Birthday Girl(54)

I watch as she licks her lips, her breathing shallow, and the jolt to my cock, feeling damn near ready to tear something apart with my teeth.

What is she doing to me?

“Women old enough to drink, for starters,” I retort, pulling my hand away.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, like you’re some bar-hopping partier yourself.”

Yeah, she’s right. I drink at home.

“But good.” She sighs, backing up and planting her hands on her hips. “I didn’t really want to set you up with her.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think she’s your type.” She tosses away the wrappers, ease in her eyes now. “Plus, I’d be jealous. I like being the only woman in the house.”

“And if I had said yes?”

She shrugs, feigning an apologetic look. “Well, then you just wouldn’t get your new favorite burgers the way you like them anymore.”

I grin, shaking my head. So presumptuous.

But yeah, actually I do love her way of making burgers better.

She takes my hand, giving my little wound a good once-over.

“It’s fine. Thank you.” I stand up, forcing her back a little. “Go on out with your friends.”

She turns her head over her shoulder, gazing outside, but she doesn’t look in the mood to party anymore.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, walking back to the watermelon and loading the big bowl with the pieces.

“Try to get back to sleep, I guess,” I tell her.

Hopefully she doesn’t mess with the AC, and I can stay asleep.

Making my way out of the kitchen, I rub my finger, feeling the ache of the stab.

I glance back at her and see her eyes already on me over her shoulder. She quickly turns back to her work, and I just want to stay.

After a long moment, I swallow. “’Night,” I say.

But before I make it into the living room, I hear her voice behind me. “What did you mean, ‘in a good way’?”

Her eyes are on me again, and I lift the corner to my mouth in a small smile. I’m not sure what to say that doesn’t sound completely inappropriate.

Finally, I just decide to spit out the easiest answer, turning and heading for the stairs. “I like talking to you,” I say over my shoulder.





Jordan



I like talking to you? What have I ever said that was so fascinating? I let out a scoff, shaking my head as I peel the potatoes for dinner.

Maybe it’s a lack of options. He’s lived alone for so long that any conversation seems interesting? We have absolutely nothing in common.

But, the truth is…I loved hearing it. Why do I want him to like me so much? And why was the party the last place I wanted to be last night when I realized he wouldn’t be out there, too?

I glance up and see him in the backyard through the window in front of me. He works on trimming the tree by the fence separating his yard from Cramer’s, holding a long, hand-held device that stretches up into the tall branches. I mentioned that not enough sunlight is reaching the garden, so he took it upon himself to solve the problem. Without even being asked.

I love the garden more than I admit to him. It’s like my own little space, and it will still be there after I leave. It’s comforting.

The seeds are planted, and the sprinklers dust the soil for a few minutes every morning and evening like clockwork. I’ve started to like hearing them kick on in the wee hours when it’s still dark, and I’m the only person up and in the kitchen with my coffee.

Everything is starting to feel familiar and warm here. Like a home.

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.