Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Crap. I didn’t quite think about how Gabby would explain the outing and Reid to her friends, or maybe even to her teachers.

  Crap.

  Crap.

  Crappity-crap.

  “What did you say? I hope you didn’t make anyone feel bad, Gabbs.”

  When she frowns, regret instantly washes over me. I just shamed my daughter to protect my feelings. I knew this Reid thing was a horrible idea.

  “I didn’t, Mom. I swear. I said we made a new friend and we were only going for a little bit . . . like you said.” Her shoulders slump as we make our way back to the house.

  “Listen, I’m sorry, Gabbs.” I tweak her ponytail. “It’s actually been a long time since I made a new friend, and I’m a little nervous about it. You’re so good at it, maybe you could help me?”

  Her mood lifts, along with her shoulders and her smile. “Of course, Mommy.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’ll help you, but you never get nervous over anything.”

  “I do, it’s just . . . it’s my job to only get nervous when you’re not watching, honey.”

  She races up the stairs two at a time, the serious moment forgotten, rambling about video games and tickets. Inside, she flops her backpack by the couch and heads for the kitchen.

  “Hungry?” I ask, knowing she is.

  “You said we’re eating dinner at FunZone . . .”

  “We are, but maybe you want a snack? An apple?”

  She nods, and I wash, peel, and slice an apple, glad to have busy work for my hands.

  “I’m going to clean up and change,” I tell her when she finally settles in front of a show.

  “Should I change?”

  “You look great, baby girl.”

  As for me, I look a mess. Sweaty, in running pants and a ratty long-sleeved tee, my hair knotted and face ruddy.

  “A quick whore’s bath and total makeover is in order,” I whisper as I enter the bathroom.

  Not so sure that’ll even help matters, I think as I pull out a washcloth and some liquid soap.

  In jeans, a fitted long-sleeved black tee, and ankle boots, my face freshly washed and made up, my hair down and wavy, I go in search of Gabby.

  “I’m ready, Mom. Brushed my teeth too,” she calls.

  I hear the flush and the water running.

  “Here I am.” She steps out as the doorbell rings.

  I want to scream, “Fuck,” but I don’t. I answer the door with a smile on my face, Gabby by my hip.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Gabby grins up at him. “We’re ready!”

  “Great, you excited?” Reid’s knee cracks as he crouches to be face-to-face with Gabby.

  She’s smiling, he’s grinning, and I’m cringing. My belly is also flip-flopping or butterflying or whatever they call it these days, which is partly why my head is working overtime, telling me everything that can and will go wrong.

  Reid stands and confesses, “I don’t have a car seat.”

  “Well then, it’s pretty good that Gabby hasn’t needed one in years.” I pull the door shut, wishing I could do the same on my sarcastic tendencies.

  “Good one.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “I said it was a good one, and I meant it.”

  His green eyes cast their spell on me, and I’m done for. He thinks I’m funny. For a thirty-one-year-old jilted single mom, that’s the top of the heap.

  “Come on,” Gabby yells from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Come on.” Reid grabs my hand. “So, just to be clear, I can drive?” He unlocks the doors to a hard-top Jeep.

  Of course. He isn’t a family guy with a minivan.

  “What do I do?” Gabby asks.

  “Shoot, do you need a seat?” He looks downright confused now.

  “No.” My daughter giggles. “I’m too old for that. How do I get in the back seat?” she asks, one hand on her hip, her eyebrow raised.

  “You slide the seat forward, and in you go.” Reid pulls the passenger seat forward, then lifts his own eyebrow at me, genuinely curious. “Where are you hiding this girl? She’s never seen a two-door?”

  Jesus, this man has no clue about life with kids.

  “In the land of minivans and school buses.” I slide into the passenger seat and he closes the door with a thud—which hopefully covers the pounding of my heart in my chest.

  Gabby is busy singing to herself on the way there, some rendition of a TV theme song I can’t quite place . . . and then she farts. It’s loud enough for us to hear, and sulfurous for Reid to open the windows, furthering my embarrassment.

