Pretend I'm YoursA Single Dad Romance

by Vivian Wood

  “I told you,” I explain slowly, for the tenth time. “I moved to Pacific Pines to be closer to my family.”

  “We are your family!” Helen exclaims. “I tell you, darling, I just don’t understand. If this is about money—”

  “As I have told you before, Sarah and I are doing perfectly fine. Listen Helen, I have to go,” I say as I pull up in front of my Dad’s house.

  “But we haven’t even talked about—” Helen starts.

  “Goodbye, Helen,” I growl, then hit the end button on the steering wheel.

  “Bye!” Sarah sings out from the back seat. “Bye bye bye!”

  I drop Sarah off with Dad and Rosa with a great deal of hesitation, even though I know that she’ll only be twenty minutes away. What’s the worst that can happen? is a game for people that haven’t been through what Sarah and I have been through.

  After I leave Sarah giggling in Rosa’s arms, I head back to the house. I’m at a loss for what to do. I’ve done all my work for the next few days, and without Sarah here to distract me…

  I’ve spent plenty of time contemplating my own existence and the big questions in life. Without Sarah, that’s what I am left with.

  Not today, I promise myself.

  Heading into the kitchen, I open the fridge and grab one of the beers I forced myself to get at the grocery store. It’s no whiskey, but the Hefewizen I got is decent enough.

  Through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of Larkin standing on the back porch, tying her hair up. I take a sip of beer and do an automatic once-over of her body; she’s wearing a heavy gray sweater over a pair of jeans that hug her ass perfectly.

  If I were someone else, I would find Larkin Lake very sexy. For a moment, I imagine a world in which I had no strings attached and nothing holding me back. The man I was in my early twenties would have taken one look at her and just known that we would end up hot and sweaty and horizontal.

  Now, though? Honestly, I can’t ever see myself dating anyone, for the rest of my life. Granted, my future is this sort of vague dark blob. I live one day at a time, by necessity.

  As I watch, Larkin hops off the porch. She walks into the ankle-deep grass, and looks at all the rusting chunks of metal that used to be washing machines and lawnmowers and god knows what else.

  Starting with one ancient machine that probably used to be a dishwasher, Larkin grabs one end and begins to wrestle it out of the deep grass. She grimaces at the weight and size of the piece of machinery. It’s immediately clear that she finds moving it to be a struggle.

  I set my beer down. My parents may not have raised me right, but there’s still no way that I’m about to let her do whatever she’s doing alone.

  I head outside, glad that I’m wearing an old pair of jeans with a tee shirt and my hoodie. Larkin looks up as I step outside into the bright sunshine. She squints at me, dragging one corner of the dishwasher.

  “Hey,” I say, heading down into the grass and stopping her. “Here, let me get a corner.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she says, her brow knitting. I can’t help but notice that her gray sweater brings out her toffee colored eyes.

  “What, am I going to watch you try to lift this stuff on your own?” I say, pulling a face. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re too small to move most of this stuff on your own.”

  She rolls her eyes, tucking a piece of her blonde hair that has escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “I am not.”

  I give her my most skeptical look, and she laughs. I like the way she laughs; it sounds like it comes from deep within her five foot frame, a tiny version of a big man’s belly laugh.

  “All right,” she says. “How about you do this for me, and I make you lunch for your efforts?”

  “Deal,” I agree. “Ready?”

  Together, we move a few pieces of junk into the side yard, which is well-maintained.

  “The other parts of the yard seem like they’re mowed regularly. How did the backyard get this way?” I ask as we work.

  “Ah. Uhhh… this was where my mother kept her projects,” she says, looking behind her to walk backwards a little as we move a washing machine. “She couldn’t abide throwing anything away that could still get some good use. So she wasn’t a hoarder exactly, but… she didn’t buy anything just for kicks. Especially not if she could repair it.”

  “I am getting a hint of disapproval in your tone,” I say.

  Her brow knits for a second. “She was a very frustrating person, I guess.”

  We keep moving as we talk. Between the late-morning sun and the effort of moving all the junk, I grow warm enough to wish I wasn’t wearing my hoodie.

  “So… I’m guessing that since your mom isn’t around, she’s…”

  I feel her eyes on me for a long minute before she answers.

  “Yeah. She passed away four years ago.”

  I pause. Her tone isn’t exactly sad. It’s just… devoid of emotion. There is obviously something to know about her mother, but I don’t pry.

  “Do you want something to drink?” she asks, wiping her brow. “I have to admit, I’m already sweating.”

  “Yeah, I am too. I could use a little something,” I say.

  She flashes me a smile. “Come on. I made some lemonade yesterday.”

  I follow her onto the back porch and into her side of the house. As she opens the back door for me, I am suddenly conscious of the fact that I am so much larger than her. I could break her so easily, if I were so inclined.

  Larkin doesn’t know, though. She’s busy pouring lemonade into two glasses instead. She passes one to me, and our fingers touch as I accept mine. I hastily take a sip.

  The lemonade is so sweet and yet so sour. It makes my mouth water with every sip I take. I watch her as she takes a long gulp, notice her throat working to swallow.

