Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

My dick comes alive imagining how she could look like that while straddling me. How her hair would sway and her breasts would be right at mouth level—perfect for licking and nibbling—all sorts of fun.

But then Vi varies the dance, introducing Spencer to the Roger Rabbit and the Running Man—and he just about doubles over from laughing so hard. When I see the way his face lights up, the sheer joy that Violet put there . . . I feel something else entirely.

There’s a very specific kind of happiness when you walk through the door after a never-ending day. Your chest loosens and your shoulders lighten, and it’s like your entire soul eases.

Because you know, at last, you’re home.

That’s how it feels watching Violet and Spencer right now. A soothing, exquisite contentment—like those first steps through the door.

And isn’t that fucking terrifying. It’s been years since I felt anything close to it and . . . we all know how that turned out.

I toss back the remainder of my drink in one mouthful and sit down. Violet and Spencer are still laughing when they come back to the table.

I give them the applause they deserve. “Nice moves.”

“I told you I was good.” Violet curtsies quick and cute. And she doesn’t trip—which is nearly as impressive as her dance moves. She scoops her purse off the table. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

And yes, after she brushes by the back of my chair, I turn my head . . . and watch her go.

Cliché as hell? Sure—but I just can’t help myself.

One chair over, Spencer takes a long swig of his Shirley Temple. Then he looks up at me, breathing hard.

“She’s fun.”

“She is,” I agree.

“Do you think she could be our babysitter? She’s a lot prettier than Aaron. And I bet she wouldn’t say I look like a toe.”

I chuckle. “Vi’s not a babysitter, Spence. She’s a nurse.”

“That’s even better. If I fall down the stairs or Rosie tries to get Mr. Malkovich again when he’s delivering the mail—she’ll know just what to do! You should ask her, Dad.”

“We’ll see.”

I’m the frigging GOAT at the “we’ll see” delivery. Honest tone, sincere expression . . . sometimes I even believe myself.

* * *

Dinner is served—surf and turf for the adults, chicken tenders and fries for the kids. Aaron falls somewhere in the middle, eating his steak but passing his lobster tail to Mia because he’s not a fan of seafood.

When Violet finishes her wine with dinner, I get us both another round from the bar. I’m just sitting back down when Spencer points at a bird flying like a shadow in the darkening sky above the lake.

“Hey, look, it’s a bald eagle!”

“There’s a nest by the high school too.” Violet says, resting her chin on her hand. “I saw it when I was running around the track the other day.”

“Why do you run at the high school track?” I ask. “There are some gorgeous running trails on the property right by your house. Why don’t you jog there?”

“Do you remember after the first week I started at the hospital I had to take the next week off?”

At this point I’m lucky if I remember what I had for breakfast this morning—I don’t even want to think about what fifty’s going to look like.

“No, I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I did. And it was because I had gone jogging on one of the trails by my house. A couple of miles into my run, I stepped on a ridiculously big rock that had no business being on the trail—and I twisted my ankle. Badly. I couldn’t put any weight on it, so I sat on the side of the trail waiting for someone to come by and help me—but no one ever came. I ended up crawling back to my house, in the dark, and getting feasted on by mosquitoes. I swear every bloodsucker in this town has had a taste of me.”

And who could blame them?

“Ever since then I don’t like to jog in the woods alone.”

Like a human crane, Spencer lowers a cherry from his Shirley Temple by the stem into his mouth. Then, chewing with his mouth open, he tells Violet, “My dad jogs too. Sometimes he leaves early for work so he can run to the hospital.”

Violet smiles at him warmly. “I’ve noticed that.”

And I wonder, what else Violet has noticed about me?

“Hey, Dad, why don’t you run with Violet?” Brayden suggests. “Then you could run on the trails and she won’t have to jog alone.”

“Yeah,” my youngest concurs, “and then, you know—if things go good, you and Violet can be F-buddies.”

The Jack and Coke I hadn’t quite finished swallowing goes spraying out of my mouth.

At the same time, Violet coughs, choking on her wine.

“We could be what?” I rasp.