Birthday Girl
: Chapter 3

I blink awake, my eyelids heavy and slow as the dim room comes into view.

It’s still dark. I don’t normally wake up before five-thirty. Why am I…

No, wait. I grunt, opening my eyes a little wider and noticing the faint glow dancing across my bedroom wall.

Raindrops. Ah, shit. It’s not dark out. It’s cloudy.

I turn over onto my back and squint at the ceiling as I wait a moment and listen. And then, almost immediately, I hear it. The pitter patter of little dings bouncing off the rain gutters outside.

I let out a sigh. Goddammit. Not good. I dig my palms into my eyes and rub away the sleep before I glance at the clock on my bedside table. Five-twenty-nine.

Yep. Like clockwork.

I stopped needing an alarm clock years ago, my body just getting used to waking up at the same time every day. I still set it, though, just in case. Reaching over, I feel for the switch on the side and nudge it over two spots, turning off the alarm before it goes off.

The rain could really set us back today. I don’t need to be at the site for another hour and a half, but half the guys will probably try to call in, thinking we won’t be able to put in a full day anyway, so may as well stay in bed.

Not gonna happen, though. We’re working on something today—anything—because I don’t feel like side-stepping my kid’s bad mood and foul looks all day if I stick around this house. I’d rather be at work.

When he was younger, it was different. He was mine. We did things together and talked and he wanted to be around me, but now…

She’s gotten to him. My kid is the only hold anyone could ever have over me, and man, his mother knew how to use that. She pushed him around like a chess piece until he believed everything that came out of her mouth and that she was the victim in every situation, and I was the enemy. She could do no wrong, and I could do no right.

After a while, I just decided to be there for him. Eventually he’ll wise up, and we’ll get through this. He’ll see through her lies, and I just need to hang on. No matter the patience it’s going to take or the arguments in the meantime.

At least Jordan is pretty great. She’ll be a welcome buffer between us.

Even if I was knocked on my ass when I found out who she was.

I close my eyes, resting the back of my hand over my eyes and thinking back to that night.

I had fun hanging out with her at the movie theater. Her comebacks, her humor, how easy it was to talk to her…. The way she just relaxed next to me during the movie, and it was so fucking comfortable and natural.

The way her smile felt on me…

I wouldn’t have asked her out. She’s way too young, and I knew she had a boyfriend.

But it was hard not to entertain the idea for a little while. She’s cool.

And then when I found out who she was, I was almost angry.

I remember hearing her on that phone call and clenching my teeth so hard my jaw ached as realization hit. I was angry, because in that moment, I was jealous of my son. I was jealous of any guy who’s nineteen and gets a chance to be with her.

Her flawless skin and pert nose. Her gorgeous bottom lip that I think she caught me staring at.

The way she tipped her head back, put her feet up, and could just be next to me.

Everything felt easy.

But the girl of my dreams is off-limits. She’s Cole’s, and she’s nineteen. There’s no way.

She’s a kid, and my brief, sordid thoughts will stay hidden in my head.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I reach over and grab it, looking at the screen.

And I groan. Not now.

But I swipe the green button anyway and close my eyes, holding the phone to my ear. “A little early for you, isn’t it?”

Lindsay, my ex, laughs softly, the sultry sound of her sexy voice well-honed by now. The woman is used to getting what she wants from anyone.

Almost anyone.

“Not when you haven’t been to bed,” she taunts.

I keep my snicker to myself. Some women who become young mothers later feel as if they’ve missed out on their youth by jumping into parenthood so early. Lindsay Kenmont, mother of my child, didn’t miss a damn thing. She didn’t let being nine months pregnant hold her back any more than she let Cole hold her back when he was a toddler.

“How is he?” she asks.

I throw off my covers and sit up, swinging my legs over the bed and yawning. “Warm, fed, and safe.” I rub my hand over my scalp. “That’s about all I know right now.” But then I add, “I’m surprised you’re okay with this, by the way.”

“So that’s why you offered to let them stay with you? Because you didn’t think it would actually happen?” she presses. “I’m fine with him staying with you. It’s about time you took on some responsibility with him.”

It’s about time I…Jesus. I laugh under my breath and shake my head, standing up. “You’re not how I like to start my day, Lin. You know that. Now what do you want?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then I hear her smooth voice return to its teasing tone. “Oh, you know what I want.”

And despite the disdain I feel for her now, blood still rushes to my groin, much to my displeasure. We had some fun, after all. Back in the day.

And my body remembers.

Plus, I haven’t been laid in a while.

But I’m not desperate enough to be used. Not yet anyway.

