Birthday Girl

No way was she paying for half the pizza, for Christ’s sake. I invited her, didn’t I? And the point of them staying here is to save money, isn’t it? I shove past her, ignoring the cash in her hand as I carry the pizza to the kitchen island.

She sighs, letting out a little growl. I chuckle. “Look, I got the pizza, okay? Just make sure I don’t have any of your limpy lettuce on my half.”

“Haha.” She walks to the fridge and digs out two sodas.

I’m a pretty simple pepperoni man, and I can get behind taco pizza, but not that warm, droopy shredded lettuce that comes with it. She can have a ball all by herself.

We divvy up the slices on two plates, but before we trail into the living room, she drops a pile of greens on my plate with a pair of tongs.

“Uh, thanks.”

“If you eat the veggies first,” she points out, “you’ll have less room for pizza. A little trick I picked up on Pinterest.”

Pinter-what?

“You’ll eat less pizza then,” she continues, “consume less calories, and you’ll feel better after your meal.”

Yeah, okay. If I cared about consuming less calories, I guess.

Fine. Fuck it. Whatever. I stalk over to the refrigerator and grab the Ranch dressing in the inside of the door.

“No,” she blurts out, stopping me. “There’s dressing on it already. Raspberry vinaigrette.”

I straighten and fix her with a look.

She just smiles and turns away.

I take out two forks, pass her one, and carry my plate and soda into the living room with her trailing behind.

Once seated, I pick up my fork and let out a sigh before digging into the salad. I remember what my mom said about vegetables growing up. They taste better if you eat them when you’re hungry. I’ll get it over with and eat them first like Jordan suggested then.

I stuff the forkful in my mouth, the bitter taste of the leaves dulled only a little by the sweet dressing.

“Good, right?” she says.

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re killing me.”

She laughs. “Well, thanks for giving it a shot. You can stop if you want.”

But I persevere anyway. It’s not like I couldn’t use a dose of greens, right?

And it’s not like I hate vegetables. I like corn on the cob and like…potatoes and stuff. Those are technically vegetables, right?

“So, what are you watching?” she asks.

I look up at the TV and realize the volume is too low. I reach for the remote and turn it up. “Fight Club,” I tell her.

“Oh, hey. I was born the year this was made.”

I arch an eyebrow but keep my mouth shut.

But I do the math in my head, remembering I saw this my senior year in high school. So yeah, that would be about right.

Shit, I’m getting old. To think of everything that’s gone on in my lifetime that she wasn’t around for or old enough to remember. I glance over at her, taking in her young skin and hopeful eyes.

She was just in high school a year ago.

We eat in silence for the next couple of hours, engrossed in one of my favorite movies. I have no idea if she’s already seen it, but she after a while, her plate sits half-eaten and forgotten on the coffee table, and she’s sitting at the other end of the couch, hugging her legs and watching intently.

“They make smoking look so appetizing,” she finally says, watching Marla Singer on the screen.

“Appetizing?”

She clears her throat and sits up. “Well, it’s like Bruce Willis,” she explains. “I could watch him smoke for days. It’s like he’s eating. Eating a nice, succulent…”

“Steak,” I finish for her, understanding.

“Exactly.” She flashes me a soft smile. “They totally own it. It’s part of their wardrobe.”

“Well,” I sigh, gathering up our plates and rising. “Don’t start smoking.”

“You do.”

I pause, looking down at her. I’ve only smoked once since they moved in, and I never smoke in the house. I don’t even think Cole knows I smoke.

She clarifies, probably seeing the confusion on my face. “I noticed the cigar butt in the ashtray outside,” she says.

Ah. I continue toward the kitchen, carrying the dishes around the coffee table. “On rare occasions, yes. I like the smell.”

“Why?” She gets up off the couch, grabbing the empty soda cans and napkins and following me.

“I just do.” I clear off the plates and put them in the dishwasher. “My grandfather, he smoked, so…”

It seemed natural to start sharing, but all of a sudden it feels stupid.

“So…?” she presses.

But I just shake my head, closing the dishwasher door and starting the machine. “I just like the smell, is all,” I finish curtly.

I’m not sure why I’m having trouble talking to her. There was no mystery here. My grandpa was awesome, and I had a great childhood, but the more I grew up, the further away I felt from that feeling when I was eight. The feeling of being somewhere I loved and feeling what I felt.

