“You what?”
“You’ll see.”
For a gal who had a baby and the father ran out on her, the idea that someone would take the time to pack dinner and beers for her, then drop them off somewhere—even if it’s an ax place—is unbelievable.
Like a zombie, I aimlessly follow Reid to our lane, seeing a cooler and a picnic basket set atop a picnic table by the number eight.
I must be dreaming.
“Here we are. Take your coat off.” Reid comes around behind me to help me off with the heavy thing. Then he opens the cooler and asks, “Hoppy, pale ale, or red wine?”
“Pale ale, please.”
My panties burst into flames when he rests the top of the bottle onto the edge of the table and snaps the cap off with his hand. “Oh my,” I’m pretty sure I mutter, but I can’t be totally sure because my brain is in ashes.
“Cheers,” he says, handing me a cold beer and then clinking his closed bottle into mine. I wait for it—another cap slapped off with his bare hand, and my bra disintegrates into tiny bits.
The moment is interrupted by some burly dude in—you guessed it—flannel. “Hey, I’m Paul, and I’m going to be your ax-throwing instructor tonight.”
“Hi, I’m Andi,” I say, finally finding my words.
“Reid.” He extends his free hand to Paul, and the pair shake it out.
“Either of you been here before?”
“I didn’t even know I was coming tonight,” I say, and Reid just shakes his head.
“Great, both virgins. Let’s get started.”
I’d like to get started . . .
My mind wanders but Paul demands my full attention. He’s currently wielding an ax, demonstrating the appropriate way to hold and carry it. He shows us a line where we’re supposed to stand while the other person throws their ax.
“Okay, let’s do a few practice throws. Ladies first,” he says, beckoning me with his pointer finger. My ankle boots carry me to the designated throwing spot, and Paul says, “Pull an ax out of the stump.”
Yes, there is a large tree stump full of axes in front of me. It’s a bit surreal for this work-at-home mom who barely leaves the house. I wiggle-waggle an ax out, trying not to amputate my lower leg, and carry it like Paul showed us.
At the throwing line, Paul appears next to me, adjusting my grip.
“Woot! Go, Andi,” Reid catcalls from behind me.
Paul moves aside and I let the ax rip, immediately squeezing my eyes shut. A loud clang fills the air . . .
“Don’t do that,” Paul says.
“What? It was my first try.”
“Don’t close your eyes. It can ricochet. Keep your eyes open, ’kay? Now, try again.”
I retrieve my ax, belly up to the line again, and let her fly, keeping my eyes wide open.
“Yes! Look at that. Hit the thing!”
I feel a tug on the waistband of my jeans and turn around.
“Nice one,” Reid says, and plants a kiss on my forehead.
“Your turn. Let’s see if you can do better.”
Of course, Reid hits almost dead center on all of his throws, and Paul decides to explain the rules. We need to play three rounds to determine the winner. Paul stays in the background, Reid placing this and that little touch on me between every turn. After two rounds, we take a break. Reid opens a fresh beer for each of us—doing the hip-wrist-hand trio of want and desire.
Then there’s the food basket. We’re sitting on the table, side by side, our legs dangling over the bench, when he opens it up.
“Of course, showoff,” I tell him when he reveals what he brought. “I’d go to the deli and make sandwiches, but you grill your own brisket and have to one-up everyone.”
Homemade brisket, fresh rolls, and all the fixings, mustard, horseradish, even ketchup appear. Not to throw shade on the veggies and dip, and sweet potato chips on the side, but the sandwiches are mouthwatering.
“This is really good,” I mutter with a full mouth, then swallow. “Okay, that wasn’t the best manners, but it’s really good. I said that . . . it’s amazing. Perfect.”
Reid washes down his first bite with a swig of beer. “I’m glad you like it. I could’ve taken you to a fancy restaurant, but I don’t know, I feel like we’re having more fun.”
“We are. I don’t like those long sit-down dinners. Sometimes, I think I may fall asleep on the table.”
He looks so cute with his scruffy jaw, eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose, his hair mussed. My heart leaps in my chest.
“I’m glad I chose this then.”
“You did good, chef.”
“Oh, a new nickname? No more geek?”
“Nah, you’re earning a new status with me.” Taking a chip and popping it in my mouth, I realize it’s homemade. “You made these?”
“Of course. It’s not hard. In fact, you’ll see a video on the blog tomorrow.”
I lean in and whisper, “You didn’t make these without a shirt on, did you?”
“I guess you’ll have to watch and find out.”
“Torture!” I poke his side, and he in turn, kisses me. He aims for my cheek, but he gets my lips when I turn at the exact moment he leans in.
“This is fun. Thanks, if I forget . . . like in Pretty Woman.”
“I got you.”
“Does your mom watch the videos?” I pop a chip in my mouth and wait for an answer.
“I wish—she died young. Breast cancer. My dad didn’t live much longer. Broken heart.”
“Aaack, I’m sorry to hear.” I slide my hand up his arm and give it a squeeze.
“I have one sister, but she’s living in Alaska. She shacked up with one of these traveling doctors, and they’re always heading somewhere remote, helping people. She does his paperwork and all that.”
“Wow. A nomad and a numbers guy. You two sound like a pair.”
“Ha! We are. We used to be pretty close, but now with the distance and neither of us having families of our own, we don’t get around to it much.”
