I carve into the potato skin, rough and abrasive. Typical. I always grow attached to things that aren’t forever. The idea of my mother returning when I was little, Nick, Jay, my apartment and the desire to make a home of my own…. I amaze myself at how absolutely pathetic I continue to be. I jab the knife into the cutting board and dig out a few more potatoes from the bag.
And to make matters worse, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about last night all day, and the party is the least of it.
The birthday cake, the tapes, joking around with him…. The way he remembered that I have to blow out a candle and make a wish. A flutter hits my heart, and I smile and then scowl, confused and not wanting those feelings.
I blew out the matchstick last night, wishing for the same thing I wished for in the movie theater that night. I loved how I felt in that moment and hoped that I could feel that way every day. That’s all I wanted.
Not for something to be different or for something I didn’t have, but that I would feel exactly the same the next day. And the next.
Special, remembered, happy.
He makes me happy.
Happy in a way that my boyfriend should.
Peeling another potato, I see him out of the corner of my eye move outside, and I try to stop myself, but I look up anyway.
Raising his arms, he pulls his navy blue T-shirt over his head and slides it into his back pocket, reaching over to pick up the branch cutter again.
For a moment, I freeze. My hands pause in their task, and the sounds of the cutter, the lawnmower across the street, and the music playing in the kitchen slowly fade away.
His skin—golden and toned—looks warm and smooth, the muscles of his stomach and the cords running down his forearms press against his skin, displaying how long and hard he’s worked in his life. Sweat glistens down his neck and spine, and I can see the ripples of the muscles in his back. Even through the tattoos.
Long legs in worn jeans with his T-shirt hanging out the back pocket and covering part of his…. I wet my lips as I tear my eyes off his behind and stare at the way his jeans hang off his hips.
Every muscle flexes as he chops branch after branch, and all I can manage is short, shallow breaths as I even admire the way his pant legs drape over his tan construction boots.
Mr. Lawson is hot. He’s able, strong-bodied, and I wonder how he feels. What is he like with a woman?
I drop my eyes again.
“Oh, that’s hot,” I hear a voice say.
I blink and jerk my head, looking behind me. Cam.
She stands next to the side of the island, having come through the front door without me hearing her. She has one forearm planted on the granite, leaning casually with an amused look on her face.
I turn back to my task, my heart hammering in my ears.
It’s bad enough to ogle someone not Cole, but it had to be her who caught me, too.
“I’ve never seen you look at Cole like that,” she says.
How long was she standing there?
I decide to nip it in the bud. “Like what?” I snap. “Stop trying to start shit.”
I hear her shuffle across the floor as she comes up to stand next to me at the sink. I cast a glance at Pike to see he’s still working, oblivious to us in the house.
“You both are getting pretty cozy here,” she teases, rinsing off the peeled potatoes and putting them in the pot. “He’s doing yard work. You’re cooking. It’s like you’re a couple.”
“Shut up. I’m young enough to be his daughter.”
“But you’re not his daughter,” she shoots back, turning toward me and leaning in. “You’re a hot, young piece of pussy living under his roof, and you know he’s thought about that. He may be Cole’s dad, but he’s also a man.” She turns back, looking out the window and checking him out. “And a fine, healthy-looking one, too.”
“I have a boyfriend. His son.”
That’s right, Jordan. That’s exactly what you should’ve told yourself when you were staring at him a minute ago.