Birthday Girl(93)

We’ve known each other less than a month, but I feel like she’s always been there. Like I was saving that side of the bed just for her.

I don’t know if I love her, but I’ve never wanted anything or anyone this bad.

Her foot peeks out from the sheet, and I smile at her pink toes. So very Jordan.

She moans and turns her head, and I raise my eyes, seeing her turn over in her sleep, resting her hand on the pillow next to her face.

The sheet is down at her waist, and the shirt has ridden up, showing a sliver of her stomach, and I let instinct take over. It’s still dark outside.

The night doesn’t have to be over yet.

Peeling down the sheet, I see her hot pink panties, and I don’t mind that she doesn’t sleep naked. It means I get to undress her.

Gently pulling down her underwear, I climb over her, putting one knee between her legs and sliding her shirt up with one of my hands.

I touch her and kiss her softly, moving across her cheek to her ear and back toward her mouth.

“Good morning,” I whisper, nibbling at her.

She moans again, arching to meet my lips which are trailing down her body, tasting her stomach, her hips, and back up to her breasts.

“Isn’t it?” she says, joking.

I chuckle.

Reaching over to my nightstand, I dig out another condom and rip off my towel. “Just a quickie, okay?” I tease. “To get me through the day.”

She moans again, stretching her arms above her head. “’Kay.”

And I dive in.

Several minutes later we’re both panting and sweaty again, and I need another shower, but I don’t have time.

Fuck, that was good. Is it me or does she feel better in the morning?

I look over at the clock. “I gotta go.”

I don’t want to, though. How awful would it be if the boss calls in sick, so he can stay home and fuck his hot, little live-in all day?

Reluctantly, I climb off her and walk to my dresser, pulling out some jeans and a T-shirt. “Do you have to work tonight?” I ask.

She pulls the sheet back up over her and gazes at me sleepily. “Maybe.”

I shake my head. Always playing games.

“Maybe I’ll be home,” she explains, “or maybe you’ll have to find me.”

I close the dresser drawer and open another, grabbing socks.

I turn to her, fixing a stern look on my face. “I’ll be home at five. Be here,” I order her. And then I start to walk toward the door but turn and soften my voice, adding, “Please?”

She grins and turns on her side, hugging my pillow under her again and looking at me with the sweetest eyes. “Miss me.”

I do already.

I leave, closing the door behind me and closing her bedroom door, too. Just in case Cole comes home, sees her empty bed, and starts to wonder where she is.

Jogging down the stairs, I feel an urge to smile even as the guilt knots my stomach. I almost feel normal.

But luckier than any guy I know. The girl of my dreams is in my bed right now, and I get to come home to her, too. She was right. I have everything I need under this roof.

Except my son. This is his home, and he’s not here, and Jordan makes me forget him.

For nineteen years, it was always him. Sacrificing to build my business to be able to give him a good home and education, and either being scared of relationships after what I went through with Lindsay or losing relationships, because other women didn’t want to have to deal with the mother of my child for the rest of our lives. My life revolved around him, but no matter what I did, it all still went to shit. She twisted him up and used him against me, and he doesn’t know whom to trust.

Letting myself be happy with a woman isn’t wrong, but that woman being Jordan is what could break whatever faith he has left in his parents. Why can’t I stop? Why does my heart hurt so much every time she smiles? Or chews on her thumbnail or stands on her tiptoes to reach something in the kitchen or fucking blinks, for Christ’s sake?

I walk into the kitchen and pour coffee into my travel mug. I fasten the lid and grab my lunch out of the fridge, throwing in some extra chips, since I don’t have time for breakfast.

The doorbell suddenly rings, and I turn, scowling. Who’s showing up this time of morning?

Leaving everything on the counter, I walk to the front door and lean over, peering out the front window.

And speak of the devil…

My ex stands out there in nylon workout pants and a matching tank top. Her hair is up in a messy brown bun, but she has a full face of make-up on. She’s the only person I know who gets made-up to go to the gym.

Of course, she probably only goes to meet guys.

I pull open the door, trying to be quiet, so Jordan doesn’t stir.

“What do you want?” I say, holding open the door.

“Well, you’re nice,” she sneers, keeping her arms crossed over her chest. “Ever the asshole, huh?”

And without waiting for an invitation, she walks in, pushing past my arm.

“If you’re showing up at my door at five in the morning, it can’t be good,” I say, closing the door. “Are you drunk?”

She walks into the kitchen, tosses her keys on my counter, and spins around, facing me. “Why is my son living at some random girl’s house and not with you?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her fake concern which is just an excuse to be invasive. “He’s welcome to come home any time,” I explain, heading for the stool and grabbing my T-shirt. “He’s the one who left.”