Warrior Forever (Warriors in Heat)

by Amber Bardan

  If there’s one thing I love, it’s coordinating accessories. There’s a shoebox under my bed, full of colored laces I swap out every morning. Makes me feel like I have twenty pairs of sneakers instead of the one.

  “Katie.”

  I drop my t-shirt and glance at the curve in the path where he’s still standing. Ah, crap . Was today designed specifically to mortify me?

  “For Christ’s sake, use the goddamn front door next time.” He shakes his head and stalks toward the house.

  I press my face into Dixie’s fur and can’t help laughing.

  * * *

  Clay

  What the fuck did I do to deserve this?

  I slam two cups onto the counter then shove two slices of bread into the toaster.

  I go to church every Sunday. Pay my taxes fairly—and what a fuck-ton of taxes they are. I sign shit for kids at hospitals. Yesterday, I helped an old lady with her groceries. I don’t even punch people who clearly need punching.

  I’m a decent fucking guy.

  The toaster pops. I flip the lid off the butter and scrape the knife through it. The only thing, the one thing I won’t do is smile for the camera. Is that so bad?

  Is that so bad that I should be cursed and saddled with the silliest, most unpunctual, ridiculous, little dogwalker?

  The sound of the hairdryer ceases. I glance out the window. Fuck . I smear peanut butter over the two pieces of toast, toss one plate onto the counter, and slide one of the cups beside it.

  The door opens, and when it does, I’m sure to have my back to it. I pick up my coffee and drink it black and bitter and all in one go. Dixie charges into my legs. I cut the other piece of toast and slip her one half.

  The door shuts with a soft glide.

  Is she still loitering in the doorway? I swear, the only time that girl isn’t going a mile a minute is when she’s loitering at my kitchen door.

  A throat clears softly behind me.

  I feed Dixie the other half of the toast. I don’t respond to throat noises.

  “Sorry I was late. The twins weren’t well this morning.”

  Twins ? I shake my head. That’s right, she does some nanny job at night and does this in the morning.

  That’s not my problem.

  My problem is that she’s late, and now I’m now late, and I can’t fire her.

  I glance behind me. She’s not at the counter eating like she’s supposed to be. “Well, sit down.”

  She jumps. I notice that, her little jump, out of the corner of my eye. Even if I do know better than to look at her too much directly. I’m still recovering from finding her flipped over my side gate with her ass in the air.

  Her sweet, little, peachy ass in those inappropriate, cut-off shorts.

  I’m going to hell.

  She makes her way over to the counter with these tentative steps, as though she’s surprised. Why would she be surprised? I’ve been making her toast every morning for the last three months. I grab the striped tie from beside my briefcase. Someone needs to make the girl toast. In the year she’s worked for me, she’s lost at least ten pounds.

  Every ounce gone has cut sharpness into her frame that wasn’t there before. It’s a nasty sharpness. The kind that’s carved from fatigue and stress and no one caring.

  And that’s the first reason I can’t fire her.

  I flip up my collar. She’d be a lot better at her job if she weren’t always rushing. Rushing like a bunny who doesn’t know which way she’s supposed to be hopping. It gives me a damn headache. I loop one end of the tie over the other. Crunching sounds from the counter. My movements slow, and I shake my head. Dixie doesn’t crunch so loudly. How does Katie manage it with those small, neat white teeth of hers?

  I tug down one end of the tie. The bottom half sticks out inches below the top. I huff and yank out the knot. Another throat noise rings out.

  I stiffen. If she wants my response, she’ll have to do better than that. I measure the two ends of the tie and start again.

  The ends come out uneven. Fuck . I don’t usually bother with a tie, but today’s meeting is important. I’ve got to push if I want to be a businessman who used to be an athlete, and not always, always be treated like an athlete who’s doing something else now.

  A louder throat clearing rings through my kitchen.

  I turn around and instantly regret it. Yep , I’m going to hell. My gaze eats up the pretty, little thing at my counter. It’s all I can do to be the man I was raised to be, and stay where I am.