“So that’s it?” I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear as I pull my jeans off the bench at the end of the bed and slide my legs in. “You think I’m going to just be ready to go every time you break up with a guy, get drunk, and want to get laid?”

“Why not?” she shoots back. “No matter who comes into your life or walks out of mine, there was always one thing we did really well together, right?”

“Sure, Lindsay.” I don’t bother hiding the sarcasm from my tone.

“Well, you’re not seeing anyone, are you?” she inquires, but she already knows I’m not. “And it’s not like we haven’t jumped into bed together over the years to blow off a little steam from time to time. I don’t remember you ever not liking it.”

“Yeah,” I let out a hard sigh. “It’s called a lack of options. Small town and all?”

“Asshole.”

I chuckle despite myself. I have to hand it to her. The woman can roll with any insult.

The truth is, she’s right. After the break-up when Cole was two, we still hooked up from time to time, but what I said is true, as well. The sex was good, she still has a great body, and bed was the one place we never hated each other, but I only kept going back because it was easy. Every other woman in this town is someone’s sister or daughter, and you can’t just screw around with them without them expecting a ring at some point. And I wasn’t ready for that. Not after the mess I found myself in becoming a father at nineteen. If I ever get another woman pregnant it’ll be my wife, and my wife is going to be someone I can’t get enough of.

And I do want more kids. I’ve always wanted more. But at thirty-eight—two years shy of forty—it’s likely Cole will be my only kid now. I’m getting too old to start over again.

“Come on,” she prods. “What have you got to lose? I know you remember, and I know you like everything you remember, Pike. That summer when I was seventeen? Still the best memories of my life.”

Yeah, but not everything that came after it.

“You and me going at it under a blanket on the couch with my parents sleeping right upstairs?” she tells me as if I don’t remember. “I know you still have a very healthy appetite.”

Heat rises to my skin, and I pause.

“So get over here and fuck me then,” she says.

I hesitate for only a moment, but then I shake my head. It’s tempting. My body wants it. And if I only admit it to myself, I am kind of fucking lonely when I slow down long enough to let myself feel it. There are so many mornings I hate waking up alone.

But no. My pride is sick of taking a hit every time she thinks I’ll be ready to go at her beck and call.

“Gotta get to work.” I hang up the phone before I have a chance to think about it more, or worse, reconsider. I slide my cell into my back pocket and walk over to the dresser for a T-shirt. My phone buzzes again.

“She’s fucking relentless,” I grumble and pull it back out of my pocket.

But this time, I see Dutch’s name on the screen.

I answer it, holding it to my ear. “What?”

“It’s raining.”

“Really? No shit?” I chuckle, pulling my shirt over my head. “You’re a genius.”

“Look outside.”

I pause, every muscle instantly tightening. Dammit. By his tone, I know what I’m going to see, but I walk to the window anyway and pull open one of the curtains, peering out into the morning storm.

“Shit.”

The street outside is lined on both sides with rapids of rain water, all racing for the storm drains, the whitewash crashing into the curb before sinking down into the sewers. The street itself is an orchestra of white noise, the drops bouncing off the ground or pummeling hoods of cars, the rain so thick I can barely see the houses across from me.

“I’m meeting the guys over at the shop,” Dutch tells me. “We’ll load up tarps and sandbags and meet you at the site.”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” I say, and we both hang up.

Grabbing some socks out of my drawer, I slip my phone back into my pocket and walk into the bathroom, doing a quick sweep with the toothbrush before I leave the room. I walk down the hall, past the empty bedroom, the main bathroom, and then a closed door, the other spare bedroom, quickly remembering it’s no longer empty.

But as I hit the top of the stairs, a sweet and heady scent hits my nose, making my skin buzz, and I stop to breathe in. A slight hunger pang hits my stomach, and I flinch. The girl blew out a candle yesterday. Did she leave another one burning all night? We might have to have a talk. Not only is that unsafe, but I’m really not into this whole aromatherapy thing where your body is tricked into thinking there’s blueberry muffins in the house when there’s really not.

I head down the staircase, the house creaking under my weight, but when I reach the bottom, I look around, noticing the living room lamps are on and there’s soft music coming from the kitchen.

Stepping in, I spot Jordan sitting at the island in the dark. Her laptop is open in front of her as she warms her hands around a cup of coffee.

I hesitate for a split-second, taken back by how different she looks at the moment. The light from the screen makes her eyes glimmer as the steam rises from the mug in front of her face. Then she purses her lips and blows, trying to cool the drink, while strands of her blonde hair fall around her face from the messy bun piled on top of her head.

