Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Thanks,” I say, and help myself to a cup of joe from the cardboard container on the table.

  “Cream?”

  I shake my head.

  “Ms. Andi, look at these shoes,” Lizzie calls to me from the store window.

  Lifting my head, I catch a glimpse of a pair of glittery pink slip-ons. “They’re pretty awesome.”

  “I’m partial to those myself,” the friendly woman says.

  “That’s my daughter’s friend. I’m sure she’ll tell her parents. This night is pretty good marketing for you, I bet?”

  “The best kind. Face-to-face, make-a-good-first-impression type of thing. The kind that doesn’t happen all too often anymore with everyone buying stuff on the internet.”

  “I’ll say. Thanks for the coffee.” I gather the girls from the window and cringe, thinking about my affiliate links where I earn a cut when my readers buy shit off the net. It probably hurts stores like this. If I weren’t anonymous, I could feature local retailers, brick-and-mortar places, and make a difference.

  Face-to-face interaction. I think about it so hard, my head aches.

  Am I any better than all the bloggers I decimate on a daily basis? They use affiliate links too. Then again, I’m one of them, except I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. How can I stop being so jaded and do good?

  I sip my coffee as we stroll down the rest of the block, stealing a candy or two from Gabby, until we’re at the very last store. “What do you say, ladies? Time to go?”

  “Let’s go there.” Gabby points to a residential street perpendicular to the stores. Large, yet welcoming, houses sit back from the sidewalk.

  “You’re not tired?”

  “No!” The two of them hop up and down like Mexican jumping beans. I should have known I wasn’t getting into bed early tonight.

  “Wait to cross,” I tell them, and we stand patiently and watch the traffic light. When it’s green, we go.

  I forgot to mention, I moved to Pittsburgh for Charles. He was in law school at the time, a poor student, and I was an even poorer waitress/part-time librarian. We didn’t come up to this area of town much, except for a cheap pancake place.

  “Look at these houses, Mom,” Gabby says, dragging me up the steps to the first one. White-painted brick and a large red door greet us. “Wow!”

  Lizzie rings the bell, and then the two of them chant in unison, “Trick or treat!”

  This is the way we make our way down the block, skipping and jogging and laughing. At the corner, there’s a seventies-style craftsman, split into two halves.

  “Mom! A duplex like ours.” Gabby takes it in. The diverse architecture is something she and I regularly take in on walks or while driving.

  “Yep, smarty-pants. Except this one is side by side.”

  I smell steaks on a grill, and my mouth instantly waters. The salad I nibbled on while the girls gobbled up pizza is now long forgotten. With my coffee cup cold in my hand, I eye up the house. It’s not decorated for Halloween, but the lights are on.

  “Can we go to one last house? Please!” The girls are already up the walkway and pushing the bell to the right of the large wooden door before I can answer.

  “Trick or treat,” I hear them chant while I drain the dregs of my beverage and check my phone. I’ve ignored it all night, and I absolve myself of any guilt for checking it quickly now.

  “Well, hello there, young ladies.”

  “Hi,” Gabby sheepishly replies in a voice I’ve never heard her use before.

  I’m still scrolling through Twitter alerts when I hear him tease them.

  “I don’t have any candy, but I do have apples.”

  I think, what an ass.

  “What? What?” This time, Lizzie shrieks and Gabby echoes. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I decide to intervene.

  “It’s a trick. I’m tricking you.” The homeowner’s voice is deep, gruff almost, and melts over me like chocolate trickling over the side of a chocolate fountain.

  What can I say? I have candy . . . and men . . . on the brain. And steak. And man. It’s been a while since I’ve noticed a man’s voice, and I wonder what it would be like for him to say my name.

  Where in the world is that coming from?

  Slowly looking up, I sneak a peek at the owner of the voice.

  He’s tall, lean, and muscular in track pants and a long-sleeved tee underneath a glow-in-the-dark skeleton-adorned apron. Jet-black hair, mussed across his forehead. Even under the darkening sky, I can tell he has deep olive-toned skin. His eyes, I’m not quite sure. Maybe dark.