  Afraid Reid will think it was me, I shame my daughter for the second time today. “Gabby, really?”

  “Oops, I’m sorry.” She gives us a lopsided smile in the rearview. “I forgot it wasn’t just you, Mom.”

  “Hey, I think that’s a good sign. Your daughter is already extremely comfortable with me on our first date.”

  “Date?” Gabby has long forgotten her song.

  “As friends,” I say, correcting both of them.

  “We’ll see,” Reid whispers, catching on quickly that Gabby hears everything.

  After pulling into FunZone, Reid is quick and appears at our side of the car, opening the doors and helping us both out. I’m out of breath when we reach the door, intent on opening doors for myself. Since this isn’t a date. Not with my daughter.

  “Slow down, Andi. I don’t want to rush you to the ER in my two-door car,” he whispers in my ear as he nudges me out of the way to open the door. His breath lingers on my cheek, his scruff tickling my chin as he moves away. I want him to stay, but I refuse to allow myself to want that. Instead, I whisk by him and grab Gabby’s hand.

  “What should we do first, Gabbs?”

  “Let’s ask Reid.”

  Of course, she’s already concerned herself with his well-being.

  “I vote for bowling to work up an appetite,” he says, “then pizza, and then video games. Lots and lots of video games.”

  “Yay!” Gabby is an electromagnetic force drawn to Reid and all that is Reid.

  Me too.

  “Not too many games.”

  “Oh, Andi, you know there’s no point in coming if you don’t leave with a bellyache from too much pizza and a headache from too many video games.”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Gabby says, siding with him, and that’s pretty much what happens from that point on.

  Reid continues to shatter my walls with his desire to make Gabby happy. Who can blame a girl? By girl, I mean me. My husband left; Gabby’s dad deserted her. Why shouldn’t I want to believe someone, anyone, would want to make her smile?

  “I know it’s not James Beard or five-star rated, but this pizza is pretty good. What do you say?” Reid nudges my arm and slides into the booth next to me. “Look,” he says and points across our booth toward Gabby driving a motorcycle. “She’s good.”

  “She is,” I whisper. “She really is. Thanks for doing this.”

  “She’s an easy little girl to like. Smart. Witty. But if I’m honest, I’m here for you. You’re smart and witty. And sexy. While I’d love to say my intentions are totally benign, they’re not. I want to get to know you, and guess what? I happen to be smart too. I know you and Gabby are a package deal, so if I have to get to know you at FunZone, I will.”

  My brain stops functioning. This guy, Reid. Honest and good to a fault.

  Of course, I’m lying about who I am and what I do, and that we’ve sort of met outside this whole mucked-up shit already. Not a great way to start, but I’m doing my personal best.

  “Andi, say something.” He’s close. Leaning in, taking up my personal space, and still keeping one eye on Gabby.

  I nod. “Okay, I’d like to get to know you.” Because what else does someone say to a gorgeous man laying it on the line for them?

  “Mom!” Gabby interrupts the moment with a strand of tickets as long as her.

&n
bsp; “Wow, look at that!”

  My daughter is bouncing on her toes, her eyes glittery with excitement, and I’m not going to lie. Mine probably match hers.

  “Can we go look at the prizes?” she asks.

  “Sure thing.” I stand and tug on her ponytail full of curls.

  “Let’s roll,” Reid says as he pushes up from the table.

  Standing in front of a glass case full of shit made in China, Gabby could clearly be here for a while.

  Fidgeting, I feel Reid intertwine his fingers with mine and squeeze. The inappropriate touching should feel rushed or out of place, but it doesn’t. Soothing comes to mind. It’s calming—

  “Look!” Gabby pulls down a giant stuffed cat. It’s gray and matted, somewhat disgusting and cute at the same time. “It looks like Bosco, Leona’s cat. I want this.”

  “That’ll be five thousand tickets,” the attendant says.

  “Here.” Gabby hands him her stockpile.

  “You need a few more thousand,” the idiot attendant says, spoiling her mood, and she frowns.

  “Oh.”