  Because this devil girl is soaking wet.

  Dirty-blonde hair plastered around her face. Pink t-shirt, clinging to perky, far-too-young-for-me tits. I’m going to get sued . I’m going to get sued for all I’m worth. And I still can’t help looking.

  They’re fucking nice tits.

  And she must know it because she had the damn hairdryer and did not dry herself along with the dog. Reason two I can’t fire her.

  I’ve been doing what I shouldn’t be doing. Looking where I shouldn’t be looking. Wanting what I shouldn’t be wanting.

  She’s got to know it.

  She cocks her finger at me. I blink. She actually just dared to summon me with a curl of her finger. Who does she think she is? Yet, there I find myself, striding over to her before deciding I will. She looks up at me and reaches for my tie, then stops and brings her thumb to her mouth.

  The tension bubbling inside me boils white hot. I watch her finger slip between her sweet pink lips. All my blood goes to my pants. My hands fist. I can’t keep myself steady. Her wet tongue flickers over her thumb, and my cock gets so hard there’s no way I get to leave this room without her knowing right where she has me. I lean closer. I’m so hungry for that mouth, so desperate for those lips, I’m almost an animal for her. I’m almost ready to throw her to the floor and…

  She wipes her hand on her t-shirt as though it were nothing. As though it were just a little peanut butter. My breath gets faster. She’s such a wicked, little tease. She takes the ends of my tie and leans in. I turn my face away, but it doesn’t stop me from taking in her cherry scent.

  I wonder if she laughs at me?

  Does she laugh at her thirty-six-year-old, was-someone-once boss, falling all over himself just because there’s a pretty girl in his house?

  There’s been a lot of pretty girls on the outskirts of my life. But I can’t remember the last time one has been this close.

  The last time I let one this close. Had one in my house.

  “There you are.” She tightens the tie. Tightens it right at my throat like a noose.

  I grab the knot and yank it, as though it isn’t right. As though she didn’t do it perfectly.

  Her hands fall to her lap, and her distracting smile slips down. Hell, that’s where I’m going. Dixie nudges Katie’s lap. Her bright smile returns, and she scruffs behind the dog’s ears. I reach for my briefcase. There’s the third reason I can’t fire her. She’s brainwashed my best friend into complete devotion.

  I head to the door.

  “Say bye to Daddy, Dixie.” Katie’s sweet, throaty voice catches me halfway out.

  I freeze and glance at her.

  She waves and smiles to one side. “Bye, Daddy.”

  I swallow and slam the door closed behind me.

  Fourth reason I can’t fire her—this girl has my number. She has my damn number and knows exactly how to dial it.

  His Temptation Chapter Two

  Katie

  “You know I’ve done the best I can, but there was a lot that had to be fixed.” Grant, the plumber, seems to gulp. “Had to replace piping. Had to cut out and replace all that damaged plaster.”

  “I know.” I nod and keep my hand out with the cash. All my cash. All my savings.

  He’s been making me hold out the money for a long time, considering he intends to take it. Grant must be in his late twenties, has a thick head of brown hair, and he’s a nice, good-looking guy…the brother of a girl from my patisserie class.
I never asked him for a favor, only to be fair.

  He glances at the cash in my hand, back to me, then back to the cash. He bumps the end of his nose with a knuckle. “I suppose I can take off another fifty.”

  I don’t say anything. Again, I never asked for favors. But I’m also not going to argue about keeping money I certainly need. He flicks one note up and tugs the remaining cash free. Leaving me with one fifty-dollar bill remaining to my name.

  “Thanks, Grant.”

  He nods and tucks the money into his jeans then plucks a fridge magnet from the pocket on his shirt—a pocket with his name embroidered in red below the company logo. “Next time the roof leaks in the middle of the night, call me. We do twenty-four-hour emergency visits.”

  “Thanks.” I take the magnet. It’ll go on the fridge, but I doubt there will be a night call. Don’t want to imagine the kind of surcharge involved in that.

