Single Dad Seeks Juliet

by Max Monroe

  “Good deal,” Matt yells back down, taking his nail gun off his hip while Johnny holds the wood in position and fires off several to secure it in place.

  “I get the need for mystery,” Holley suddenly says in my ear, her hand pressing heat through my T-shirt into the skin of my back. “But couldn’t you have chosen something a little less knowledge-intensive?”

  I glance over my shoulder with a smirk. “I guess I could have told him you’re an agent of the IRS.”

  “Ugh!” she huffs. “No way. No one wants to see someone from the IRS. No one.”

  “Okay, then.” I shrug, turning to face her and putting my hands on my hips. To Matt and Johnny, it probably looks like we’re discussing important vectors of the job. It’s almost funny how much we are not. “I could tell them you’re death in human form, that you’ve stolen Holley Fields from the Tribune’s body, and that you just want to know what it’s like to be human before you take me to the afterlife.”

  Her eyes narrow. “That’s basically the plot from Meet Joe Black.”

  “And?”

  “And what are you doing watching Brad Pitt movies?”

  “I do have a teenage daughter,” I justify. “Remember?”

  The truth is I did a Lifetime Movie Network marathon the last time I had a Saturday to myself, and Meet Joe Black was the main event. It’s a solid three hours long and surprisingly hypnotizing. When Chloe came home at the very end, she asked me who Anthony Hopkins was, and I died a little inside. I planned an Anthony Hopkins movie marathon for the next day in an effort to undo the damage I’d clearly been inflicting on the next generation.

  “Oh yeah. Right.” Holley giggles.

  “Okay, fine. She didn’t make me watch it,” I admit. “But I wasn’t lying about the teenage daughter. It’s a fact that I have one of those.”

  “Hey!” Holley snaps with a laugh, both amused and jilted by my trickery at the same time.

  “Sorry.” I shrug.

  “All right, you little closet Brad Pitt lover, you.” I grin and shake my head as she continues. “What do we do now?”

  “Paperwork,” I say simply, and she cringes.

  “Oh. Yuck. Is there an option number two?”

  “For me?” I shake my head. “No.”

  She sighs.

  “Sorry Charlie. If I don’t do paperwork, Matt and Johnny don’t get paid. I’ve tried it before, and they really didn’t like it.”

  “So…what should I do? I assume you don’t want me rummaging through your payroll.”

  I laugh. “You can take my truck and go get lunch for everyone.”

  She looks from me to the trunk and throws out an arm in disbelief. “That truck?”

  I nod.

  “I can barely get in it! I don’t think I should be driving it. I really don’t.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “Then I suggest you find a comfy spot and camp out.”

  “Here?” she questions, looking around with obvious disdain for the comfort she’s going to be lacking.

  “Unless you have the ability to teleport.”

  She puts a defiant hand to her hip. “And what do I do if Matt or Johnny asks me more construction-y type questions?”

  “You’re a smart woman,” I say with a wink. “I know you’ll figure it out.”

  She shrugs and wanders to the other side of the house where a framed-out window makes a nice seat. She settles in, pulls a book from her bag, opens it up to the middle, and starts to read.

  Her legs look a mile and a half long, and with a glance up to the roof, it’s painfully obvious that I’m not the only one who’s noticed. I look back down to Holley as she tucks a thick piece of wavy hair she took down from her ponytail behind her ear and chews at the plump flesh of her lip, unconcerned with the wait.

  I’ve never known a woman who would so easily settle into an uncomfortable situation and occupy her mind without resentment.

  But I guess I’ve never had a woman around who was getting paid to hang out with me either.

  I shake my head and force myself to get back on task.

  Time to get back to work.

  Holley

  We’ve been up since before the sun, and even at four thirty in the afternoon, we’re still on the move. Jake’s like the Energizer Bunny of men. I swear, I don’t even think he stops to take a breath most of the time. However, I cannot, as of this moment, give personal testimony as to the state of his bushy tail.