  She makes a little ahhh sound when she’s done, her perfectly pink tongue darting out to catch a drop of lemonade that’s rolling down her bottom lip.

  For some reason, that makes me antsy as hell. I need to say something, to get my mind on another track.

  “So you’ve always lived here?” I ask, turning away from looking at her. It’s easier to stare at the ugly kitchen cabinets than to examine whatever minor incident of lust I’m having.

  Larkin shakes her head. “No. I grew up here, but I left to go to college. I couldn’t wait to get the heck out of Dodge.”

  I lift my brows. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” she says, swirling her lemonade in her glass. “My mother was a superintendent of all the schools in this county. She… well, she wasn’t the easiest person to live with.”

  Now I’m curious. “What, she corrected your grammar too often?” I joke.

  Larkin slowly shakes her head again and glances down. “No. Well, she did, but… my mother was… it was hard to please her. She held me up to outsiders as an example of what an ideal student should be. But she also ran me ragged in private, trying to live up to her expectations.” She bit her lip. “When I failed, which was almost always, there were… repercussions. Pretty severe ones. And because she rubbed me in the faces of teachers and other parents, I never had any friends.”

  Whoa. I was not expecting that. I look at Larkin, who is obviously still pretty torn up over it. There is a tiny wrinkle in her brow that I would smooth if I had that power.

  “What about your father?” I ask.

  She looks up at me, those toffee-colored eyes pinning me where I stand. The ghost of a smile plays about her lips.

  “What father? My mother had any number of lovers, many of them married men from Pacific Pines, but she never kept any of them around for very long.”

  “Ah. I can see how you’d be ready to get out of this town, then,” I say, draining the last of my lemonade. “When did you come back?”

  She smiles. “I’ve only been back for about six months. I’m not planning on being here forever; I wouldn’t have even come back if my mother hadn’t left me t
his house to deal with.”

  “I’m sorry that your mom passed,” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s okay. She lived quite the life. Hell, the whole town called her Big Ruth, and there was a reason for that.”

  “Ready to go back out there?” I ask, nodding to the backyard.

  “Yep,” she says. She leads the way out the door and into the too-long grass. She looks around at the yard, and points to what might have been a piece of a car. “How about this one?”

  “Okay. I’ll walk backwards this time,” I say with a nod. I grab a corner, ignoring the fact that there is a shower of rust flakes where I touch it. “One, two, three…”

  We move a couple more pieces before Larkin decides to strike up a conversation once more.

  “Where did you move here from?” she asks, then winces when she sets down the edge of an old TV on her foot. “Ow!”

  “Careful,” I say. “And I moved here from Portland. I think I said this already, but I wanted to be closer to both sets of Sarah’s grandparents. Besides, I needed… I guess I needed to not be someplace that reminded me of what I lost every time I turned a corner. It was this, or moving to the east coast, to be closer to my job. This seems like the right place, for now.”

  I expect her to launch into savior mode, to try to console me or something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just says, “Well, I’m glad you guys moved here.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I just give her half a smile.

  She looks around at the backyard, walking into the deepest grass. “All right, we got most of the big things… so now the issue—”

  She steps on something that is invisible to me, hard enough to go down onto her butt. The look of pain on her face plus the distressed sound she makes are enough to have me dropping the rust-covered patio table I’m carrying. I sprint to her side.

  “Whoa, whoa,” I say when she tries and fails to stand. “You can’t walk on it?”

  “No…” She lifts her foot to examine it, and she’s bleeding from a long, thin cut on the arch. “Crap. Thank god I got my tetanus shot already.”

  “Okay,” I say, stepping with care. “Let me help you into the house. We have to get that cut cleaned out. The sooner, the better.”

  “You don’t have to—” she begins, but I cut her off by leaning down and gathering her up in my arms.

  I swear, for a few seconds, we’re both a little stunned at the feel of her body against mine. She reaches up and slips her arms around my neck… and then looks me directly in the eye.

  Her toffee-colored eyes meet mine, and there is a little jolt of connection, the sensation of electricity jumping from her to me. I tighten my grasp on her for just a second.

  This, her and me… for just this second, it feels natural. It feels inevitable. And oh so fucking good.

  Larkin looks at me, blushing and subconsciously darting her tongue out to wet her bottom lip. The gesture is so sensual, and the sensuality so unintended, that I’m blown away by it.

  Not only that, but I start to get hard. Thank god she chose that moment to speak.

  “Watch your step,” she says a little breathily, breaking the eye contact. “We don’t both want to end up hurt.”

  I frown. I know that she’s talking about what might be lying in the grass, but for a second it doesn’t seem that way. It’s almost as if she’s talking about the moment that just passed between us.

  “Right,” I say, turning my attention to the ground beneath my feet. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  I take her inside and help her onto the couch. I fetch her first aid kit. I make sure she has everything she needs.

  And then I get the hell out of her house, out of her sight, out of her sphere of influence. I go for a run, setting a punishing pace, flagellating myself with every step.

  Chapter Eight

  Larkin

  Stupid old baseboards, I think. I’m on my knees by the front door, hammer in hand, using the tool’s prongs to try to pry the ancient baseboards off the wall. I pull at the end, and manage to get a few inches between the baseboard and the wall.