  Plus, a middle-of-the-night call would require Mom actually organizing something herself. And organization isn’t her strong suit.

  I show Grant out. It takes three tries to get the screen door closed. It finally works in enough to lock.

  A tug pulls at the side of my shorts.

  I glance at the scruffy three-year-old blinking up at me and scoop him up. “Troublemaker!”

  He flashes me a smile full of short, little baby teeth.

  I smooch his cheek. “Let’s check the oven.”

  He’s really no trouble. Of all my six siblings, Jake is the quietest. Maybe that comes from being the youngest in a big family. There’s no spoiled for this kid that doesn’t come from me. It’s hand-me-downs and good behavior, because he was born needing to know the drill.

  I set him on the counter, take the tray out of the oven, then transfer the pastries onto a rack. As my special helper, Jake gets to shake the icing sugar out on top. The screen door groans, and noise rockets into the house like a thunderstorm.

  Mom herds the tribe into the kitchen. They flock around the baking tray with grabby fingers.

  “Go wash your hands,” she shouts.

  The kids charge to the bathroom.

  Mom kisses Jake then pecks my cheek and looks at the tray. “I’ll never understand why you couldn’t be obsessed with cooking real food.”

  I snort and shake my head.

  She slides something in front of me.

  I pick up the jumbo bag of almond flour then look at her. “Thanks, Mom. You didn’t have to. This stuff is so expensive.”

  Out of all my siblings, I understand the value of a luxury, and I clutch the package tighter. There’s already half a dozen recipes I’m desperate to try with this.

  “One perk of working at a grocery store.” She shrugs and unclips her nametag and sets it on the counter. “Reduced to clear.”

  I give her a hug, and she pats my back. I breathe in her shampoo and makeup smell. One thing there has always been enough of is this. Mom’s not perfect. Really, she’s not. But she tries.

  It’s just…

  Footsteps thunder back into the room. I let Mom go and watch her funnel the kids to the table and kiss and pet them all.

  It’s just that she might be the loneliest person I’ve ever known. For all my siblings, there’s never been a step-father in the picture. There’s never been a father of any kind that I’ve seen more than a few times. She doesn’t speak to her family. There’s a couple of grocery store friends who come around. And that’s it.

  We—those of us right here in this room—are it . We are all. And for the most part, together, we’re happy.

  Mom takes the pastries to the table. The children dive into them with utter disregard for the craftsmanship involved in creating them. I sigh. Should’ve just made choc-chip cookies.

  I pull a pastry apart and study the perfectly separated layers. My rear pocket vibrates, the ringtone just barely audible above the racket. I put the croissant down, wipe my fingers, then slide out the cellphone.

  It’s him .

  The room seems to go quiet. It takes me a minute to find the nerve to answer. “Hello.”

  “Katie.” He says my name as though it’s a complete sentence. Katie . As though I’m supposed to know what he wants.

  “Yeah.” I don’t respond in kind. I’ve never said his name, and now it’s been so long, I wouldn’t know what to call him. Clay. Mr. Colson. Sir. It’d all be weird. In the beginning, before I knew gruff is just how he is, I didn’t have the nerve to do anything but nod. The closest I got was addressing him via Dixie.

  Dixie’s daddy. And it’s stuck.

  “I need to leave early again tomorrow.”

  His voice is a deep, rich rumble that seeps through the line and makes me shiver.

  I lick my lips. I can’t come early. There’s barely time to get the twins to daycare in time to make it to his place by 8:30 a.m. like I’m supposed to.

  “I don’t have time to walk Dixie, Katie.”

  Oh shit . This is a warning call. My face gets hot. This is a “you’re-on-notice” call. There’s not another job like this I could just pick up. Clay doesn’t want Dixie walked with other dogs; he wants one-on-one attention for her while he gets ready for work in the mornings. So he seriously overpays for that privilege.

  “I understand; I’ll be there promptly.”

  His voice drops two octaves. “Good girl.”

