Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(65)

A hunched bald man scoots up beside Grams. “I was a handyman in my day. You just tell me what needs fixin’, and I’ll get her done.”

A smiling wrinkly-faced little woman moves forward next. “When I was a girl, I built planes in the factory during World War II.”

Another man, this one with thick gray hair rubs his hands together. “I was a roofer—where’s your ladder?”

Grams grins. “We’re old, but we’re not dead yet.”

She gestures to an adorable gentleman in a tool belt and flannel shirt. “This is my boyfriend, the Widower Anderson.”

The widower pulls the trigger on the drill in his hand. “I brought my power tools—drill, baby, drill.”



~



Grams and the Gray Army aren’t the only surprise visitors I get. After the senior bus leaves around 1pm—to take them to the early bird dinner special at Dinky’s Diner—Debbie Christianson, Dean’s old friend, stops by with her little girl.

Debbie is sweet and friendly and about my age. She does a great job of recording a video of her and my mom hanging a chandelier and helping my dad finish the dresser project. On her way out, she tells me she’ll come by again on Monday for a few hours.

A little while after that, Angela Daniels, Garrett’s sister-in-law who I met at the Christmas Bazaar comes over—with a huge tray of lasagna and spaghetti sauce and chicken cacciatore that she puts in the freezer for us to eat next week.

My mom makes coffee and the three of us sit in the living room.

“Thank you for the food, Angela,” I tell her. “It’s so sweet of you.”

She waves her hand. “It’s nothin’. You’re Dean’s girl, you’re family now. And that’s how it is around Lakeside—we take care of our own.” She gazes at the swell of my stomach. “Can I touch it?”

“Oh, sure.”

She moves closer and gives the bump a rub—sighing with a mixture of longing and relief. “Frigging kids, am I right? Miracles that turn your hair gray. The worry starts now, and it never ends.”



~



I’m settled in bed, editing a video that I’ll post tomorrow when Dean and Jason get home, at about nine-thirty, from a Mathletes competition. Jason comes in to talk for a few minutes before giving me a hug and heading to bed. I know things between him and Dean are strained, but he’s going with the flow and he’s been on his best behavior—and he’s doing it for me. So I won’t worry. And for the thousandth time, I wonder what I did to be blessed with such a great kid.

I hear Dean lock up downstairs and he turns down the hallway lights before coming in the room.

Sex and orgasms and any below the waist action are off-limits while I’m on bed rest. We still haven’t fully discussed the Kelly incident, and I know we have to—but I’ve made a conscious decision not to think about it right now.

Dean loosens the green tie around his neck as he walks in. The only thing more stunning than Dean Walker in a suit that shows off those broad shoulders, tapered waist, and perfect ass . . . is watching him take said suit off.

And I do—watch him. I set my laptop aside and stare unabashedly as he opens the line of buttons down his torso and peels the shirt off his arms, revealing tan, taut skin and ripped muscles, and lickable abs. Then the pants go—unzipped and stripped off with sure, confident moves, leaving Dean in snug black boxer briefs that don’t leave anything to the imagination.

He hops onto the bed with a lion’s grace, making me bounce beside him. Then he rests his head on one hand and runs the other up my arm, toying with a curl of my hair and teasing with his tone.

“How was your day, dear?”

Dean lays his big hand on my stomach, rubbing.

“Both of your days.”

“Surprisingly eventful. We had lots of visitors.”

The amused twinkle in his eye calls to me.

“No kidding?”

“But you already knew that.”

“I did know that.” He nods. “Did you make any progress?”

“Yeah—we finished bedroom number three, and the dining room is starting to come together—and I recorded enough footage for two videos that I’m editing now.”

“Good.” The corner of Dean’s mouth hooks into the smile that I love. “The football team will be by tomorrow after school, so if you want any pieces moved from the den, that’s the time to do it.”

“The football team?”

He leans over and kisses my forehead, humming.

“Mm-hmm, and the Mathletes on the weekend. I have unlimited access to free child labor, so, I don’t want you to worry. You can direct from this bed, or a chair, or a couch, and we’ll get everything done.”

“We will, huh?”

He looks into my eyes and brushes his fingertips across my cheek.

“Yeah. We’re in this together. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

And everything inside me goes warm and liquid—melty and mushy. Tears spring into my eyes, and clog my throat. Because I’ve never let myself depend on someone else—not really. It’s always been too risky. Too scary. Too hard.

But Dean’s making it easy. To count on him. Believe in him. . . in us.

“I think I’m starting to get that,” I tell him softly. “It may take a little time.”