Happiness.

I smoke cigars once in a while to take me back there.

It’s not the kind of thing I feel comfortable sharing with just anyone, though.

But it’s funny how close I came to doing just that with her a minute ago.

I can feel her eyes on me, and the awkwardness crawls my skin.

“You want a beer?” I ask, swinging open the fridge and grabbing two out. Anything to change the subject.

“Um…sure.”

I pop the tops and hand her a Corona, finally meeting her eyes. Her very young, very blue, and very nineteen-year-old eyes. Shit. I forgot she’s underage again.

Whatever. I take a drink and head out of the kitchen. She works in a bar, doesn’t she? I’m sure customers have bought her shots before.

I plant my ass back on the couch, hanging my arm around the back of the seat and taking another drink. The movie still has a few minutes left, and she sits down at the other end to finish watching, but I can’t seem to concentrate anymore.

And I don’t think she’s watching, either.

Something’s changed. The conversation was easy, and then it wasn’t. And it’s my fault. I’m cold. Somewhere after Lindsay and the chaos, I stopped being able to open up. I got too used to being alone.

I frown. I don’t want her to avoid me, because I can’t carry on a fucking conversation. She’s Cole’s girlfriend, and I don’t want walls between him and me anymore. She could help with that.

“Are you planning to stay in town after you finish school?” I ask.

She glances over and shrugs a little. “I’m not sure. It’s still a few years off,” she says. “I don’t really mind it here as long as I can afford vacations from time to time.” She laughs a little. “I just don’t want to be working a dead-end job forever, you know? If I can find work in the area, then it might be nice to stick around for my sister and my nephew for a while.”

There’s lots of construction going on here and in surrounding towns and suburbs. Which is why I found it easy to stay all these years. If she’s getting into landscape design, it’s very possible she’ll have good prospects if she stays in the area.

“Have you ever traveled?” I ask, glancing over at her.

But then I stop, suddenly forgetting what I was saying. I drop my eyes to her ass, her body now twisted around as she leans over the arm of the couch to set her beer down. Her little shorts hug every curve, her knees are spread a little, and for a moment, I’m drawn to the dip between her thighs.

Heat floods my groin, and my cock throbs.

Shit. I look away.

I struggle for air and sweat breaks out on my neck. What the fuck?

She may not seem young, but she is. She’s a kid. What the hell am I doing?

She sits backs down, and I tip up my bottle, taking another swig to cover my nerves.

“Not really,” she answers.

What did I ask her again? Oh, right. Traveling.

“I went to New Orleans with my sister when I was fifteen, and I won a scholarship to a summer camp in Virginia when I was twelve,” she tells me. “That’s about it.”

“New Orleans at fifteen?” I joke. Must’ve been interesting.

A thoughtful smile crosses her face, but it falls quickly. “That’s where my mom lives,” she says.

Oh, yeah, that’s right. Her dad is Chip Hadley. I don’t pay much attention to gossip, but I know he’s been married a couple times.

Jordan clears her throat, sitting up. “She left when I was four.”

Four? What kind of person would leave her like that?

She sits quietly, looking like she’s thinking, and an urge comes over me to have her in my arms.

Right now.

“When my sister graduated from high school, we tracked her down,” she explains, “and we took a road trip that summer to visit her.”

“How did it go?”

She shrugs a little. “Fine, I guess. She was waitressing, had a little apartment, and was living her life. She was pleased to see us. Now that we’re grown and don’t need a lot of care, I suppose,” she adds.

She finally looks over at me, quirking a sad smile.

“Did you ask her why she left?” I inquire.

But she just shakes her head. “No, I used to want to know, but then when I met her, I didn’t really care anymore.” She pauses and then adds, “I didn’t like her.”

I watch her, remaining quiet. Does Cole have those thoughts about me?

“So, have you ever been married?” Her voice is light, and I can tell she’s trying to change the subject.

I sit up, taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes at myself. . “Cole’s mom and I didn’t last long after he was born,” I tell her, “and I don’t know… I got caught up in trying to build a livelihood—a future. Got used to being alone.”

I run my fingers over my scalp, finally resting my head on my hand and looking over at her. But she looks skeptical, studying me with something cautious in her eyes. Like she doesn’t believe that’s why I’m still single.