The narrow slope of her jaw, the long lashes, the soft point of her little nose, and…. My eyes drop before I can stop them, and I take in her flawless, smooth and tanned legs, visible because she’s still wearing her sleep shorts. Heat stirs low in my stomach, and I turn away, digging in my eyebrows.

They can’t be the same age. My kid is a kid, and she’s…

A kid, too, I guess.

It’s just weird. Last time I met one of his girlfriends the chick had braces. It’s off-putting to think of him dating girls now that were my type back in the day.

“Morning,” I say as I walk past her to the Keurig.

I see her pop her head up out of the corner of my eye. “Oh, hey. ‘Morning.”

Her voice is small and cracked, and I hear the laptop close shut as I stick a K-cup in the machine and a metal travel mug under the spout. I look over my shoulder to see her quietly sliding off the stool and gathering up her computer and notebook.

“You don’t have to leave,” I tell her. “I’m on my way out anyway.”

She gives a small, tight smile but doesn’t look at me as she tucks her things to her side and picks up her coffee again.

“Have you been up a while?” I ask.

“I’m a light sleeper.” She finally raises her eyes and laughs at herself. “Thunderstorms are hard for me.”

I nod, understanding. The heat is the same way for me. The AC needs to be set at sixty-five degrees every night for me to be able to sleep. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if the temperature bothered her last night, but there’s really no point. I need to sleep, I’m not changing it, and she knows where the extra blankets are if she needs some.

We stand in silence for a moment, and then she finally blinks and gestures to the stove behind me. “There’s, um…blueberry muffins if you’re hungry,” she says. “They’re just out of a box, but they’re pretty good.”

I twist my head around, and sure enough, a muffin pan I don’t own sits on top of the stove, each cup overflowing with a golden-baked muffin. I reach over and grab one, hiding my smile. So no scented candles raising false hopes, after all. I think I like her.

She turns around and starts to leave the room, but I call out. “Do you think you could wake Cole up real quick, please? The rain really screws with my timetable at work, and we’re still setting the foundations, so I need help sandbagging today.”

She looks at me over her shoulder, curious. “Foundations?”

“For the site I’ve been contracted to build,” I clarify. “We can’t work today with the weather, but we have to make sure the basement level doesn’t flood. I could use Cole’s help.”

Realization hits and the confusion on her face vanishes. “Oh, right. Sure.” She nods and quickly leaves the room, her footfalls hitting the stairs with purpose.

If she hadn’t already been up, I probably wouldn’t have thought to ask Cole to come help, but the opportunity to go through her instead was too good. If I ask, it’ll piss him off. If she asks, it might go over better.

And besides, he knows this is part of the agreement. He and Jordan clean up after themselves, help with the cooking, do the yardwork, and help with anything else I might need, and I’ll pay bills while they save up enough to get back on their feet. It’s not too much to ask.

I fix the lid on my travel mug and go through two more K-cups to fill my Thermos before carrying both to the front door where my work boots sit. Sitting on the bench next to the door, I set my stuff down and pull on my shoes, grab my keys, and take my black rain pullover jacket out of the entryway closet, pulling it on.

I pick up my mug and Thermos. “Cole!” I shout, ready to leave.

The ceiling above me creaks, and I hear quick steps. Then there’s a thud before a door slams shut, and I can tell he’s finally coming down the stairs.

I grip the door handle and look over my shoulder. “I’ve got extra coffee. We can hit a drive-thru if you want something to eat real quick.”

But it’s not him who comes around the corner. Jordan is dressed in tight, dark blue jeans, rolled at the bottom, with Chucks, and she’s pulling her hair up into a ponytail while trying to hold a yellow rain coat under her arm.

I narrow my eyes on her. “Where’s Cole?”

“He’s, uh…not feeling too well,” she tells me, pulling her jacket on. “I’ll come and help you, though.”

Not feeling well. Code for hungover?

“No, that’s okay,” I tell her. “Stay here. It’s… safer. Thanks, though.”

Her eyes shoot up, focus on me, and then narrow. “Safer?” she questions like I just said I’m going out for a pedicure. “Or are you just worried you’ll spend more time holding my hand than getting any work done?”

I try to keep a straight face. She’s pretty smart.

Okay, yeah, sorry, honey, but yes. At least Cole has some experience—a little, mind you, but some—helping me during summers and weekends. I don’t need to get sidetracked explaining directions instead of giving them today.

