Just friends, huh? I don’t think that’s going to work out. Especially if he keeps looking at me like that.
“Have fun, ladies,” he says, heading into the kids’ room to get started.
“DO you think that if we turn up the heat, he’ll take his shirt off?” Helen whispers a while later, which prompts a giggling Martha to get up from her chair and tiptoe dramatically to the thermostat, cranking it much higher than was reasonable on an already warm day. Still, not one of us gets up to fix the thing. We all sit there, drinking slippery nipples and watching Leo walk back and forth, lugging sheets of timber, his face getting redder and redder.
After spending nearly an hour in the bedroom, drilling and hammering, he comes back out. And we all hold our breath.
“Esme? Is something wrong with your air conditioning? I swear it’s blowing heat in there.” He stands at the mouth of the hall, lifting the front of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. The action gives us a sneak peek of those washboard abs he owns.
We seem to sigh in unison.
Without a moment of hesitation, Helen cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Take it off.” Followed closely by a wolf whistle from Martha.
Nana and her friends are worse than teenagers.
“I see. The heat was turned up on purpose.” Leo laughs while he shakes his head. “Is this what you’re after?” He lifts the hem of his shirt, exposing his abs and flexing them a little.
I almost die a little as memories of sex with him hit me, while the ladies start hooting and hollering like they’re at a strip club. I’m expecting those rolls of cash to make an appearance, but they do one better and put on that Pony song from Magic Mike.
“Oh my God,” I moan, clapping my hand over my face. “This is not happening.” Despite my words, I’m laughing. Never let it be said that an afternoon spent with a bunch of eighty-year-old women is dull. They’re out of control.
Speaking of being out of control, as the vibration of the intro kicks in, Leo gets in on the crazy and starts dancing, putting on a show. He teases us all by lifting his shirt higher and higher then dropping it back to his waist again.
“No fair.” Nana laughs, clapping along with the music.
Leo responds by turning a slow circle, before he slaps a hand against his own arse.
I’m smiling so hard my cheeks are hurting.
“Come on, Betsy.” He grins, holding out his hand as he keeps moving to the beat. She takes it of course, and then he does this sexy little dance with her, rolling their hips together like they’re doing the mamba or something. Now my stomach hurts from laughing, and I swear Helen is about to lose her voice if she yells any louder. But, like all songs, this one ends, and since Leo hasn’t removed that shirt of his, fists thump against the table and we all chant, “Take it off. Take it off.” Yes, even me. What can I say? I’ve been doing shots.
Locking his gaze with mine, Leo gives me a half-grin and a wink, then he grabs the collar behind his neck and whips the shirt over his head. He’s standing there in his tanned and muscular glory while we all clap and cheer… and I squirm in my seat. I know what the rest of that body looks like. But then Martha grabs his shirt and sniffs it, which is a little too much if you ask me and kind of jolted me out of my heated memory, but the whole event is so over the top and funny that we laugh it off.
“Thank you, ladies, I’ll be here for the next couple of hours,” Leo says, taking a sweeping bow.
When he stands back up, I grab his shirt and toss it to him, “Back to work, mister,” I say with a smile.
He salutes me then heads back down the hall while Carla and Helen shout “Encore.”
“Let the boy work,” Nana says, reaching for her crochet hook, calm as can be, as if a strip show from the hot carpenter is a normal happening. “I’m not paying him to be pretty, you know.”
We’re back to giggling now, and Betsy picks up another shot and holds it out to me. “Looks like someone has an admirer.” She lifts her eyebrows then lowers her voice. “Esme and I always knew you two wou—” She doesn’t get to finish because Nana kicks her under the table and she drops the shot, liquid soaking my almost finished willy warmer. “Ow.”
“Oh no.” That was Carla, I’m not sure if she was upset over the spilled alcohol or the spoiled crochet. But we clean it up quickly, and I decide I’m all ‘funned out’ as Archer says.
“I think I might head out for a swim,” I say, needing a cool down after Leo’s show.