“There were chances to get married,” I say, assuring her, “but I guess even in high school I never wanted to be one of the numbers and do what I was supposed to do, you know? Graduate, get a job, get married, have kids…die.”

I breathe out a laugh, but surprisingly, the words are coming easy now.

“My grandfather, the one who also smoked cigars,” I clarify, “passed away when I was nine, but I still remember this house party my parents had when my dad finished college. He was in his thirties, the first one in the family to get a college education, so it was a big deal.”

She sits back in the seat, holding the bottle with both hands and listening.

“I think I was like six years old at the time,” I tell her. “My grandparents were there, and everyone was talking and laughing, but what I remember most is my grandfather, in his sixties, six-foot-four and two-hundred-fifty pounds shaking the foundations of the house, because he was dancing around to Jump by the Pointer Sisters.”

She breaks into a smile. Yeah, you can just picture it.

“My grandmother watched from the table, laughing with everyone else with this look of joy.” I swallow, remembering the huge smile on her face. “Everyone was just so happy, and even at their age, they kept growing, having fun, being silly…” I trail off. “I don’t know. I liked that, I guess.”

“You want that,” Jordan says quietly.

I think about my grandparents, constantly making each other smile, and all the women I’ve been with, and how I never felt that. Not even with Lindsay. I was probably incapable.

“It just didn’t look forced, you know?” I go on, turning to her. “They set a high standard. It’s hard to find that one person who speaks your language.”

She drops her eyes, looking deep in thought.

I keep going, changing the subject. “What about you?” I broach. “Any ideas about how you want your life to be someday? Your marriage, the wedding, the perfect day, the perfect dress…?”

She just sighs and takes a drink from the bottle. “I really don’t care about the wedding,” she says, staring back at the television. “I just want the life.”

The life.

Those words hit hard, and I don’t know why.

Maybe because I’m still waiting for the same thing.

Over a week later, and the house has settled into a routine, thanks to our pizza and movie night.

Jordan is usually already up when I come downstairs in the morning, and I notice there’s a nicer sheen on tabletops and countertops that wasn’t there the evening before. The floors feel clean, the refrigerator is magically free of bad food and three-day-old leftovers, and the appliances shine.

Everything smells fragrant, too, and sometimes it’s because she made muffins or pancakes, and sometimes it’s because of the scented candles I no longer mind her burning in the house. She uses a French press for coffee, and I’ve stopped using my Keurig in favor of it.

Anything Cole left laying in the living room, like shoes or soda cans, the night before are suddenly gone, and I can’t remember the last time I had to unload the dishwasher.

And I don’t, for one moment, believe it’s thanks to my kid. He’s become pretty damn lazy, it seems, and I hadn’t realized how he’d changed.

The more he grew up, the less time he wanted to spend with me, and I see hints of how his mom was with me in how he treats Jordan now. He’s neglectful, and I find myself grinding my teeth to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.

I love my kid, but it’s hard to see why he deserves her.

He’s hardly ever home except to sleep, and when he is, Jordan’s at work until two in the morning. I was worried I’d walk in on them having sex on the couch or something when I offered to let them live here, but thank God, their schedules don’t mesh well so they’re hardly here at the same time. And if they are, I’m at work, and I don’t have to hear or see anything.

Still, though, she’s alone a lot. He won’t even stay home on her nights off, and I wonder why the hell she puts up with it. She seems capable and strong-willed. A girl who can handle herself. What brought them together? She doesn’t seem to have anyone but Cole and that sister of hers, in fact. No friends or other family members have dropped by here to see her that I can tell.

Either way, though, I’m enjoying having her around, even if I do wish Cole was home more. I break into a smile as soon as I walk through the door every afternoon, hearing her 80’s music carrying through the house and somehow making it feel even more like summer time in here. It’s nice not to come home to an empty house for a change, and I even find myself leaving work on time every day, because I actually enjoy being home now.

She and I have chatted more over the last several days, inquiring about how work was or how school is going for her, and the girl has an uncanny ability to get me to talk. She likes to run shit, and she’s good about teasing or making jokes to put me at ease.

I can do without her eggplant lasagna, that’s for sure, but if she weren’t here, Cole would be avoiding me even more than he is now, and I wouldn’t be holding my tongue with him as well as I am. I’m glad she’s here.