“Tell you what…” She buttons up her rain coat, her sweet, shy demeanor slowly being replaced with a squarer set to her shoulders. “If the little lady can’t handle some rain in her hair or mud under her fingernails, then she’ll go back into the truck and wait for you. Where it’s safe. Okay?”

And then she arches an eyebrow at me like I shouldn’t even go there.

I don’t even know how to respond, anyway, because my brain is now blank, and I’m kind of forgetting why I have a Thermos in my hand.

I shake my head to clear it and yank the door open. “Fine. Get in the truck.”

This damn storm came out of nowhere.

I always watch the weather because sometimes it determines if we can work at all that day, so it’s kind of important. Especially in the summer.

I thought this one was missing us and swinging north, though. I shut off the engine and pull up the zipper of my jacket, squinting out the front windshield. The downpour is blurring everything beyond the glass, but I see a flash of orange and a yellow hardhat floating a few yards ahead and know some of the guys are here already.

Jordan pulls up her hood next to me, but I don’t look at her or instruct her on what to do. She can follow my lead if she wants to be here.

I hop out of the truck, hard raindrops instantly pummeling the top of my head and shoulders, making me instinctively duck a little as I slam the door and jog for the building. My boots splash through small puddles, and I dash over to the bed of a company truck, immediately pulling down the tailgate and piling up as many sandbags as I can load into my arms. Bright yellow appears at my side and, without a word, Jordan does the same, quickly loading more bags into her arms and following me around the side of the building to where the guys are waiting.

I drop the bags and glance through the steel frame of the structure, noticing the uncovered pallet of cement in the lower level. Son of a bitch. Nine men, including my best friend, stare at me, waiting for instructions. The wind blows the rain into the back of my jeans, soaking the material to my skin. “I want these bags around the entire perimeter!” I shout over the storm. “Three high! You got it?”

Quick nods follow.

“And get that cement covered, goddammit!”

I jerk my chin at the uncovered pallet getting ruined below. Rain or not, that always needs to be covered, just in case, and someone dropped the ball last shift.

Dutch, my best friend since high school, casts his brown eyes next to me, his expression instantly softening. I glance over to see Jordan, her hair tucked into the hood of her raincoat, but thankfully she doesn’t stick around to be introduced. Heading back to the truck, she pulls more sandbags out of the bed, and I turn back to Dutch who eyes me curiously.

I just shake my head. Not now. It’s not weird my son’s girlfriend wants to pay her way and be helpful, but it is weird that he’s not here, too. Does he know she took his place, helping out this morning? What kind of man is okay with that? I taught him to fulfill his obligations, goddammit.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to come with me.

I need to do something about him, but I don’t know what. This whole “waiting and seeing” tactic isn’t working. He needs a kick in the ass.

The men get to work, carrying stacks of three bags and setting them along the sides of the building, while I grab my utility knife out of the tool box in the truck and slice rectangles of blue tarp to staple around the first-floor frame. Before I know it, an hour has passed, the tarps are up, the sandbags are doing their job, and aside from me, everyone has seemed to vanish.

I toss my knife and staple gun back into the truck and slam the door, looking around the site for Jordan.

I haven’t seen her in a while. Regret starts to wind its way into my stomach. I should’ve given her some kind of direction out here. She probably doesn’t know her way around. It’s easy for people to get hurt if they aren’t trained.

Walking around the side, I see all the bags lined up as they should be, the tarps still intact, even with the wind, and the pallet of cement neatly covered. I hear voices and trail around the back, instantly spotting Jordan helping carry window inserts to the trailer, one of the guys making sure they’re covered, as well.

She’s smiling. Like crazy.

Like eyes gleaming with excitement and she’s about to bounce on the balls of her feet, for crying out loud.

Is she having fun?

Her hood has fallen down, and her ponytail hangs drenched while strands of hair stick to her face. Her shoes are soaked, her jeans are muddy, and thank Christ she’s not wearing a white T-shirt, because the raincoat is doing very little to keep the guys’ eyes off her as it is.

I look over at Dale, Bryan, and Donny who are carrying equipment to the trailer as they cast looks her way, smile, and then turn to each other, laughing at something I can’t hear.

“Hurry up,” I bark at them and they jerk to attention, carrying on.

Jordan walks over to where I stand next to the building and squats down, tucking the tarp under a beam.

“So, you’re the boss then, huh?” She looks up at me inquisitively. Something about her expression seems softer than it did earlier this morning. Happier. More at ease.

Didn’t Cole tell her I own a construction company? Does he talk about me at all?

Hurt winds its way through my gut.

“Well, he tries to be,” Dutch jokes, answering her question.