  After finally leaving the jobsite—which took forever—we headed for the storage facility where he keeps his motocross trailer. I, being a woman of limited life experiences, didn’t even really know what that meant until we got to the facility and he backed his truck in front of it.

  Jake didn’t waste any time hopping out and hooking it up, and as much as I wanted to follow, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it in the time allotted. Instead, I climbed to my knees in my seat and spun around so I could watch him work through the back cab window.

  Muscles flexing and bunching as he bent over to do something between the truck and the trailer, he was a bit of a distraction, but I did the best I could to follow along with the technical side of it all. Black and gray and green, his trailer has one of the coolest paint jobs I’ve ever seen, his name sliding through the inside of a graphic slash mark.

  His number—apparently number 86—is stamped directly below his name.

  In no time at all, he had us hooked up and was climbing back into the truck. I didn’t get to see what was inside, but I didn’t have to wait long.

  Once we arrived at the track—a big, dirt-covered, hilly thing that is apparently what you do with motocross—he backed into a spot, jumped down, rounded the truck to help me out, and then opened up the trailer immediately.

  “Ohh,” I hummed to myself as he pinned back the trailer door and I had the chance to lean inside. “It’s like a motorcycle.”

  His smile lit up the blue in his eyes. “Yep. Motocross.”

  I’d simply shrugged, and he’d let it go. Obviously, he had other things to do than sitting around explaining it to me. I could watch for myself.

  And that’s what I’d been doing ever since he got changed in the back seat of the truck, climbed in the trailer, and started unhooking everything inside to free the bike.

  Jake backs his bike out of the trailer, climbs astride it, and pulls his helmet on, offering me a hand. I stare at the hand.

  He stares at me staring at the hand.

  “Come on,” he says.

  “Come on where?” I question, and a laugh jumps from his lungs.

  “On the bike, Holley. I’ll give you a ride over to the best spot in the stands so you’ll have a good view.”

  I’m shaking my head before he even gets the whole sentence out. “Why don’t you just point to the spot, and I’ll walk there on my legs? They’re pretty trustworthy. I’ve been using them for, oh, thirty-two years or so.”

  “You’re thirty-two?” he asks.

  “Three. Thirty-three. I didn’t walk until I was one. Does that ruin my run for Goldilocks?”

  “Nope.” He grins, and he brushes his eyes over the top of my head. “Although, your hair isn’t really the right color.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I’ve been blond before, and honestly—”

  “Come on, Holley.” He cuts off my ramble. “Don’t you trust me? I kept you nice and safe in the ocean this morning.”

  “That’s debatable. I mean, I almost got eaten by a freaking fish monster,” I sass, and he cracks another smile.

  “You and I both know I made up the fish monster bullshit to get you moving.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I singsong. “I recall seeing true fear in your eyes out there in the ocean…”

  “Come on, Holley,” he encourages, completely ignoring my sarcasm. “Trust me. I won’t do anything to hurt you. Ever.”

  I purse my lips. “That’s a really big promise to make to someone you hardly even know.”

  “I know enough,” he says
simply.

  Butterflies flutter inside my stomach as I consider actually climbing on this thing with him. Not only does it look dangerous as hell, it’s also quite clearly designed to accommodate only one body. Where am I even going to sit? In his lap?

  I start to shake my head again, but he reaches out and takes my hand. “Come on,” he cajoles. “Just put your left leg on this side and your right over here. Sit right in front of me like you’re riding a regular bike. As soon as we’re moving, I’ll stand behind you on the pegs.”

  My nerves are fired up, but I ignore them. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and the truth is, if Jake says he’ll keep me safe, I believe him.

  He likes to tease and joke, but he’s never given any indication that he’s not a man of his word. In fact, from watching him interact with other people, I’d surmise that he’s the kind of guy who never goes back on what he promises.

  “Okay,” I finally agree, stepping up to the bike and trying to figure out how to best contort myself to get my leg over the seat. Man, I’m really going to have to start stretching more if I keep spending time with this guy.