  I feel my feet walking toward the object of my desire, but suddenly halt them.

  Whoa, horsie.

  For a second, my brain kicks in and I take stock of my disheveled appearance. This isn’t how I want to meet the man I’ve internet-stalked for a week. The man my brother-in-law wants to emulate, supposedly to win the heart of an overeager preschool teacher. The man who grills shirtless and does it oh-so-well. Just yesterday, he made rosemary-and-thyme veal chops. I don’t believe in eating veal, have never even tried it, and I was salivating over my laptop.

  Reid, Grill and Groom, whatever his last name is, doesn’t hide behind the anonymity of his laptop. Nope, he’s right out on the wild, wild web for anyone to see.

  This man is everything I’m not. He writes a successful blog, puts his name out there. And now he’s standing a few feet from me, joking with my daughter and her friend like he has nothing better to do and all the time in the world to do it.

  “Mom! Can we have two?”

  “Ms. Andi, this guy said we could have two big bars! Can we?”

  “Hey there . . .”

  Three voices call to me, but I’m stuck in Reidville, the small town that had only just begun to grow in my mind. Not the real, live man currently calling out, “Hey there,” to me.

  “Mom!” Gabby shouts, finally dragging me out of a dense mental fog.

  “Um, are you sure?” I holler from where I’m standing, because there’s no way in hell I’m allowing myself to move any closer to the door.

  “It’s no prob. Evening’s almost over, and I don’t want to be stuck with all this leftover candy,” Reid yells back.

  He’s tall. I’m guessing six foot two or three based on the way he towers over the girls and his head almost meets the top of the door frame.

  “Make sure to say thanks,” I tell the girls, my voice squeaking, the stupid crumpled coffee cup dangling in my hand.

  “Would you like one?”

  Reid, Reid, Reid, just let me get out of here alive with my limbs attached and my lungs still pumping air in and out.

  But no, he can’t. The girls sing, “Thank you,” and he’s following them out to me, candy basket in hand.

  I fight the urge to sniff under my pits again, but I can’t seem to stop my free hand from smoothing down the front of my shirt and gathering my cardigan tight across my belly. It’s flatter than most, but still—I’ve had a baby.

  “Would you like one? To go with your coffee?” He’s dead center now, right in front of me, wearing flip-flops despite the chilly nighttime air, holding the basket with his strong hands I’ve seen pictured on the blog, working the grill.

  I’m not gonna lie. I’ve fantasized about those hands working me . . . just about everywhere. Okay, everywhere.

  I admit it. I ended up perusing this guy’s site more than I care to say.

  Green. His eyes are dark green, deep like the forest, clear like the sea, inviting like a patch of moss.

  A frog settles in my throat, and I can’t make a sound for fear it will alas be a croak.

  I shake my head and clear my throat, banishing the toad. “Tempting, but no thanks.”

  “Actually, I really do have apples, if that’s more appealing.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, light from the rising moon twinkling in his eyes.

  Reid, Reid, Reid, go back to your grill.

  I’m a pot about to boil over, simmering right at the edge, raging a
nd rolling. Luckily, as soon as I topple over the sides, I’ll douse any fire underneath me. That’s what I need, to douse this. Immediately.

  Go, Reid, go.

  “Does that sound better?” He’s still there, standing in front of me, offering fruit.

  “I’m good, thanks and all that. No sustenance or tricks needed.” I hear my trademark snark creeping up and shoo it away. Always cautious, never not protecting my heart, a byproduct of Mr. Coffee. I can’t help it.

  “Thanks for taking care of the girls. This was a great way to end the night.”

  I reach out to put my hand on Gabby’s shoulder, but she seems in no rush to leave Reid.

  I get it, believe me. I get it, Gabby.

  A pregnant pause settles between us, and then another, and one more before Reid (who doesn’t know I know his name) asks, “Twins?”

  What the hell is wrong with this man? Why can’t he let me be on my way?

  I can’t help but be confused. In fact, I don’t even know where I am. I’m struggling to remember to take both girls and find my car.