I throw him a look, but I’m tempted to smile. Bantering is our thing, but I wish the asshole wouldn’t do it at work. It undermines me, dammit.

“Shit!” Jordan suddenly exclaims.

I jerk my eyes back to her and see rainwater crashing down on her head like a waterfall. The tarp has torn away at the top of the frame and spilled all the water it had collected in its crevice. She pops up, escaping from the downpour, and reaches, trying to put it back in place.

But she can’t reach it.

Coming up behind her, I reach in front of her and grab it, holding it in place as I turn my head and jerk my chin at Dutch. He nods and walks off to retrieve the staple gun again.

Jordan lets go of the tarp and slides out from between my arms, stepping to the side and chuckling to herself.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods, wiping off her face and shaking out her jacket. “Yeah. I guess the raincoat was useless, though, huh?”

I drop my eyes to her shirt, seeing the soaked navy-blue T sticking to her body, tight and molded to every inch of her chest and stomach. A sliver of her hips and tummy peek out just below where the shirt is pasted to her. Her skin is flawless, her curves beautiful. I swallow the lump in my throat and turn quickly away.

She definitely has a body I don’t remember nineteen year olds having when I was that age, but she is still only nineteen.

And she’s Cole’s. Not mine. Don’t check her out again.

Dutch comes up and hands me the staple gun, and I start refastening the tarp. She steps back up under my outstretched arms, placing her hands underneath mine and inching in to take over holding it while I staple.

Something warm courses under my skin, but I shake it off. “Do I, uh… need to get you home?” I ask. “Don’t you have class or anything today?”

“Summer schedule,” she replies, glancing up at me. “I only have one class this term, but it’s not until tomorrow. I do have to work at the bar later, though.”

I wonder how she gets back and forth to work—or school, for that matter—since Cole starts his day at ten and doesn’t get off work until six. She has no working vehicle. Which reminds me…I’ll grab a few tools before I leave here that I don’t have at home. Maybe I can help Cole work on her VW today.

After about another hour, everything is as tight as we can make it, the equipment is secured and put away, and everyone is soaked to the bone. I let the guys take off. I hate losing time, but summers are rainy, and we’ve done what we can.

Hell, not even half of them showed up anyway.

I climb back into the truck with Jordan and pull off my wet jacket, while she fastens her seatbelt next to me. I start the engine and wait for the lot to clear a little before finally pulling out, both of us riding in silence.

It’s so quiet all of a sudden, and I realize the rain had been so constant for the last few hours that I hadn’t been able to hear a voice unless it was shouted. Or a movement, unless it was my own. Now, my ears instinctively search for anything to grab onto.

The rain hitting my truck like rubber bullets. The grind of the leather on the steering wheel in my fist. The slosh of the rain under the tires as I charge down the highway, my engine rumbling like a lullaby.

But still, it’s so quiet.

She draws in a deep breath through her nose.

Her raincoat squeaks as she slides her hands underneath her thighs.

I hear a soft clicking sound and dart my eyes to the floor where she’s gently tapping her Chucks together.

She licks her lips, and I fucking wince. Jesus.

Reaching over, I turn on the radio. Anything to distract.

I don’t know why I’m so irritable today. No, I know. I woke up to Lindsay on the phone. She’s the last person I want to deal with first thing in the morning.

It isn’t hard to miss how happy I was at Cole and Jordan’s age, having fun with whatever I could get my hands on and not forcing myself to think too hard about any decisions I was making. But not long after I met Lindsay, the bill for all that fun came due. I made a kid with a girl I barely knew. A pathological liar and someone who manipulates like it’s a fucking sport.

And when I left, I left him with her. Cole never had a chance.

I took her to court, of course, trying to get custody, but judges back then often saw the mother as the better option, and she knew how to solicit sympathy. She wanted Cole, because Cole meant child support. And she certainly got that out of me.

It was like being in prison, having to take him back to her after my weekends with him. She twists things into knots, and that’s what she did to him. By the time he was ten, he was putting himself in front of her if I needed to say things to her, and I was always in the wrong.

By the time he was fourteen, he stopped wanting to visit every other weekend, and now, we barely know each other. He won’t even call unless he needs money.

I shake my head, clearing it. “Want to put in a tape?” I suggest to Jordan.

I don’t meet her eyes, but I can see her head snap in my direction. “A tape? Like a cassette tape?”

Her gaze suddenly flashes to my car stereo and her eyes go wide, surprise lighting up her face. I almost laugh.

She didn’t notice it on the drive here?

“Is that an actual tape deck?” she blurts out.