Holding the bag of laundry over my shoulder, I charge down the stairs, swing around the bannister, and walk into the laundry room.

After clearing my clothes out of the dryer, I moved the stuff from the washer and drop a new load in, starting both machines again. I catch sight of the dust on the front of my T-shirt from working in the garage this morning and pull it off, dropping it in the running water before closing the lid.

Stuffing the bag on top of the dry clothes, I pick up the basket and head back upstairs. In my room, I dump the clothes onto the bed and sift through the pile, looking for another shirt.

But I stop, grazing my fingers over a tiny piece of red fabric I don’t recognize. It lays nestled in a pair of my jeans, and I don’t have to think twice to know what it is.

I stand up straight, steeling my spine.

Shit.

Hooking my finger through the little band, I eye the see-through, red G-string hanging from my finger.

“What the hell?” I say under my breath, looking down at the laundry to double-check I have my clothes. “How did this get in my stuff?”

“Jord—!” I call out for her but stop, realizing how awkward it’s going to look if I have her underwear. I’m going to look like some creeper, getting caught with her panties. Jesus.

I drop the undergarment like it’s a hot pan.

They fall to the bed, and I rub the back of my neck, feeling the light sweat on my skin. My mind wanders.

It’s been a hell of a long time since any woman’s underwear was on my bed. Or in my bed.

And it certainly wasn’t a G-string, either. An image of my son’s innocent, little girlfriend wearing this flashes in my head, and I round my eye, rearing back a little. “Fuck. I’m gonna go to hell.”

I gather up all the laundry again, burying the garment in my clothes to hide it, so I can take the basket back downstairs. I’ll just toss the underwear on top of the dryer or something and let her find it.

Picking up the basket, though, I register the soft rumble of the lawnmower start up outside and set the laundry back down, walking to the window.

Jordan is in the backyard, marching up and down the grass and pushing my green Craftsman lawnmower. What is she—

I lock my jaw, aggravation setting in. I told Cole to mow the goddamn grass. Helping with the yard work is his responsibility.

I watch as she bobs her head, and that’s when I notice the high-pitched whir of guitars and the beats of a drum. She must be listening to music.

I quirk a smile. What awful 80s hair band is she listening to today?

Sweat darkens her gray T-shirt at the middle of her back and even from here I can see her hair, some having fallen free from her ponytail, sticking to her neck. Her short, white shorts show off the muscles in her thighs and calves, flexing as she pushes the machine. Her skin glistens with sweat, and I zone in on the small of her back, seeing her damp skin shine in the sunlight.

Heat pools low in my stomach, and my smile falls as I watch her.

I’m frozen. I don’t want to look away.

But finally, I blink, averting my eyes and swallowing through the dryness in my mouth.

Doesn’t she have a project or something to be working on for her summer class? She mentioned that a few days ago. Cole can do the damn lawn.

Reaching down, I lift up the window and stick my head out, opening my mouth to call her out, but all of a sudden she releases the handles, whips her head back and forth, and breaks into air-guitar mode.

I stop and watch her, furrowing my brow but damn near breaking into a laugh, too.

“Pour some sugar on me!” the Bluetooth speaker screams. “Ooooh, in the name of love!”

She lip syncs, bending herself backwards, and then breaks into other moves, dancing and getting carried away in the song.

Gripping the handle again, she uses it for support as she throws her head side to side, flipping her hair and swaying her hips. The rubber band from her ponytail falls out and the locks whip around, the beautiful kink in the strands falling in her face and making her look absolutely beautiful. My lungs ache for air as desire rips through me, watching her move. God, if she’s yours, how do you not touch her twenty-four seven?

I stop the thought in its tracks, though, and start to pull my head back in, but I catch sight of Kyle Cramer next door, standing on his bedroom balcony.

He stares down at Jordan, watching her dance.

My fingers tighten around the window frame.

Asshole. His kids are probably in the house, and he’s leering like a fucking pervert.

I try not to think about how I’m practically doing the same thing, but I feel a protective urge to get a damn shotgun or something. This one’s not babysitting for you, dickhead.