  Jake reaches down and assists without having to be asked. Apparently, I take a long time to do everything, and he’s decided he’s not going to wait for any of it.

  Secretly, the thought that he might manhandle me around for the rest of our time together gives me a little thrill. It’s kind of like when a man loads the dishwasher really badly on purpose so he never gets asked to do it again, but reversed to give the female gender all the power. I like it. I really like it. What else can I take my sweet-ass time doing?

  Suddenly astride the bike, I take a deep breath as he leans the warmth of his chest into my back and revs the throttle twice.

  I try not to be too girlie about it, but I’d be lying if I tried to pretend there isn’t a distinct squealing sound coming from me that I am in no way in control of.

  “Relax, Holley.” Jake chuckles huskily into my ear, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I’m going to take care of you, I promise. Nice and easy all the way there.”

  Slowly, he starts to roll forward, and the panic of what’s to come makes me cover my eyes. His body shakes behind me again, but he reaches forward with a hand to move mine.

  Frankly, that’s enough incentive to get my shit together because I really think this is the kind of thing where it’d be optimal if he had the use of both hands.

  Apparently confident that I’ve come back from the land of breakdowns, I feel him shift behind me—while we’re still rolling—and climb into a standing position on whatever he referred to as pegs.

  With nothing to hold on to, I find purchase on his upper arms and hope that doesn’t affect his ability to steer. And it must not because as we approach a crowd of people that makes me crow like a bird in fear, he weaves our way through like it’s no problem at all.

  “Wow,” I say when he revs the throttle just enough to beat a group of pedestrians to the path to the stands. Eyes are on me—on us—as we approach the wooden bleachers and slow to a stop. Jake jumps off with ease, somehow both holding the bike standing and offering me a hand of assistance as I climb off. I try not to blush as the group—largely made up of men and boys—stares at me, but I don’t think I’m entirely successful.

  With a swing of a leg, I plant my sandaled feet on solid ground and resist the urge to drop to my knees and kiss it. If I’m honest, resisting isn’t even that hard. It was far more enjoyable riding on that thing than I imagined.

  I turn to Jake, who’s working on climbing back astride the bike, and swiftly grab the firm muscle of his upper arm. He looks to my grip there first, grins, and then looks me in the eyes with his own.

  Framed out by the hole in his green and black helmet, they look almost teal.

  “What?” he whispers, thankfully sensitive to the fact that I’m not really looking for an audience with this discussion.

  “Why…uh…” I pause, glancing behind me and back again before moving even closer to Jake’s face and lowering my voice more. “Why is it all men?”

  He laughs, glancing at the bleachers behind me quickly before answering. “First of all, it’s not. There are a few women peppered in there. But it probably seems like it is because these are the crew bleachers, and as unfortunate as it is, there are more males in motocross than females by a long shot.”

  “Am I…your crew?”

  I can’t see his smile, but his eyes sure look like that’s what’s going on. “You’ve been…mediocre moral support. But yes, sure. You’re my crew. Now, can you sit down so I can go out there and get some laps in?”

  Realizing for the first time that my questions have greatly delayed his entrance onto the track, I acquiesce immediately.

  “Oh yeah. Sure.”

  He shakes his head but greatly surprises me by reaching out and tucking some hair behind my ear. It feels remarkably intimate and innocent at the same time. My body doesn’t know what to make of it. “Don’t ever change, Holley.”

  It’s such a kind thing to say, I’m almost too stunned to respond. Somehow, though, I manage to find the only words appropriate—the truth. “I don’t think I could if I wanted to, Jake.”

  He nods, climbs astride the bike, revs the engine, and takes off down the hill onto the track so fast a whole trail of dirt kicks up behind him.

  It’s terrifying but, at the same time, makes it obvious that he was practically crawling on the ride over to the stands with me aboard.

  I do my best to climb into the stands without taking my eyes off Jake, and as a result, I settle for the first wooden spot my ass comes in contact with.