She reaches out and touches the old car radio like it’s a precious vase and pushes Eject. Out pops a clear cassette tape with white lettering that I’ve never listened to.

She removes it, cupping it in her hand and reading the title. “Guns N’ Roses.” Her hand goes to her mouth, looking like she’s about to fucking cry. “Oh, my God.”

Darting for the glove compartment, she opens it and stares at the line of tapes neatly set up.

“Deep Purple,” she reads, “Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp, ZZ Top…”

Then she seems to spot something that really excites her, because she reaches in and plucks out the black Def Leppard case. “Hysteria?” she exclaims, reading the album title. “They don’t make that album anymore. All you can get is the live version!”

I raise my eyebrows, not sure why this is all so exciting. “I’ll take your word for it,” I say, a little amused at her excitement. “This truck was my father’s. Those are his tapes. I just never got around to clearing them out after he…passed away a few years ago.”

It occurs to me that she’s the first one to touch the Guns N’ Roses tape since he put it in the player.

She looks back at the collection. “Well, that’s good, I guess,” she mumbles. “You clearly don’t know what you have here and these would’ve wound up in the bottom of a trash can, for Christ’s sake. Your dad was a cool guy.”

I smile, agreeing. She carefully places the Guns tape back in its case and removes the Def Leppard tape.

“May I?” she asks, gesturing to the tape deck.

I laugh under my breath and shift into higher gear as we charge down the road. “Go for it.”

We listen to two songs on the way home, entering town, and taking a shortcut past the railroad bridge on the river to our right.

“Wow, look at that,” she says.

I slow the truck and follow her gaze to the right, out her passenger side window, and see the river has risen considerably. Instead of the normal twenty feet of clearance between the bridge and the water, the water now rushes like a threat just below the bottom of the bridge. Thankfully, the rain has slowed, so it shouldn’t get any higher.

I step on the gas again, taking us home.

“That was fun,” she said. “Today, I mean.”

I raise my eyebrows and glance at her.

“I mean…” She blinks, correcting herself. “I don’t mean it was fun. I mean, I hope you didn’t get set behind or lose any money, but…” She inhales and exhales, turning her eyes back out her window. “A couple times I nearly felt like my life was almost in danger.”

She sounds entirely too pleased about that, too, and I can tell by her tone that she’s smiling.

“And that’s fun?” I question.

She turns her eyes back out the front windshield and shrugs, amusement pulling at the corner of her mouth.

I chuckle. “Yeah, it was fun. Thanks for helping. I’ll be sure to let you know when the next storm’s about to roll in, so you can get in on the action.”

“Cool.”

I continue driving down the highway and into our quiet town, turning left and then a sharp right into my neighborhood, content for the first time today. She’s a good kid. I hope Cole doesn’t screw it up, because I can already tell this is the kind of girl who would make a good mother and work by your side, building a life instead of draining you dry.

And for some reason it pleases me that she enjoyed herself today. No one in my family ever took much interest—or pride—in what I do for a living. My mother loves me, of course, as did my dad before he died, but they pushed so hard for me to go to college, and that was the plan until Cole came along.

It was always a disappointment that I stayed in this town and worked a job they thought required more brawn than brains.

When I started Lawson Construction, though—my own business—and built my own home, they still always looked at me like they wanted better but knew it was useless to say anything. They’d given up.

It wasn’t that they hated what I did or were unhappy with the man I’ve become. They mourned my missed opportunities and still worried about their son’s happiness. What they didn’t realize, though, is that I have my own son now and his happiness comes first.

And I actually love a lot of things about what I do. I get hours of fresh air every day, the sun, exercise…. It’s a good life. I sleep well at night. It’s nice to see someone else enjoy it like I do.

“My day is ruined now,” Jordan says. “Nothing will beat that.”

“Beat what?” I reply. “Getting doused in the rain?”

“And playing in the mud.”

I grin, shaking my head as I turn into my driveway. “That’s not playing in the mud.”

She turns to me. “Oh, you mean mudding? Is that why your truck looks all nasty?”

I scoff and turn off the car, shooting her a look. “Kid, if you can tell what color the paint is, then you’re not using your truck right. You got that?”

She rolls her eyes and opens her car door. We both hop out and make our way to the porch.

Come to think of it, if she didn’t mind getting wet and dirty today, she’d probably love mudding. I haven’t been in a long time. My truck only looks nasty because I never wash it. That’s not natural.

“Have you ever taken Cole?” she asks, climbing the steps.

“A few times while he was growing up, yeah.”

I reach out before she gets to the door and open it, holding it wide for her to enter first.