  Reid’s looks alone are intoxicating, especially when appreciated by a single mom who’s been solo for a long, long time. Let alone he’s standing next to my daughter and her friend, and my eggs are playing dodgeball inside my ovaries. They want out; they want to mingle with Reid and what I imagine to be his super-sperm.

  “No.” Gabby giggles, saving me. “Friends, but Lizzie’s mom couldn’t take her tonight, so my mom said yes.”

  “A real Wonder Woman. You have to take a treat then. I insist.”

  I’m blushing. The warmth creeps up my neck and over my cheeks, probably dusting a pink layer everywhere. No one in seven years has ever paid me a compliment of that magnitude.

  “Thank you, but there’s no extra work involved in one more girl. I’ve barely burned off the candy I ate walking here. We should be going, though. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  I sound like a medical transcriptionist, which is about the least sexy thing in the world. I guess that’s why it’s the life I’ve painted for myself.

  “Okay. Want me to toss that for you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The cup you’re doing a number on.” He points toward my hand, where I’m wringing the cup into an early death.

  “Oh, that. I’d thought I’d keep it as a souvenir.” Ugh, more snark. I clearly forget how to act normal around the opposite sex. I’m waving the cup around, and Reid is looking at me like I’m not playing with a full deck.

  I’m absolutely not.

  “Trick, it’s a trick.” I repeat his earlier words. “That’d be great.”

  I go to hand him the cup and our fingers mingle. Yes, they mingle and tingle. You know . . . how you read about that in lovey-dovey romance books? Love at first sight? The electric current between two soon-to-be lovers? And you call bullshit on it, every single time.

  It literally happens to me. My whole body rides the wave of brushing fingers with Reid, and I swear, he smiles. A small knowing smirk turns up each corner of his mouth as he takes the mutilated cup.

  I want to hand him my vagina.

  No, no, no. I can’t do that.

  This guy, he’s all wrong. Single, hot, pure, and he grills, and is so, so, so cute with the girls.

  Good thing I’m wearing my exercise clothes, because I need to run.

  Wait! Is that what the smirk is about? My ungodly appearance and probable smell?

  Just like that, I’m an idiot schoolgirl who falls for the unattainable boy. I may as well have pigtails and pimples.

  “Okay, well, thanks. Let’s go, girls.” I grumble my words and stumble over my feet.

  “By the way, I’m Reid. Thanks for visiting, ladies,” he says to Gabby and Lizzie, I presume. They each spout off their names, and I’m ready to dash when he says, “And you?”

  Oh, please don’t ask that.

  I like to be anonymous. I’m better alone, in the shadows.

  Right?

  “Mom.” Gabby pokes my hip. “He asked your name.”

  “Andi. I’m Andi.”

  Then he shoves the candy basket between his hip and elbow and holds out his free hand—the one not holding my crushed coffee cup—and says, “Nice to meet you, Andi.”

  “You too.” I shake his hand, my body jolting with shocks and aftershocks, but I don’t say his name aloud. My mind may be singing his name, but my lips refuse to form it.

  Finally, I grab the girls’ hands and hightail it out of there, resisting the urge to turn and see him walk away. I’m almost certain he has a perfect ass, but I want to make sure.

  My head refuses to listen and turns.

  Yep, he should really consider some action photos from behind . . . of him grilling.

  MommyX3 has to send her triplets to private school. Awww. Public school isn’t the right place for her precious spawn. So what if they’re small in stature? They’re smarter than the average first-grader . . . so, parochial school, here they come.

  Never mind last week’s post when one of the three wise men didn’t get a trophy in kiddie soccer. In their new school, all their needs will be met, including all of them will be receiving regular trophies.

  I digress.

  Of course, to pay for school, MommyX3 is peddling some fancy juice cleansing system, guaranteed to make you drop ten pounds in the first month, and then you switch to maintenance mode. Apparently, its special ingredients help you cleanse the water retention right the heck out of your system. You can grab a six-month supply for only FOUR dollars per day (as much as a Starbucks!), or you can join Mommy’s team and become a bigger part of her pyramid scheme.