“You sober enough for that?” Nana asks, and I nod.
“Can touch my nose with closed eyes, and everything.” I demonstrate by holding my arms out to the side and alternating the nose tapping.
“She’s a grown woman, Esme,” Betsy says, to which Nana shrugs, because she couldn’t stop caring for people if she tried, despite her claims that people bore her.
“Have fun out there,” Helen sing-songs as I leave. Then I hear, “You know, I’m a little warm after watching that dance too,” and I walk away smiling. It doesn’t escape me that this afternoon is the first time I’ve laughed that hard in months. Maybe even years.
TWENTY-THREE
LEO
This house is full of drunken giggling women.
I smile to myself as I listen to the rise and fall of their conversation and laughter. It amazes me how much alcohol a bunch of elderly ladies can put away. I think I’d be rolling on the floor if I ever spent an afternoon drinking one of their concoctions, and I’ve got a pretty good constitution. I reckon they could drink any one of my rugby buddies under the table. In fact, I’d put money on it.
Tightening the last couple of screws, I step back and place a hand on the side of the bed frame and give it a good shake. The anchor points in the overhead beam and floor aren’t budging a bit. I’ve added shelves behind each bed to give the kids a place for their books, or iPads or whatever they like to have near while they sleep. There’s also a couple of drawers beneath each bed for personal storage. I think if I was a kid, and my great grandmother had something like this made for me, I’d feel like the luckiest kid in the world.
Speaking of kids…
Checking my watch, I note that I still have about an hour before it’s time to get Archer. Is it weird that I offered to get him when I’m no more than a friend to Darcy, the guy next door? At the time, I figured it’d be OK since helping each other out is what friends do. But would I help one of the guys out under the same circumstances? Hmm. Probably not. Having the desire to sleep with said friend seems to make my spirit a little more giving. Even without that possibility, for Darcy, I reckon I’d do it anyway. The woman needs a break. She’s always switched on, and I got a real kick out of seeing her relax, laughing and pressing her knees together while I got in on the fun. Totally worth it.
God, she has a beautiful laugh. Music to my ears.
Shaking my head, I mentally groan. I suck at this friend thing. I want so much more.
I finish putting my tools away and flick the locking clips on the metal case. Friends. How do you even go back to being friends when you can’t stop wanting the other person in your bed? I’m trying, and I’m struggling. She’s so close yet she’s so far away, and my fingertips burn every time I see her and don’t touch her. It’s not even just about sex. I want to be around her, wake up next to her, go to sleep with her being the last thing I see. I feel this great need to have her in my life, and I’m starting to get a little desperate.
Maybe I’m not as patient as I thought.
I heft my toolbox to my side then place a hand on the doorknob. I guess when you really want someone and want your connection to mean something, you have to push those physical urges aside and do everything you can to show her you’re the guy she needs.
The guy she needs…
Yeah. I think that’s who I am to her. It’s not me being conceited. It’s a feeling I have deep down in the centre of my being. We just…click. And I’m at the age where you don’t pass that kind of thing up. You wait. Even if
it means the only action you get is with Mrs Palmer and her five daughters for a while. Darcy is worth the wait. I’m sure of it.
Heading into the dining room, I brave the giggling gaggle. They’re currently huddled around the oven, an empty box of frozen vol-au-vents filled with broccoli and vegan cheese on the bench. I figure they’re watching the pastry turn golden, and why not? Vol-au-vents are pretty great.
“I’m all done in there, Esme,” I say, doing a quick headcount and noticing that Darcy isn’t among them. “Is Darcy getting Archer?” He griped about not being allowed to have ‘slippy nipples with craft’ when he and Esme walked past my place this morning. I told him he’d probably have more fun at his holiday club, but he was pretty adamant that hanging out with old ladies was the better choice. He’s a funny kid that one.
Esme talks at the oven door. “She’s at the beach.”
“When did she leave?” Helen asks, looking perplexed and a little unsteady before she hiccups.