The lawnmower suddenly dies, and I turn back to Jordan just in time to see her walk up to the edge of the pool, breathing heavily and wet with sweat. She pushes her hair out of her face, inhales a deep breath, and then takes a step, falling into the deep end of the pool and sinking beneath its surface, clothes and all.

I stop breathing.

It’s hot. It’s in the nineties today, and she needs to cool off. But I jerk my gaze back to Kyle as he inches his chin up, trying to get a better view. Jordan then pops back up the surface, floating on her back and resting there, her T-shirt molded to her body like a second skin. Hard, little points jut toward the sky from under her shirt, and I see a smile curl his fucking lips.

“Fucking hell,” I hiss under my breath. Swinging my head back into the bedroom, I slam the window closed.

Leaving the room, I charge down the hallway and jog down the stairs. Moving across the kitchen, I head through the laundry room and out the back door. Jordan is swimming for the edge of the pool again, getting out.

I dart my eyes up and see Kyle still watching as she climbs out, her clothes plastered to her body and water running down every inch of available skin.

His eyes flash to me, and I shoot him a middle finger. He just laughs and shakes his head, going back in his fucking house.

Jordan fists her hair, bringing it over her shoulder and ringing it out. My gaze falls down her legs, water dripping down her toned thighs and her shorts melted to her ass.

I steel myself, fixing on a stern expression. “Jordan,” I call.

She turns, seeing me, and hesitates only a moment before heading my way. She must have some idea that she’s not completely appropriate right now, because she folds her arms over her chest.

“I thought I told Cole to mow the lawn.” I try to hide the growl building in my chest.

She nods and picks up her ice water off the lawn table. “As long as it gets done, right?” And then she looks at me, inquiring, “Am I doing a bad job?”

“Of course, n—no,” I reply quickly, hating how easily she can make me feel like an ungrateful asshole. “It looks fine, but you’re already doing enough. More than enough. He handles the yard work. He can find the damn time.”

“It’s fine.” She brushes me off and sets her water down, turning back for the lawnmower. “I need the sun and exercise anyway.”

“I’ll finish it.” I stop her, walking ahead toward the mower.

But she catches me by the arm. “I got it,” she maintains, anger growing in her eyes. “Seriously. We’re not here on a free ride. I can handle a few chores.”

“Not dressed like that, you don’t.”

Her eyebrows pinch together. “Excuse me?”

I inch forward, dropping my voice as I speak to her. “My neighbor has been glued to his balcony watching your every move out here,” I bite out. “God knows what he’s thinking.”

“That’s not my problem,” she argues. “I was hot. I jumped in the pool. My clothes are on.”

“Yeah, like a second skin,” I finish for her, my teeth baring. “You can’t pull that shit here. It’s a family neighborhood. Not your sister’s strip club.”

“I’m in the backyard!” she growls, her face tensing. “What does anyone care how I’m dressed?”

“Their wives will!”

She arches an eyebrow and her chest heaves with angry breaths.

I look down at her, calming my voice. “The wives in this neighborhood don’t appreciate cock teases strutting around and taunting their husbands, okay?” I state in plain English, so she gets it through her head.

But she just lets out a bitter laugh like she can’t believe I’m for real. “Uh…yeah, wow.” She nods and takes in a deep breath, lifting her chin and looking at me head-on. “Um, okay, here’s the thing…. I realize things were probably a little different back when you were a teenager—EIGHTY-NINE YEARS AGO!—” she fires back.

“It was twenty, thank you.”

“But nowadays,” she keeps going, “we don’t hold a woman responsible for a man’s behavior.” Her eyes pierce, and there’s a little snarl on her lips. “If he wants to look, I can’t stop him. If he wants to step off somewhere private and do a little self-lovin’, hey, I’ll never know. Not my problem!”

I clench my fists. Damn brat.

I can’t catch my breath, but we don’t break eye contact.

She’s right.

I know she’s right. She’s not doing anything wrong. I just…

I don’t like him looking.

At her.

After a few seconds, I collect myself and straighten, taking pleasure that I’m half a foot taller. “Cole does the yard work. Or me,” I tell her, moving around her toward the lawnmower. “Got it?”

I don’t wait for an answer as I spin around, heading for the lawnmower.

But I hear her small, sweet voice behind me. “Yes, Daddy.”

I blink long and hard, my hand tingling with an urge to give someone a spanking for the first time in my life.