  I’m riveted as he rips down the first straight piece of the track right at a massive hill and sends himself flying into the air like Evel fucking Knievel. No hesitation, no warm-up, just bam!—right into the air. I shriek a little, drawing some eyes around me, but no one else even looks fazed.

  How in the world does everyone else think this is normal? He’s, like, higher than a two-story building in the air, and he’s doing it on purpose! Doesn’t it hurt when he lands? How in the world does he do it so close to other people? I would run all of them right off the track!

  I grip the edge of my seat and bounce my feet as he flies around the first curve, coming back this direction and going over a million little bumps like he’s on a high-speed rocking horse. Other guys bounce along beside him, and they all make it to the next turn together, jammed in right on top of one another.

  “Eek!” I squeal, sucking my neck back into itself and curling slightly into a ball.

  Oh man! I jump as he jerks and weaves to avoid the other guys and takes off full throttle for the next huge hill. It’s even bigger than the first, and the guys he navigated around in the curve are right on his heels.

  I hiss and wince and cover my eyes briefly as he takes off like a damn rocket, twists in the air so much his body comes off the bike, and then, somehow, lands on the other side like he didn’t just basically jump out of a freaking plane without a parachute.

  As he rounds the corner to start the second lap, the tension in my shoulders finally starts to loosen. Clearly, he’s done this a time or two, and if I press pause on my rising anxiety and really think about all of the freakishly scary things I’ve seen him do, it’s really impressive.

  The most noteworthy thing Raleigh ever did was a mud run—and while I’m not exactly bashing that because it’s hard-core—he never really looked like he was strapped to an actual rocket ship either.

  Plus, he cheated on me with his assistant and got her pregnant, so I’m allowed to mentally belittle everything he’s ever done in his life until the cows come home.

  It’s my right.

  Jake zooms around another turn and launches over the last huge hill, this time doing an actual flip with his whole dang body and bike!

  Like, what is this sorcery?!

  I jump to my feet, a huge scream of appreciation bursting from my lungs so loudly I almost scare myself. �
�Woo-hoo! Come on, Jake! Way to go!” I yell, to which I hear a small trill of answering laughter coming from somewhere in the stands. I ignore the audience and focus on the man on the bike, becoming so involved in his movements, I’m actually imitating them from my place in the bleachers.

  I jump and weave and throw elbows like I’m trying to take all those other suckers down.

  Before I know it, some of the others have actually started to join in, yelling for their own riders with almost the same amount of enthusiasm I am. Not quite, though, because it’s pretty hard to match the intensity of a woman possessed.

  Before long, I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m out for blood, and the more of his competitors Jake takes out, the better.

  I scream and yell and jump, and when he makes the final turn to come off the track, I don’t even know how long has passed. All I know is that it’s been one of the coolest experiences of my life.

  Fresh from the shower, Jake’s hair curls ever so slightly at the ends and kisses at the skin of his neck as we drive away from the storage facility where we dropped the trailer back in its spot and head for Boogie’s to meet Chloe for dinner.

  He smells like clean soap and the faintest hint of cologne. It’s so subtle, though, I’m not even sure it’s cologne.

  Is it possible that his skin smells that good?

  I’m not sure, but I’m desperate to place the scent in my mind so that I can recreate it at a later date.

  Maybe vanilla? But not a lot of vanilla because that overpowering, saccharine smell always makes me nauseous.

  Yeah, a small hint of vanilla mixed with something else to it, too…

  Like the scent of sweet, earthy grass.

  I know that sounds weird, but it’s not. He smells so good, I have to stop myself from climbing over the console of his truck and affixing my nose to his skin for a ten-day holiday.

  I don’t know for a fact, but I have to assume he would be put off by that.

  Instead, I keep all my scent-driven-angst to myself and stare surreptitiously at the strong line of his jaw. It’s relaxed—I haven’t really seen it clench at all since that first moment on the beach when he found out he was involved in this whole Bachelor Anonymous thing—but still, even lax, it’s almost as though it’s been cut precisely from stone.