  Heat breaks over me with a wave of pins and needles. Good girl . I grab hold of the counter. I’m wet. Wet like a hussy, right here in the middle of my mother’s kitchen, with six little siblings eating at the table.

  “Bye.” I shove my thumb over the end button.

  Good girl .

  I hear him again. I’ve heard him say it a thousand times to Dixie. Heard him say it and wondered what it’d take to have a man like him look at me and call me his good girl.

  I shove the cellphone into my pocket.

  Well, he didn’t look at me and say it, but I got to hear it. Now I know there’re things , a lot of things , I’d do to hear those words again.

  ***

  I finish drying Dixie, set the hairdryer down, and glance at the house. By some miracle, the twins were angels, and I had them dressed and fed and kissing their heart-surgeon mother goodbye an entire twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

  Got here half an hour early, walked Dixie hard and bathed her again, even though she didn’t really need it.

  If I don’t get a “good girl” today, I’m never getting another one.

  I unplug the hairdryer and stow it in the outside cupboard that contains all her things. Dixie has more wardrobe space than I do. She scratches at the kitchen door. I chase after her and slide it open, hovering in the doorway.

  I always get a little stuck at the threshold.

  First, by the wave of boarder-line arousal at the epic-ness of his kitchen. The granite. The appliances… Oh, the things I could bake in here. The second thing stops me more firmly. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, peanut butter, expensive cologne, and other nice, warm, comfortable things that aren’t supposed to be for me.

  “Well, sit down.”

  My gaze slips to him. Tingles wash over me. He’s dressed up again. Clay usually works in jeans and a t-shirt, but the last few days, he’s been in suits. It’s too much for me. His thick, dark hair is groomed too nicely, and looking like this, he reminds me so much more of how far out of my league he is.

  Clay “The Grinch” Colson.

  And who the heck am I?

  “Katie, I don’t have all morning.” He deposits the plate onto the counter.

  I stumble over to it and sit on a stool. Not sure why he makes me eat toast like this. It’s not even as though he makes some for himself. He just started doing this a couple of months after I took the night job, and he never stopped.

  Dixie eats toast from his hand then bounces off to the living room, where her bed is.

  I gulp the cooling coffee and take a huge bite of toast. I’m not complaining, though. This is the only time in the day I actuall
y sit down to eat.

  “Katie.”

  I stiffen. There’s my name again like a whole sentence, and this one isn’t happy. He deposits his briefcase on the bench and shakes his head.

  I glance down at myself. Oh, crap … I was so busy trying to impress him by being done early, that I didn’t notice his lawn was freshly mowed. Now there’s a trail of clippings across his immaculate tiles, leading right to me. A worse trail of clippings pepper my legs.

  Oh, Jesus.

  “It’s okay; you go.” I drop the toast and leap up off the stool. “I’ll stay and clean up, then lock the door and pull it shut when I leave.”

  That’s what I do half the time, anyway.

  He points his finger at me. That famous, jabby finger. “You stay right there.”

  I drop back into the seat, and my heart drops, too. He storms from the room. I watch after him and swallow the remaining coffee. What’s wrong with me that I’m so hungry for the approval of a man who always looks at me as though I’ve done something wrong?

  He reenters the room with a broom and a towel draped over his shoulder. He sweeps the mess out the door.

  “Please, let me—”

  The broom drops against the wall with a clatter.

  He strides for me.

  Uh, oh.

  I swallow and lean back. “Sorry, I didn’t realize the lawn was just cut.”

  “Katie.” Same word again, and his eyes are all squinty.

  But I just can’t decipher a one-word phrase that supposedly means everything. “Yes?”

  He turns the stool I’m sitting on until I face him fully. “Just take your shoes off before coming inside.”

  My gaze meets his, and I frown.

  He doesn’t…

  He stares back at me, intense and focused, and I feel like I’ve missed something crucial.

  He’s not angry as I assumed he was.

  “I will.” I press my lips together. Why didn’t I take off my shoes? But I already know. I was in such a hurry.