good, he knew me too well, was too intimate with the canvas of my body because he’d been the original—and the only—artist of my desire. I loved how he wanted me.
And this was especially true, and heady, during the first few weeks after his return.
“You have three minutes.” I spread my legs and draped one over the back of the sofa, trying to keep my tone light. “You really think you can make this happen in three minutes?”
“No.” His mouth dipped to my collarbone, nipping, licking; his hand, already between my legs, his softest touch making me instinctively arch against him. “I think I can make this happen twice in five minutes, and sprint to the school instead of walk.”
“You’ll be out of breath.”
“So will you.”
I started to laugh again, but then stopped, gasping as he touched me. My chest and stomach were now tight, my limbs growing heavy with warm tension. I gripped fistfuls of his shirt and suddenly needed—needed—to feel his skin. Therefore, I clawed at his clothes, tugging the fabric from his pants and moving my fingers to his stomach.
He bent slightly away from me and grabbed my wrists with his other hand. “No, darling. We’re concentrating on you right now.”
“I need to—”
“Later.”
“No, not later—”
He covered my mouth with his, swallowing the rest of my demand, and driving away all intelligible thought. His hot, languid tongue taking and giving in an echoing rhythm. As we kissed and he worked his Greg voodoo, my breath hitched, and I was caught in the twisting beginnings of my orgasm.
He was right, of course. Five minutes, two orgasms, one right after the other. It was always this way when he came home.
Over the years I’d learned absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. The heart becomes wary, somnolent and cynical during periods of prolonged absence, burdened with cares and fears borne in solitude. However, absence does make the body greedy and irrationally amorous with frustrated need.
Greg must’ve felt or recognized the signs of my precipitous completion, because he pulled his mouth from mine and whispered harshly against my lips, “You belong to me. Say it.”
“I belong to you.” I repeated the words he craved, believing them as I always did when lost to the moment. I shut my eyes and gave myself over to it, craving the singularity of sensation, the brief halting of time and thought.
In the back of my mind I knew he would leave again and I would be alone. But for now, for better or worse, my wary heart awoke. No longer lethargic, but alive to this man, and how much I loved him.
“I need you, Fiona.” The dark desperation had returned to his voice, and the sound cut through my lingering fog of fulfillment.
His words sounded like the tip of an emotion iceberg, so I twisted my arms around him and held on tightly. “Hey, I love you.”
Greg shook his head and breathed out, ragged and fatigued. He pressed his face to my skin for a long moment, then abruptly released me.
Pulling my arms from his torso, he turned and sat on the edge of the couch, glancing around the apartment. “Right . . . here’s what we’ll do: I’ll get the kids. You take your shower. After homework and playtime, I’ll challenge them to shots until they pass out. Then we’ll eat the rest of their Halloween candy while binge-watching Game of Thrones.”
I sat behind him and wrapp
ed my arms around his shoulders, still trying to pull myself together. “The Halloween candy is long gone. And what kind of shots are you talking about?”
“Apple juice.” He squeezed my arms, then stood. I watched him cross the room with long strides to where he’d dropped his duffle bag; he retrieved a coat from the floor and faced me, his eyes giving my body a quick perusal, like he was taking a mental snapshot. “Or, the hard stuff, if you prefer.”
I narrowed my eyes and stretched. “We don’t keep Kool-Aid in the house, you know that. It makes Jack hallucinate.”
“He doesn’t hallucinate; don’t be so melodramatic.”
“He talks to the walls.”
“Only because they talk to him first.”
He was right; Jack didn’t actually hallucinate. The one time he drank Kool-Aid he did talk to the walls, then he laughed uncontrollably until he passed out. Basically, Kool-Aid made the kids crazy and loopy and caused them to run around like sugar-high savages.
“Although your plan sounds delightful, we can’t do that tonight. I have Ashley’s going-away party at four, and you’re invited, of course.” I yawned, my eyes flickering to the mantel clock. He needed to leave in the next thirty seconds and I needed coffee.
“Is that tonight?” Greg zipped his winter coat, frowning like he was disappointed.
“Yes. Why? What’s wrong?”
He studied the gloves he’d retrieved from the pockets of his jacket. “No, nothing.”
I pulled the corners of the towel back around my body. “She’s leaving on Wednesday, for good. I’m bringing the cake. I had no idea you would be home and this isn’t something I can miss or skip.”
“Of course. We need to go. We’ll go. We must go,” he said resolutely, as though he were trying to convince himself. Then he lifted his gaze to mine and I felt better, seeing it was clear of conflict.
“By the way, why are you here? Obviously I’m not complaining, but how did this happen? I thought there were no breaks on this assignment.”
He walked backward to the door, checking his watch. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”
“Oh! I also need to speak with you about Jack. Something happened yesterday—”