Her smile acknowledges that as cute. Never knew I had it in me, to be honest, given my rustiness. She takes another bite. “Anyway, I left the youngsters to it and came to get me some pie.”
“And I almost ruined it.”
“No, not ruined.” A couple of spots of color flag her cheeks and make me warm inside. Not ruined. She’s enjoying the conversation as much as me.
“What were you celebrating tonight?”
“A graduation from …” She hesitates, likely rethinking how she wants to phrase it. “College.”
“College?” Christ, had I reached the point where everyone in college looks the same and I can’t discern ages anymore?
“I’m kind of a late bloomer,” she says, assuring me that she isn’t jailbait. Still, I’m definitely older than her, maybe six or seven years. She can’t be more than twenty-five.
I shouldn’t be even thinking that. We’re just chatting over pie.
Her phone pings and she looks down at it with a conflicted expression.
“Need to get that?”
“No, it’s … well, some guy on a dating app.”
My heart does a backflip that lands inelegantly balls-first in the pool. “Some guy?”
“Yeah, we’ve been feeling each other out, trying to decide if it’s worth the effort.”
“Has he seen you?” I did not just say that.
She blinks, acknowledging that I did. Pret-ty smooth, killer.
“I’ve been holding off on sharing pics. He’s sent me an abs pic, though.” She scrolls through and shows me. The shot shows him standing in front of a mirror—aren’t they all?—and has managed low-slung provocative while keeping it PG-13.
“Not sure how I’m supposed to react to that.” I can’t imagine doing that to anyone I was considering for my dating future.
“Give your opinion. Good abs or not?”
“Not sure that’s the right question. I would be more inclined to ask ‘douchebag or asshat?’”
“Because he’s showing off his abs? That’s what everyone does these days. It’s like ‘hi, how are ya? Here’s my calling card.’”
“That’s where I’ve been going wrong.”
She pulls a finger trigger at me, which makes me smile.
“So what do women do in return?” The idea of her sharing some intimate part of her body with some frat bro makes me itchy. Is that what I have to look forward to in a few years with my daughter?
Sure, you’re worried about Lena, and not in any way jealous of this guy who already has abs in the mix.
“Oh, my abs would be better than his.” She scrolls down the thread to the latest message. “He’s wondering if I’m free tonight.”
“You haven’t met him yet?”
She shakes her head, takes another glance at the screen, weighing her options. I don’t want to stand in her way yet … okay, I completely want to stand in her way. I want to cock-block that abs-totin’ dickhead and make a play myself.
“Got any spark with him?”
“Hard to tell with a text exchange. He’s amusing and likes the movies of Kurosawa.”
“Sounds like a winner. Vain and pretentious.”
That makes her laugh, and boy do I like that sound. It’s got a dirty, husky quality that shoots straight to my cock. I rub my jaw over the makings of a beard I’ll have to shave before I go back to work. I’d taken a few days off to fix some stuff around the house and enjoyed not touching my razor.
“You asked,” I comment, though she only asked my opinion on his abs. She’s definitely feeling me out on the topic. Perhaps looking for a signal I would like her to throw over fuck boi, as my sister would call him.
She inhales deeply and that in-drawn breath drags my eyes to her cleavage. Her breasts are spectacular and if I had my way, she would not be snapping them to send off to D-Bag Abs. Those beauties would be all for me.
“Pretty pendant.”
“My mom gave it to me.” She touches the Claddagh symbol and for a moment, looks a little lost. My heart hitches at the pain I see clouding her lovely blue eyes.
Before I can enquire further, the server stops by. “More coffee?”
There were, by my calculations, three bites left to the pie. Once gone, the night would be over. I didn’t have to work tomorrow and the only reason I needed more caffeine was so I could stay awake for the night ahead. If Cherry Pie wanted more …
I raise my gaze to hers and she holds it captive for a charged second, the moment balanced exquisitely on the edge of a thundering heartbeat. Speaking might ruin it. Silence might screw it up spectacularly. I’m usually more decisive—my job demands it—but it’s hard to translate that to your personal life, especially when your life lacks personality.
Slowly, she turns her phone over and it’s all I can do not to stand and cheer. Yes, fucking, yes.
“Sure,” she says to the server.
“Hit me.” I nudge my cup a smidge before taking a slightly larger forkful of pie and pushing the rest to her. “All yours.”
There’s that subtle blush again. All yours. It certainly feels like I’d give her anything.
We’ve spent the last hour talking about pie, TV shows, my sister’s desperation to get me “out there,” my mother’s favorite catchphrase, God rest her soul—“Copernicus called. You’re not the center of the universe”—and now we’re talking about free climbing because apparently she likes it. For fun.
“You go on vacations to climb?”
“It’s the rush. I love it.”
“So you have some sort of Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible death wish?”
She grasps my arm and my entire body goes on high alert, as if I haven’t been touched by a woman in years. “I love that movie. Well, all the movies. But that one is awesome. Tom, just hanging there off a rock like the coolest guy on earth!”
Sure. I can’t imagine enjoying that because I’m often forced to climb in my job. I certainly wouldn’t be choosing to do it for fun.
But I could see how it might be fun if I was with this girl.
“We all have ways to get our kicks.” She runs a finger over the edge of her coffee cup. “How about you? What gets you pumped?”
There’s a silken tease to her voice, an invitation, for sure. I could step right in and take the baton, run with it and a whole flurry of innuendo, guide this night to where I’d like it to go.
What’s stopping me? Performance jitters, maybe. Not my dick—that wouldn’t be a problem around Cherry Pie. All that lush red hair and natural sweetness. But I might be too rough, too desperate after going so long without. I’m already imagining pushing that dainty strap off her shoulder and going to town on her neck, barely managing to hold myself back from the main event: those gorgeous, perfect, full breasts I need in my mouth soon followed by driving deep inside her to the hilt.
I would be a beast and then I’d feel like a jerk afterward.
“My kid.”
“Your—oh, you have a kid?”
Not what she expected at all. Not even what I expected. But the truth is, my daughter fires me up and makes me think I can be a better person every day. She’s the only person I can trust to love me unconditionally. Even my sister has her limits.