But she turns around, looking up at me before she goes in. “Maybe you can take both of us next time you go,” she suggests. “As long as I can drive. You’re not super possessive of your truck, are you?”

“No. A truck is made to be abused. Go for it. I’ll just wear my seatbelt.”

She smiles softly and stares at me for a moment, something I can’t decipher crossing her face. Did I say something?

I stare back for a moment, noticing how her eyes look almost like a watercolor. Midnight blue but growing lighter the closer they get to the pupil. I look away, clearing my throat.

“Jordan!” Cole suddenly bellows from upstairs. “Baby, you home? Come here!”

I meet her gaze again, and she pulls away, flashing me an apologetic smile. “Gotta go get ready for work. Thanks for letting me help today.”

I nod but stay in the doorway, watching her cross the living room and disappear up the stairs. A strange feeling comes over me as I stare after her. What is she like with Cole? What is he like with her? Is he good to her?

I stand by the front door, hearing the bedroom door close upstairs and knowing she’s in the bedroom with him. The house suddenly feels heavy. Stuffy and thick, and I can’t breathe. I don’t want to go in, no matter if I need dry clothes or not.

I dump my keys on the table to my left and see her VW key laying there. I grab it and step back outside, closing the door before I head back down the porch steps and to the garage on the right of the house.

“Got some house guests, huh?” I hear someone call.

I look over and see Kyle Cramer standing on his front porch with a coffee cup in his hand, covered from the rain which is now a light sprinkle.

I jerk my chin, acknowledging him, but I don’t reply. I never liked the guy and never cared to be friendly. Which he must realize by now.

I don’t care, though. Just looking at him irritates me. And it’s nothing specific that I hate. Just little things that added up over the years. How he treated his wife. How he cheated and was never home. How he kept the house for himself after the divorce and sent her and their kids off to an apartment to live. How he constantly hires babysitters when his kids are supposed to be spending time with him for the weekend.

Eh, who knows? Maybe he tried to get custody and maybe she cheated on him first. You never really know what goes on in someone’s house. Look at me and how my kid was raised, after all. Who am I to judge?

I just still don’t like the guy. He thinks his white-collar career and triathlons make him a hero.

And now I sound fucking jealous. Great.

Punching the code into the panel on the side of the garage door, I step back and let it open. I don’t keep any cars in here, so there’s room for it to serve as more of a shop and workroom.

There are tools, an air compressor, an extra refrigerator, a couple work benches, and an entire table filled with car parts that just kind of got dumped here over the years. Jordan’s car is in the driveway, but I know I’ll need to get in here for a few things after I pop that hood. Cole isn’t bad with cars, but I know it’s going to take money to get that thing running again, and money they don’t have. I’ll at least take a look, so I can see how bad it is.

“Hey, man.”

I look over my shoulder and see Dutch walking up the driveway. He has dry clothes on and a beer in his hand. Not unusual. He keeps a cooler in the back of his truck.

“Hey.” I pull my still-damp T-shirt over my head and toss it on a work bench. Pulling a jack out from under a table, I walk back out of the garage and toward the faded green VW. Dutch pulls a lawn chair out and carries it to the grass next to Jordan’s car.

“Five tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yep.”

Since we lost time today, he knows I’ll want to start early tomorrow.

“So the guys were thinking of hitting Grounders in a bit here. Grab some beers, listen to some music…” he tells me. “There’s nothing else to do in this weather.”

I twist the wrench but glance over at him. “Grounders? Since when do you go there? Did Poor Red’s close down?”

“No,” he answers, shrugging. “They just realized there was some fetching eye candy at Grounders now.”

I look over at him, and he’s smiling and jerking his head toward the house and who’s inside it.

“Yeah, shut up.” I squeeze the wrench. “That’s my kid’s girl. You guys leave her alone.”

“I’m not going to do anything!” He holds up his hands in defense. “I’m married.”

“I don’t even want y’all looking,” I state, standing up straight and tossing the tool down.

Granted, I’ve been looking, but I didn’t know who she was when we first met.

I wipe my hands with the shop cloth. “You got that? Leave the kid alone.”

He just scoffs, slouching in his seat and laying his head back. “The kid, I’m sure, has dealt with lots of male attention already, working at that bar. And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a little extra business tonight.”

He makes her sound like a prostitute. But I guess he’s right. Fending off unwanted attention has to be a skill by now, especially working at a dive like that.

I still can’t see it, though. The girl has a mouth on her, but she’s pretty innocent and sweet, too. Picturing her in that environment is impossible.