Carla speaks with a mouthful of celery. “Couple of hours ago.”
“A couple of hours? Is she OK?” She was drinking, so I’m instantly worried.
Betsy shrugs. “Haven’t heard any sirens, so I assume so.”
“I’ll go find her,” I volunteer, figuring if all is well, a dip in the sea will be the perfect end to hours of hot work. I swear those women kept turning the heater back on.
“Be gentle with her, Leo,” Esme calls after me and the rest of the women laugh like they’re all in high school.
Be gentle.
Grabbing the set of binoculars I leant Archer so he could watch the yachts, (read, ‘spy on his sister’) I do a quick scan of the beach from Esme’s deck. Niall and Abigail are in the group near the yacht club, lying around under the shade of their windsurfing sails. They’re separated into boys and girls’ groups, which makes their acquaintance sit better with me. I can see Abigail talking with one of the other girls as she applies sunscreen to the length of her arm. Niall is in the shade of another board, staring up at the sky. Moving on, I search the bodies littered along the stretch of beach until I find one that fits Darcy, lying on a towel on the stretch of beach closest to home. At least, I think it’s her. She’s got an arm across her face to block out the sun. But the black two-piece and those creamy thighs are definitely familiar. Something inside me shifts, and I need that cold dip more than anything now.
“Down, boy,” I mutter to my crotch as I put the binoculars back where Archer left them.
Back at my place, I change out of my work gear and into a pair of board shorts, slinging a towel over my shoulder, Darcy dancing through my mind.
Be gentle.
She’s going through a shitty break-up and I happen to have experience on that particular topic, so we’ve talked. We’ve talked about a lot of things—not only exes and kids. I like being around her, look forward to it every chance I get. I think back to the night we talked until we passed out on my couch. Nothing happened between us, but it felt so, so right. It was like the messiness in me mixed with the messiness in her and brought us closer. We started that night with a declaration of friendship, but we ended it as something else. I think it was hopefulness.
And the dancing.
Why did I do that? I haven’t danced with a woman in years. Not like that, anyway. I think the last time I did it with any feeling involved was at my wedding. And I definitely haven’t danced without music before, or created my own. She was vulnerable and sad, and she looked like she needed something from me, so I reacted. I loved that she trusted me with something so personal and hidden. That moment with Darcy, it was…intimate, special.
Be gentle.
I don’t regret any of that night, although, when she made her mad dash for the door, I worried she’d go into full avoidance mode again—thankfully not the case—and I could have done without Niall’s comments where he carried on like I have women on a revolving door. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve never once had a woman in the house around him. But I can’t control the things Tash tells him. I swear her bitterness towards me has only gotten worse, which is fucked up given I forgave her for sucking my teammate’s dick. You don’t come back from fucking someone other than your spouse, so why she’s punished me every day for that makes no sense. But God, I hate what she’s done to Niall, poisoning his mind so he believes I’m someone I’m not. He used to be a good kid. Can still be one given the chance. I hate that it’s never around me. I’m always the enemy.
Darcy has expressed similar sentiments over her strained relationship with Abigail. We both have our hands full with teen angst right now, and God help us both, because neither of us can figure a way out of it. It’s hard doing what you feel is the right thing and getting nowhere.
So, yeah, Darcy and I have an interesting, possibly unusual bond. I didn’t expect it, and I don’t think she did either, but it’s here and as much as I want to grab her tight and never let go, I have to be gentle. Because it’s been years since my marriage broke down, and Darcy is going through it right now.
Be gentle.
I’m doing my best.
Walking across the road to the beach, I smile over the amount of sunbathing bodies. We’re all told that lying in the sun is the worst thing we can do for our skin, and I’m inclined to agree, but it feels damn good to relax with the sun bathing you in its warmth. Animals do it all the time so it’s only natural, I guess. In moderation.