  “Come on, the thing probably is harboring lice.” I wave my hand at the zillion other prizes.

  Hand back on her hip, Gabby glares at the attendant like he’s the enemy.

  Not usually one to fall for her fits of disappointment, I’m pondering how much the dumb animal costs to make overseas. Probably a buck . . .

  “Here.” Reid shoves some money over the counter. “We’ll just buy it. I see there’s a price next to the ticket value.”

  “Reid,” I say, my tone warning. “That’s not necessary.” I think it’s ridiculous, despite my wanting to murder the attendant a moment ago.

  “Here you go, Gabby,” he says, ignoring my protest.

  “Awesome! He’s going to guard the castle in my room. Can I name him Reid?”

  “Sure can,” he says.

  Gabby’s now smiling from ear to ear. Her good mood practically carries her to the parking lot.

  Once again, she’s asleep in the car when we get home. Without asking or waiting for instructions, Reid wrestles her out of his back seat while I whisper, “Now you see why parents don’t have two-door cars?”

  He nods and carries Gabby up the stairs.

  “Want to do the honors?” he asks after I unlock the door. He hands off my sleeping child, and I carry her to bed. I know he’ll still be there when I get back . . . and he is.

  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly, unsure of where I should stand or what I should do. My hands fidget, itching for a task.

  “Come here,” Reid says, and I do. “A little closer.”

  Front to front, almost touching, he closes the gap, pulling me close.

  Despite his palm burning a hole on my back, I don’t move. I like this. A little too much, if I’m being honest, which I’m not.

  “Tonight was fun, wasn’t it?”

  I nod. He swipes an errant hair off my face with his free hand, and I lean my face into his hand, not wanting to lose his touch.

  Happily back in Reidville, I find myself wanting to stay indefinitely.

  “I’m not some big bad wolf. I’m a nice guy. Gabby seems to like me.”

  “That’s because you fed her pizza and sugar and gave her an armored truck full of tokens.”

  “Not that many. And here I thought it was my charm.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  My heart jumps at the compliment. It’s been a while.

  His lips touch mine, gentle at first, hesitant, waiting for permission.

  My arms rise and I hold on to his biceps, deepening the kiss.

  What the hell? I haven’t been on a date in years, and this guy sprang for FunZone. The least I can do is kiss him back. He did get us a lot of tokens. That’s what I tell myself, but my tongue has a mind of its own and doesn’t give a shit about FunZone.

  Breathless, clinging to Reid as if he’s the last source of oxygen on earth, I return his kisses, open-mouthed, hot and scorching, until I break free.

  His forehead on mine, he says, “Maybe you don’t think I’m so bad after all.”

  “Not too bad,” I huff out.

  “I’m going to go. Think of this as the first of many good times, maybe even dates. I’ve got tricks up my sleeve, even better than FunZone, Andi.” His fingers weave through mine and squeeze.

  I don’t respond, only nod.

  “Good night.” He kisses my forehead, leaving my pulse racing as he releases me and makes his way to the door.

  “Night,” I whisper and pad to the door, shutting it softly after him. I lock it tight, reminding myself I need to do the same with my heart.

  I wake dreamy.

  “Stop it,” I mutter to myself, rolling over in bed to smack the alarm.

  “Wasn’t last night fun?” Gabby is a broken record while getting dressed, eating breakfast and walking to the bus. She never shuts up. “Reid this, pizza that. Oh, and Reid . . .”

  “Yeah, baby girl, it was fun, and unexpected . . . yes, the pizza was great,” I drone on.

  Reid’s better than pizza, my mind repeats throughout Gabby’s ongoing chatter and thereafter.

  Back at home, I fire up my computer and get to work. I never posted last night, so my comments and emails aren’t overly heavy.

  Of course, right there at the top of the inbox is an email from Reid.

  Andrea (I hope that’s okay, my using your name on this personal communication),

  I howled at your most recent post about the mom superimposing her kid into farm life. What a sham!

