Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

“I haven’t laughed like that in a long time,” he murmurs, his warm gaze hitting every detail on my face before coming to rest on my lips.

As he watches me with eyes glossy from his laughing fit, amusement still dancing in them, the soft beat of my heart against my sternum turns into an all-out clobbering. He leans in and my first thought is, holy crow, he’s going to kiss me.

And then the most terrible thing happens. The voice that I count on to keep me steady, to lend me strength and keep me on the straight and narrow. I hear that self-serving bitch say, I hope so.

Tipping his chin down, he brushes his soft lips against my cheek and squeezes my shoulder. I freeze, a deer caught in headlights.

“Sleep well, Mandy Sue,” he murmurs in a voice I can hear between my legs. My clam has grown ears and it hears him. He’s a freaking clam whisperer. And then he leaves the room, and in his wake, a whole mess of confusion.

What just happened?

Chapter Thirteen

“Mom.”

I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Not a wink. Hang on, back up a step. I slept for an entire hour and during that hour I had such a sordid dream about the man presently pretending he doesn’t see me watching him that I soaked the sheets in sweat. After which I was too scared to go back to sleep.

Every time I let down my guard now, relax for a breath, I see him hovering over me, thrusting hard.

The clattering of metal breaks into my thoughts. Shit. I dropped the spatula. Grabbing it off the floor, I throw it in the sink and retrieve a clean one from the drawer.

I risk another side-eye glance at the star of my filthy dreams. He’s sitting at the kitchen table reading his emails on his phone and sipping his coffee. Catching me, his mouth tips up in a knowing crooked smile. The ghost of affection I see cross his face makes my breath catch. Glancing away, I hide my embarrassment somewhere around the pancakes on the skillet.

“Mommy?”

Sam got back from his sleepover in time for breakfast. I haven’t seen him this excited about a new friend in a long time. So even though Steven and I turned out not to be a love match, I’m cautiously optimistic about this unlikely friendship he’s cultivating with player Jeremy. Who knows, maybe I misunderstood the kid and he’ll be a good influence, inspire Sam to come out of his shell a little.

“Sorry, honey. What is it?” I load the last pancake on the platter and place the stack on the kitchen table between Grant and Sam. Grant places a few on Sam’s dish while I sit and watch, hiding a smile in my coffee mug.

“Did you know that some people eat cats?” He makes a grossed-out face that provokes a burst of laughter out of me. It feels good to laugh, releases some of the tension I’m carrying in my shoulders.

The questionable Chinese food I had that one time in Istanbul, when I was there for a photo shoot, comes to mind. My gaze connects with Grant’s. His brow quirks in question and I shrug in answer. His attention returns to my son.

“Did Jeremy tell you that?” he asks Sam.

Sam nods. Chin leaning on a small fist, he shoves a forkful of pancake in his mouth and chews, expression thoughtful. “He said that his dad’s ex-girlfriend yelled at him because he doesn’t eat pussy.”

The loud scrape of a chair draws my attention. Grant is up and walking out of the room, practically coughing up a lung. The only sound louder is the heavy thump of his fist against his chest.

I’m hot and sweaty, turning a broad spectrum of red. It’s moments like these that make me wish I had a girl. “You are never ever going to play with Jeremy ever again.”

“But I like Jeremy.”

“Never again.”

“What do you mean, behind schedule? How far behind are we talking about? We’re having a grand opening in twelve days,” I say to Horvat, my voice pitching higher and higher. I’m gonna have a panic attack. I can feel it coming on.

Horvat looks unmoved by my dramatic performance. Except this is no performance. It’s the reality called my life and he’s screwing with it big-time.

“Then I’ll repeat myself, lady. I said we’re gonna need another ten days––at least.”

My stomach sinks. I look around my beloved tiny studio. Fixtures on the floor. The painting only halfway finished. The trim around the windows still bare. The handicap ramp not installed. He’s not exaggerating.

I’m gonna cry. We emailed grand opening invitation for a free class and cocktails to thirty guests and we have no place to put them. Not to mention the loss of revenue we’ll suffer if we don’t open in time. I’m gonna cry.