  The dogs are trying to be helpful, wagging their tails and standing a little too close. I keep shooing them back every few minutes, because I’m not entirely sure about my using a hammer.

  Replacing these baseboards is the next thing on my unending list of things to do before I can put the house on the market. Years and years of poorly moved furniture have left the baseboards dented and dinged, especially here in the entryway.

  I put my back into pulling it away from the wall, and I’m rewarded by a long piece of it ripping off the wall. Of course, because I was too enthusiastic about my tugging, I fly backwards when it is released, and end up falling on my butt.

  “Ooof,” I say, frowning. “This is really hard.”

  Morris moves in, licking my face. Zack just shifts back and forth on his feet anxiously, his nails click click clicking on the floor.

  “Yeah, alright,” I say, pushing him away after a second. “You’re very cute, but not helpful.”

  As I get up, dusting my butt off, a knock comes at the door. All the dogs start to bark, even Sadie. Her bark sounds a little funny, like someone stuffed a sock in her throat and she’s trying to compensate for that.

  I go to open the door, and find Charlie standing on the other side, holding a large dusty box. He looks grumpy and tall and handsome, a regular occurrence for him I think.

  I haven’t seen Charlie since he helped me inside a few days ago. I honestly didn’t expect to see him so soon, especially not without me popping next door to check on him and Sarah.

  Anytime that anything even vaguely flirtatious happens between us, I just assume that he will bury his head in the sand for a while. I can’t even get mad about it; it’s just a part of who Charlie is.

  “Hi,” I say, shading my eyes from the sunlight that streams in. I nod to the box. “What do you have there?”

  “I found it in an upstairs closet,” Charlie says. “It seems like some personal stuff.”

  “Bring it in,” I say, pulling the door open wide and sweeping a hand out. “Let’s see what it is.”

  He carries it in, walking into the living room. He deposits the box on the coffee table and leans down to pet the dogs, who push each other out of the way to get his attention.

  I see him looking at me, as if taking inventory. I have a moment of wishing that I was dressed in anything other than my old Juicy sweats and an oversized tee, but I shake it off.

  I reach for the lid of the box, removing it carefully so as to not get the inch or so of dust everywhere. When I take it off, I see several things that make me cover my mouth with my hand.

  There’s a stack of what looks like childhood photos, a few trophies, and a delicate wooden music box. I reach out and take the first photo off the top, holding it like it is a piece of fragile glass.

  I look at the picture, squinting because it’s a little grainy. The picture was clearly taken in the 1980s. I’m in the photo, probably Sarah’s age, dressed like a pink cream puff in a lacy pink dress.

  There’s an older man and woman there too, wearing matching stoic expressions. The woman holds me on her lap, though I am obviously about to start wriggling.

  “I think these are my mom’s parents,” I say, glancing up at Charlie. I flip the photo over, making note of the fact that it’s inscribed Mother, Daddy, and Larkin — Spring 1989.

  “Can I see?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, passing the photo to him.

  I turn my attention to the music box, lifting its lid with two fingers. When I open it, a tiny ballerina spins on a little platform, and the music box begins to play a tinny version of Swan Lake.

  My eyes mist over as I reach out and finger a finely-wrought gold bracelet. I remember getting it for my sixth birthday. It was in an elegant black velvet box. I opened the box and when I saw what was inside, I was so excited I actually screamed.

  Then I remember that my mother grabb
ed the box and wrested it out of my hands. “You’re too young to have something so nice. You’ll just lose it. I’ll keep it safe for you.”

  I never saw that bracelet again, but apparently my mother did keep her word.

  “Hey,” Charlie says, handing me back the picture. I look up, surprised. I’d honestly forgotten he was here for a second.

  “Hey yourself,” I say, clearing my throat.

  He shifts from one foot to the other, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck self-consciously.

  “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about the other day, in the backyard.”

  My brows shoot up. That wasn’t what I expected him to say.

  “Oh?” I say, my mouth turning down. I had a lot of feelings about what happened, but none of them were blaming Charlie for anything.

  “Yeah. I just… Don’t laugh, but I had it in my head that you were hitting on me,” he admits, reaching out to run his fingers along the edge of the box.

  I immediately turn bright red. He isn’t exactly wrong about my intentions; if he’d looked at me like that with those jungle green eyes for a second longer, I’d have tried to kiss him.

  But he didn’t, so I didn’t. He’s looking at my expression now, trying to gage my reaction. I just bite my lip and shrug.

  “It’s forgotten,” I say. I need something to distract him from this topic, so I grab the trophy that is closest to hand. It’s lightweight, made of plastic, but painted to look gold. “Look, first place at the fourth grade spelling bee.”

  I thrust the trophy at him. He takes it, looking impressed.

  “First place, huh?” he marvels, turning it to see the sides.

  “Well, I probably have way more second and third place trophies, but Big Ruth didn’t let me bring those home. She called them pity trophies.”

  “Whoa,” he says. There’s an uncertain tone in his voice. “That’s pretty heavy.”