Darcy looks pretty comfortable, her arm slung across her eyes and one of her knees bent up slightly. She’s not wearing what I’d call a bikini, but she is wearing this two-piece suit that shows off a bit of smooth skin across her midriff. She’s got a decent-sized rack—what? I’m a guy, we all call it that. Anyone who says different is a liar—her thighs are full and round, no thigh gap. I like a woman with thighs I can dig my fingers into, and Darcy’s are perfect.
Patience, Leo.
Shaking off my lust-filled thoughts, I head straight for the water to cool off and calm down. It takes a lot for the water to warm up around here, and even in the second month of summer, it’s still pretty bloody frigid. Enveloping my body in the cold cuts off any inappropriate blood flow quick smart. The last thing I need to do is approach Darcy with a bit of a chub.
I spend about ten minutes swimming between the rocky groynes before deciding to approach her. She’s in exactly the same position, and it isn’t until I get closer that I realise she’s actually asleep. And she’s burnt.
Really burnt.
Ah shit.
“Darce,” I say, reaching down to touch her on the arm. She reacts with a start and flings her arm upward, slapping me in the face. “Crap.” I stumble back, my eye feeling like it’s about to pop out of my head. In my life, I’ve been tackled, punched and kneed in the face, but nothing hurts the back of your eyes quite as much as a slap from a woman. Why is that?
“Leo.” She sits up and looks around like she’s trying to figure out what she’s doing here. “Oh God, did I just hit you?”
I blink a couple of times. “It’s fine. But I really think we need to get you out of the sun.” I’m trying not to show my reaction too much, but she has a brilliant white band across the centre of her face where her arm was covering. Everything below her nose and half of her forehead is bright red.
“Am I burnt?”
Grimacing a little, I nod. It’s red now, but when the sun goes down, it’s going to glow up a storm.
“How bad is it?” She looks at the back of her arm as she stands. “Oh crap.”
“I’ve got a big bottle of aftersun cream at my place. You might need to bathe in it though.”
“It’s that bad?” She starts walking with her arms out from the sting. It reminds me of a penguin and I start laughing. “This is not funny.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I wouldn’t wish a bad sunburn on anyone. Well, maybe my ex… Nah. Not even her. Sunburn hurts like a bitch.
After waddling and whimpering across the street, she heads straight
for my bathroom the moment we’re inside. I call after her to tell her where the aloe vera cream is, but my words are cut off by the sound of her scream. My knee still isn’t great, so I don’t run for the bathroom but I do hop-race as fast as I can.
“What?” I’m out of breath. Hop-racing is harder than it looks.
“My face.” Oh that. I was expecting a massive hairy spider after a scream like that, but I guess it stands to reason. Women worry a lot more about their looks than guys do.
I try to hide my smile as I take in her wide eyes and horrified expression. She’s pressing hands against the red as if maybe that could push it back inside. I don’t know. Whatever she’s doing isn’t going to fix the problem. But slathering it in aloe vera is something that will help.
Pulling open the medicine cabinet, I take the large bottle of aftersun and squirt some in my palm. “Here,” I say, gently smoothing the cream down her arm. “We can’t fix it, but we can take out the sting.”
She stops freaking out almost immediately and lowers her hands to the side. “I am such a mess of a person,” she says, sighing as I run both hands down her arms then back up again.
“I happen to like messy people.” Collecting more cream, I run my hand over the top of her chest, taking liberties. It’s actually really nice to have her standing still and sober in front of me, allowing me to touch her. I feel this need to take care of her. From everything she told me about her ex and the way their separation went down, I think she’s incredibly lost, floating about with no real direction or purpose. I want to be the one to ground her. And who wouldn’t? She’s adorable. A red and white-striped, pouting woman with big blue eyes that beg for you to adore her. Over the years I’ve lived next door to Esme, I’ve heard stories about Darcy. In many of them, she was featured as this woman who could do anything, had everything figured out. Seeing this catastrophe in front of me doesn’t quite align with the preconceived image I had of her. This version of Darcy is far more human. Someone I can relate to.
Love is a Beach: a romantic comedy Page 15
