Middle of Knight (Jack & Jill 2)

“So, no alternative, rock and roll, or rap?”

She wiped her brow with her arm and continued scrubbing. He brought the room temperature up a good ten degrees with the mix of his presence and the third-degree questioning.

“No, I try to avoid anything that’s not … up lifting. Most songs on the radio these days are all about sex and other, um … sinful stuff.” Her favorite song in high school was George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.” If he didn’t hurry up and leave, she’d pass out from the heat or confess her sins and beg for forgiveness. Ideally, she just wanted to keep her dignity, clean their house, and get the hell or heck out of there.

“So you’re religious?”

No. She stopped going to church when she got pregnant out of wedlock. “I’m a believer.” It was true, even if she no longer possessed a certainty of those beliefs. Everyone believed in something.

“I have a shitload of scripture in my head that’s been drilled into me over the years. Sorry, I meant a lot … not a shitload. Hope I didn’t offend you.”

She tipped her chin down to bite back a smile. “No offense taken. I’m sure you’re more than covered in the area of forgiveness for that minor sin.”

“Are you and your husband originally from Nebraska?”

Her body stiffened. Even then, years later, the word husband made her flinch.

“I’m … not married.” Divorce elicited scowls of disapproval in the religious world, she’d save that topic for later or preferably never. “And I’m originally from Atlanta.”

“I see, well … I’ll let you do your thing. Maybe I’ll just play the piano. Any requests?”

She shrugged. “Surprise me.”

*

The woman who could be a game changer wasn’t married. That was good, but her anti-sex, gospel-music-playing personality presented a bit more of a challenge than he anticipated. Jackson had committed to not being a man whore, but that didn’t mean he’d submitted his application for sainthood.

He played one classical piece after another, tracking her every move as she floated around scrubbing, dusting, mopping, and sweeping. She finished in the main room as if to not disturb him until she had no other choice. They smiled politely at each other as she dusted Black Beauty. God, he loved her eyes and the way she incessantly wet her lips if he stared too long.

She squatted down, disappearing beneath the piano. “I’m just dusting the legs and pedals … I uh, don’t want to you think I’m trying to do anything inappropriate here.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t stop you if you were.”

“Ouch!” she seethed after a loud thump.

He leaned down to look at her. “Are you okay?”

Balancing on her knees and one hand while her other hand rubbed her head, she squinted her eyes a bit. He tried to focus on her head but the view down her shirt to her pink sports bra and just a tease of cleavage, which also had a smattering of freckles, enticed him in a sex-deprived way. By the time he tore his eyes away from her breasts, she stared at him in shock. Clearly, he’d offended her.

“Do you need an icepack?” He sat up with a guilty grimace. Jillian would kill him if their cleaning lady quit on the first day, claiming sexual harassment.

Ryn crawled out and stood, one hand still on her head, the other pressing the neck of her shirt firm to her chest. “I’ll be fine.” She focused on the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. “I’m going to run the vacuum and then I’ll be done.”

He relocated to the kitchen while she vacuumed. Time evaporated faster than his mind could conjure a plan. He had to think of something to say before she left and most likely would never come back.

Tick-tock, he grimaced with defeat as she shut off the vacuum and wound up the hose and cord.

“Mother fucking idiots!” Jillian grumbled, opening the front door.

Ryn’s eyes popped out of her head. Jackson closed his. He no longer needed to worry about being the responsible party for Ryn quitting. Jillian swooped in just in time to take that honor with her sailor’s tongue.

“Oh, hey, Ryn.” Jillian stepped inside, holding the screen door open with the backside of her body while she smacked the soles of her shoes together. “I hate it when they spread those stupid fertilizer pellets then takeoff without using a broom or blower on the driveway and sidewalk. Now they’re stuck like shit to the bottom of my shoes and if it rains they’ll discolor the cement.”

“Jill … not the best word choice.” He gave Ryn an apologetic look. She returned one that looked just as pained.

“Sorry, I always say that wrong. They’ll discolor the concrete … I know, cement is the powdered form. It’s like the whole itch versus scratch thing.” She shut the door and looked up. “So how’d it go today?”