Getting Played

But that playboy smile drags across his lips and his voice goes low.

“You make me hard.”

Like a magnet to metal, my eyes make a beeline for Dean’s crotch. And—oh my—he is hard. The long, thick outline of him strains against the zipper of his jeans. My mouth waters, remembering the taste of him and the hot, smooth feel of his flesh against my tongue.

“The happy tends to follow close after the hard, so yeah—I think happy qualifies in this situation.”

Deans leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.

“Don’t be nervous, Lainey. I’ve got you.”

~ ~ ~

Mr. Giles, Lakeside’s local carpenter, has a few scrap pieces he said I could pick up tonight, so I suggest taking my truck to pick up Dean’s Gram and the wood along the way.

Dean stands in the driveway. “Sure. I’m confident enough in my manhood to ride bitch.”

Beside him, Jason strikes a similar stance, nodding.

“Me too. I don’t mind riding bitch.”

And I wonder if Dean knows he’s got a burgeoning mini-me who already idolizes him.

He opens the truck door and shuts it closed behind me after I climb aboard. I don’t get out of the truck when we get to Mr. Giles’s place, but instead watch in the rearview mirror, with a strange swirly tenderness swooping through my belly, as Dean and Jay load the long boards of oak into the bed for me.

Then Dean directs me across town, and we pull up in front of the school-size brick building of the senior center. He hops out and a few minutes later, exits the building with a petite, gray-haired woman—literally half his size—shuffling along beside him.

Dean opens the passenger side door. From behind round, violet glasses that take up more than half her face, his grandmother peers bewilderedly at the distance between the ground and the seat.

“Going to need an assist with this one, Deany.”

He lifts her up into the truck, then buckles the seatbelt around her as he introduces us.

“Grams, this is Lainey Burrows and her son, Jason.”

I hold my hand straight out and a bit too eagerly—I don’t have a lot of experience meeting the parents. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walker.”

She puts her frail hand in mine and smiles. And I notice, Dean gets his eyes from his grandmother.

“Call me Grams—everyone does.”

Jason waves from the backseat and Grams waves back.

“How was movie night?” Dean asks as he climbs in.

She clucks her tongue like an annoyed hen. “Just terrible. It was Driving Miss Daisy. Why would I enjoy watching a film like that—I’m practically living it.”

Grams runs her hand over the dashboard.

“I like this vehicle, Lainey. Very muscular. I bet no one messes with you in this bad boy.”

I smile. “That’s true. And it comes in handy with my work.”

“Lainey’s a decorator, Grams.” Dean tells her. “She makes furniture, artwork. She’s redoing the old house on Miller Street.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely home—it’s nice to know a young family is living there again.”

And it’s all going so well.

Until Dean says, “Hang a left up ahead, Lainey—onto 2nd Street.”

But when I make the turn, and my wrist brushes the button on the steering wheel that activates the bluetooth. The speakers come alive inside the cab, and the truck automatically syncs to my phone—playing the audiobook of A Brand New Ending by Jennifer Probst—a fabulous romance I started listening to when I was doing the backsplash work in the kitchen.

The narrator’s voice comes through loud and clear.

“She dragged her teeth over his flat stomach, blowing her breath over his hardened shaft until he jerked with need.”

I press button after button, but I can’t find the right one. “Where’s the button? Where’s the fucking button?” I think I say it out loud, but it’s hard to hear myself over the blood pounding in my eardrums.

“She closed her hands around his erection, squeezed, sent her tongue darting out to taste his essence—”

And . . . got it! The sound cuts off—though I’m definitely going back to listen to the rest of that scene when I’m alone.

An awkward silence is shrouded over the cab—as my eyes dart to Dean’s grandmother. “Sorry. It’s an audiobook I was listening to.”

Her thin, penciled eyebrows rise. “I’ll have to borrow it from you when you’re finished.” And then she winks. “Can’t wait to hear what happens next.”

The anxiety that was squeezing my chest, loosens. Dean and Jason’s muffled laughter comes from the backseat, and a second later I join them.

I pull into the driveway of a modest home. We all lumber out of the truck and head inside. In the foyer, a small black cat comes padding around the corner, curling itself around Jason’s leg. He crouches down and scoops the fluffy ball up into his arms.

“Careful with the cat, Jay,” Deans warns, “She’s not—”

The cat loves on Jason hard—rubbing its head along his collarbone, purring loudly like a happy mini-lion, planting a string of adoring, licking kisses along his jaw.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head, pouting. “Tell you later.”

And when I glance at the cat—I swear she’s wearing a gloating, smirking expression—aimed right at Dean.

“That’s my Lucy,” Grams says, scratching her head. “It’s good to have a pet around the house. It teaches boys to be responsible and nurturing.”

“Except when the pet is trying to kill you,” Dean murmurs under his breath.

I swapped my cotton shorts for a pair of navy yoga pants before we left the house. They’re comfy, but snug around my middle, putting the bump on full display. My sweater shifts as we all move into the living room, and Grams suddenly stops short.

She puts her hand on my shoulder, and speaks like she’s breaking the news to me—in case I didn’t know.

“Lainey, you’re pregnant, dear.”

Over her shoulder, Dean chuckles soundlessly.

“Uh, yeah.” I fidget. “I know.”

Dean moves around his grandmother to stand beside me, and takes my hand in his.

“Lainey and I met over the summer, Grams. We’re having a baby. Tog

ether.”

I wait for her reaction—this woman who raised Dean, who obviously means the world to him. I brace myself for suspicion or disapproval to creep into her aged eyes. But her gaze just shifts back and forth between me and her grandson. And then she covers her mouth with a slightly trembling hand.

“Oh, how wonderful!”

Then she hugs me—wrapping me in an embrace that’s warm and welcoming and surprisingly strong. Then she gives Dean the same treatment.

“What a beautiful child you two will have. This calls for champagne—life is short, drink champagne whenever you can. Jason,” she calls with an easy familiarity. “That liquor cabinet there. The key is beneath the elephant on top. Open it up and get the bottle of champagne. Dean—get the crystal glasses from the dining room.”

I opt for apple juice, but once Dean, Grams and even Jason have a glass of champagne—Grams holds up her sparkling flute.

“Welcome to the family, Lainey and Jason. The best days are when babies come—to the best days coming our way soon.”

We all click glasses and my son drains his in one gulp.

Then he makes a face. “It doesn’t taste anything like stars. John Green is full of shit.”

We sit on the couch and Grams pats my knee. “How far along are you?”

“About four and a half months.”

“That’s when things start to get interesting.” Grams pats Dean’s leg with her other hand. “And if the baby grows up to be a hellion like you—you’ll know all the tricks they’ll try before they do.”

“Dean was a hellion?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. But mark my words—they grow up to be the best fathers.”

Grams pours herself another glass of champagne and Dean rubs his hands together. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“You could make your spaghetti sauce,” Grams replies.

I meet Dean’s eyes. “You cook?

“I do. I cook spaghetti sauce. That’s the only thing.”

“But it’s delicious,” Grams adds, proudly.

“It is delicious. She’s not lying. But I can’t cook spaghetti Grams—Lainey has heartburn.”

He remembered. Is it weird that that turns me on? Cause it does. A lot.