  It’s late right now and I just spent the evening with a grade-schooler myself. I can’t imagine making a kid pretend to be something they’re not. It’s actually refreshing how they don’t pretend.

  What I’m trying to say is you do a great job of pointing out the bullshit.

  I’ve thought a lot about what you said, and I love blogging. I have fun grilling, and I don’t want to change my blog.

  So, thanks.

  Here’s to me explaining it to my real work.

  Would love to thank you in person one day.

  — Reid

  By ten o’clock in the morning, I’m sufficiently mental over Reid wanting to thank Andrea in person, even when I’m one and the same.

  After all, I’m the one fooling him. I should tell him, come clean before it’s too late.

  When he texts the real me, saying thanks for a great night (which, obviously, should have been my responsibility), I let it go.

  I write a more cutting-than-usual post, order some shit online for Christmas, including a silver sparkly star for the top of our tree.

  Gabby will go batshit crazy about it. Maybe she’ll even stop talking about Reid?

  CAUGHT!

  Mr. Michael is my Mom and Tumbleweed Dad were recently caught canoodling in a corner booth in Brooklyn. Both made internet-famous for their wholesome, organic, granola-ish blogs, they’ve been teaming up online for a few months.

  And apparently, in bed.

  Yes, you heard me right. I saw the pictures on Instagram. Not of them in bed, but in Brooklyn following the latest Brands and Bloggers Conference.

  Last year, we were made privy to the private, but not secret, divorces of both bloggers. Sadly, Mr. M and Mrs. M had outgrown each other after a ten-year marriage following a shotgun wedding. There was also the little thing when Mr. M came out of the closet. Tumbleweed Dad’s story is a tad more sad; his partner didn’t like living with a blogger. He wanted a corporate-exec type, and that is who he found to warm his bed at night. I do feel bad for him.

  Mr. M’s kids are all doing great!

  Anyway, the pair is joining forces and bringing a new conference to the scene. MxD is a brand-spanking-new event taking place this coming spring with a full lineup of the usual suspects speaking and advising. The good news is now Mr. M. and Tumbleweed can share the free room they receive for planning the conference at a chic California spa.<
br />
  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  It isn’t normally my style to attack relationships, but to be honest, I need the page views and clicks. My own love life—or lack thereof—is interfering with my posting frequency. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have allowed it. Right now, I don’t know what I want.

  But I know who.

  Reid’s frying a turkey in broad daylight.

  He’s wearing elbow-length oven mitts, a tight Henley that leaves little to the imagination when it comes to the slopes and planes of his chest, and an apron that reads BE THANKFUL AND PLANT ONE ON YOUR COOK.

  I’d love to plant one on the cook. A particular cook.

  Ensconced in my room, drinking a cup of coffee in the quiet as I stare at Reid’s website, I realize I should be basting my own turkey or making stuffing, making a cranberry mold . . . anything other than what I’m doing.

  I’m drooling over some single, unattainable hottie who I began stalking long before he admitted at the sandwich place to writing a blog. Not long before, but to me it was an eternity.

  “Mom!” Gabby comes running into my room.

  “Morning, baby girl.” I run my hand over her brow and kiss her forehead. She climbs into bed and lays her head on my chest before I can slam my laptop closed.

  “Is that Reid? Mommy? Look at that!”

  “Huh?” I pretend to be confused, but I can’t close my computer because her small finger is shoved against the screen.

  “Reid. There. He’s cooking.”

  “Yep, he’s frying a turkey for Thanksgiving.” I decide honesty is the best policy. At the very least, half-truths.

  “That looks yummy.”

  “Gabby, silly girl.” I slam the laptop closed, slide it next to me, and tickle her belly. “Let’s go make a turkey and some pancakes for now.”

  She’s up and padding across the room before I can say it a second time.

  In the kitchen, I make a cup of cocoa, start a fresh cup of coffee in the dumb Keurig maker, and get busy rubbing butter over my turkey. Leona is coming over later. Delia wanted me to visit, but I didn’t want to miss two days of blogging to drive back and forth. Black Friday is a pretty big Amazon affiliate revenue day for me.