  Or you can simply learn how to eat. Or join Weight Watchers. Or even better, do what Doodlelicious is doing with vinegar and lemon juice.

  Happy cleansing,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  Frugal Shoofly commented:

  Thanks for picking out all the BS. I don’t mean harm to this mom and her kids’ education, but why pay $4 a day when there’s a solution for pennies on the dollar. I’m sick of the schemes.

  Also, thanks for the great deal on laundry soap last month. I clicked through your ad, and it was ah-mazing! I’m good on detergent through the end of the year.

  A few days after Halloween, I’m sitting with my laptop resting on my Hello Kitty-clad extended legs, furry slippers on my feet and the news flickering on the TV. Yep, I’m drinking warm water, lemon, honey, and vinegar because I’ve now met Reid, and while he doesn’t know I’m alive . . . my libido is wide awake.

  Wide.

  Freaking.

  Awake.

  Right now, there’s some innate need in me to find a man and shag him.

  If I’m honest, it’s more than a need. I’d say it’s a drive to satiate myself so fierce and strong, like a bee to honey or a dog to a raw steak.

  Give me a man and let me have my way with him.

  Any man, but Reid is the best choice.

  So I’m writing, reading, flushing my system, and wondering if I can make it to next Halloween to satisfy my craving.

  When else will I see Reid?

  Um, never.

  The rest of the day pushes on. I go for my run, grab Gabby, make dinner, and play on the internet. Leona comes by after we eat and delivers brownies. First, she wants me to meet someone, and now she sabotages me with her full-fat double-chocolate-chunk brownies. The chewy kind, still warm, chunks of chocolate still gooey—the apple cider vinegar’s effort long dismissed.

  After Gabby goes to sleep, I slide into my lonely queen-size bed for one, my belly stuffed with brownies and my mind chock-full of bad ideas.

  Listening to my naughty brain, I open my laptop and type his website into the browser. My fingers graze the keys with care and finesse as if he can see what I’m doing. I know this is what he would want. His blog is an extension of him, and I treat it with the utmost respect and care as though I were caressing his arm.

  What a forearm it is .
. .

  Here’s the thing most people don’t get. For us, the people of the web, relationships made behind the screen are the closest thing we have. We live in and on our devices.

  Except, small tidbits of my real life are leaking into my private online persona, and I don’t know how to mix business and pleasure.

  My blog is helpful—I mean, look at the deal my reader got on laundry detergent. She’s singing my praises, but it’s also bullshit anonymous. Mostly, BS banter. It’s not me, but it is me.

  I’m a nobody, and Reid is a somebody.

  Anyway, I home in on a post from last November he’s pinned to the top, “Honey Barbeque Chicken, the Other White Meat.” It’s almost Turkey Time, Reid informs us, and we shouldn’t eat turkey until the big day. This way we savor it when we finally eat it. He’s prepared this decadent chicken on the grill, and I’m salivating. It’s perfect, juicy, not even burned. For a side dish, he’s made potato skins, also on the grill.

  My mouth waters before I get to the picture of him in a flannel shirt, wearing one of his corny aprons—GRILL OR DIE—and that big, sexy smile. I promptly slam my laptop closed and squeeze my eyes shut. This is absurd. I know it all the way to my blistered-from-running toes.

  Banishing any future crazy ideas of running into Reid, I force myself to sleep.

  Don’t ask how. It’s private. I don’t like discussing BOB around these parts.

  Meaning my home where my little girl sleeps.

  I can’t seem to push the girl from the fantasies in my head.

  Woman, not girl. I make a mental note. Woman with a child, no less.

  She was so hot, so right, so unexpected . . . and sexy, real, natural, and funny. Yep, I could tell from only a few minutes. The moonlight on her skin, the way she tugged her cardigan tighter only highlighted her slight curves, and the gentle way she took with the girls—all selling points.

  And I’m not even in the market.

  Andi.

  Andi what?

  I don’t even know.

  I’m a silly fool if I think I’m ever going to see her again. She’s a mom, maybe even has a man back at home? Didn’t feel that way, though.