“Hi,” a female voice chirps.

I lean over and look around the hood, seeing the same young woman who was here last night. What was her name again?

“Pike, right?” she says, putting a hand on her chest. “Cam, remember? I’m Jordan’s sister.”

Dutch is staring at her, his mouth hanging open just slightly.

“I’m just here to give her a ride to work,” Cam tells me and then her eyes fall down my torso and arms. “And nice ink, man.”

Her eyes light up as she nods her approval. I notice she has some, too, down her upper arm, and a phoenix on the side of her torso. Which I can only see, because she’s wearing almost no clothes, dressed in a black mini skirt and a black tank top cut off just under her breasts.

Where the fuck is your father? Seriously…

Behind her, a new-ish white Mustang convertible sits parked at the curb, the car filled with two other women, all looking similarly dressed from what I can tell. They have big hair, and I can feel the breeze from their eyelashes when they blink all the way from here.

But then something occurs to me, and I look around the hood again. “You all work together? With Jordan?”

“No, we work at The Hook.”

Dutch makes a gargled sound, and I realize he’s choking on his beer. He coughs and laughs at the same time as he clears his throat.

Cam nods and teases, “Yeah, you know The Hook.”

He chuckles, and I swear I see him blush. “I may have been familiar with the place back in the day.”

The Hook is a strip club downtown, not far from Grounders where Jordan works.

“Jordan doesn’t work there, too, does she?” I ask. I mean, she could have two jobs, I suppose, but if I can’t picture her behind the bar at Grounders, I really don’t want the mental image of her at The Hook.

But thankfully, Cam rushes to respond. “Oh, no, but my boss did offer her a job bartending, though,” she says. “He’s been trying to wear her down for a year now. She’s shy, though.”

She says the last with a little wink, and I’m not sure what that means. Shy about what? Would she have to wear something similar to the dancers to work behind the bar there?

Yeah, no. Picturing her at The Hook, dealing with the guys who come in wanting one thing will stress me out. Does Cole know about the job offer? I can’t imagine he’d want her working there.

I don’t have time to think about it more, though, because Jordan comes down the front porch and walks across the lawn to her sister.

“Stop talking about me,” she warns her, clutching the strap of her bag over her chest, but Cam just shoots her a playful look.

Jordan responds with an eye roll, but I barely notice it. My heart is pounding painfully, taking in her attire.

I look away.

For some reason, the judgement I dealt Cam for her clothes doesn’t transfer to Jordan, even though she’s a few years younger. Dressed in dark blue jeans shorts, low on the hip and high on the thigh, they’re not cut off but rolled up, and her loose, black T-shirt shows off her stomach and hangs off one shoulder. Her hair hangs down her back in big, loose curls, and her eyes are rimmed in dark liner and dark eye shadow, making the midnight blue in her eyes pop like a stream of moonligt on a night sea.

I wonder if she’s wearing her Chucks again, but that would mean getting past her legs, and I’m having a hard time doing that, so I keep my gaze averted and continue working on the car.

Guilt rips through me. She’s Cole’s. He kisses her. He holds her. He makes her smile. It’s not my place to have any opinions about her, especially territorial ones like where she bartends or how she dresses. I just still keep feeling like I did in the theater. She’s a young woman I met and had fun talking to, and no one else had anything to do with it. Part of me keeps feeling like I knew her first, even though I know I didn’t.

“I have a double shift today,” she says, and I guess she’s talking to me, “so I’ll get off late, but I have my key.”

I nod and refit the cap, not looking at anyone.

There’s a short silence before she starts to move away. “Okay, see you both later,” she says.

“Thanks for the help today, sugar,” Dutch calls out to her.

He raises his arm high and waves at the girls, and I hear some giggles before the car takes off. I keep going with what I’m doing, not thinking about how unsafe that area of town is at night or the perk of working behind a bar is that customers can’t get their hands on her, which is nice. Her job is great, actually. It’s better money than she’ll make at Burger King or being a telemarketer. She and Cole will be out of the house in no time.

But no wonder that asshole Mick is trying to get her to work at The Hook. For Christ’s sake. Done all up like she is tonight? Men pay a lot of money for young and hot, but even more for young and hot farmer’s daughter.

I’m unscrewing, cleaning, and refastening the caps when I realize my hand is aching, and the muscles are tired. I stop and stand up straight, cracking my knuckles.

But then I see Dutch watching me out of the corner of my eye, and I look over at him, meeting his stare.

“What?” I ask.

Why is he staring at me?

But he just gives me a small smile and shakes his head. “Nothing.”