“And now you’re stuck with my daughter going on dates with us.”
“I don’t mind, but she’s not here right now.” He leans in and brushes my cheek with a kiss. “Ready to finish our war?”
“You bet.” And even more ready for what comes after.
We finish, and Reid wins. I don’t even care. I’ve had the most fun I’ve had in . . . forever. Shhh, I know it’s cliché. But in the middle of a sawdust-smelling old warehouse, drinking beer and throwing axes, I feel like more of a woman than I have in years.
“Thanks, Paul,” Reid says, tipping our instructor and winking at me. “Ready?” he asks me.
“Oh yeah.” Silently, I wonder if he will open another beer on my counter later.
Andi is laughing, singing to the song on the radio, and smiling.
I did that. I am man; hear me roar.
Something about this woman does me in. She gets me without us having to discuss it. I can’t explain it. She understands my blog, doesn’t judge me or whatever.
For all my life, I’ve been judged, which I get is weird with how I put myself out there with the blog. Still, if I wasn’t being made fun of for my passion for numbers, it would be for the damn blog. So, like I said, I don’t understand the unspoken acceptance between us, but it works for me.
“Want to come in?” Andi asks as I pull into a spot in front of her house.
“That okay?”
“Yeah, Gabby is apparently staying at Leona’s.”
“Oh.” I wink. “Convenient?”
Andi laughs it off because she gets me.
I don’t make it in time to open her car door. She’s out and bopping up the stairs before I beep the locks. Alrighty then.
We both hang our coats on the rack by the door, and she clicks on the recessed lighting. It’s a nice place, well-kept. I bet she’s done this all on her own for her daughter.
“What’s your poison?” Andi leans her ass into the back of the sofa and
cocks an eyebrow at me.
“Beer?”
“I got you covered, but can you open it?”
I find it strange she asks this. Isn’t she some independent woman? Whatever floats her boat. “Where’s your opener?”
“You can just knock it off on the counter like you did at Lumberjax,” she says, busy pouring herself a Perrier.
“Not here. It’ll ruin your counter. That’s for places where it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh.” She looks disappointed, and I shrug it off as some womanly weirdness as she yanks a drawer and grabs a bottle opener.
“Cheers,” we say again.
“So, do you sit in here when you work?” I point toward her open laptop on the kitchen table.
“No!” Smacking the laptop closed, she shoves it onto the counter. “I try not to work when I’m with friends.” She gives me a half smile.
“Good plan. Is that what I am? A friend?”
“I think. I don’t have many.”
“How about more than a friend?” I move closer to her standing by the counter, all the easiness of the evening long gone.
“This is uncharted territory for me,” she admits as I move within reach but don’t crowd her in. “I haven’t been on a date in a while, and even when I do date, it’s more of a scratch to an itch. God, that doesn’t sound good. It’s that, I keep Gabby out of it.”
“Nice,” I say, waggling my eyebrows, desperately trying to cover up my brewing jealousy.
“I thought we were being honest. After all, you know what onions do to me.”
Like that, she lets me off the hook. Relieved, I move in, setting my beer down and leaning over to kiss her.
Her ass is against the counter, my front hitting the perfect spot against hers, and I give a tiny bit of my weight, creating some friction. She moans, and I swallow it whole. I want more, but this is new for me. Single mom, etc.
“This okay?” I ask like a naive virgin.
“Yeah,” she breathes out on a whisper. “Gabby’s gone.”
Touching my forehead to hers, I mumble, “Good.”
We stay like that for a beat or three, and then our mouths meet. Boom, crash, gnash, we are insatiable. My tongue dives inside her mouth and her hand travels up my back, down again, and under my shirt.
We’re getting into a groove—kiss, tongue, hand and nails up and down my spine, bump and grind, repeat. Then Andi says, “Stop.”
I do. Immediately. Taking a step back, I run my hand down my face. “I didn’t mean to go so fast.”
“No, that’s not it. Let’s go to my room. It’s just . . . never mind. It’s weird.”
“Come on.” I take her hand in mine, threading our fingers. “It can’t be that weird. We were having fun, right?”
Her eyes stare up at me, dark brown meeting my own green, and I watch in amazement as she blinks. Something is wrong with me—I’m engrossed with her blinking.
“It’s just that this is a common room. Gabby and I find ourselves in here a lot, and I don’t know . . . this feels too personal for here.”
“Got ya.” I squeeze her fingers. She’s not saying stop for good . . . winner, winner, chicken dinner.
“Come on.” She tugs on my hand. “A girl can’t wait all day.” She leads the way to her room, and when we get to the threshold, she says, “This is me.”
I notice she’s taken the smaller of the two bedrooms in the house, and my heart flip-flops for whatever reason. I’m turning soft.
I don’t have time to dwell on it because Andi is in front of me and briskly opening the buttons on my shirt, her fingers grazing my chest. I take her mouth in mine and move her toward the edge of the bed while our tongues dance. Like I said, a little soft lately.
But not in that department. I’m hard as rock down there, and ready to go.
The back of Andi’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and I gently lay her down. “You have way too many clothes on,” I tell her.
“What are you going to do about it?” she teases, smirking at me from her lilac comforter.
Without hesitation, I drop down next to her and run my hand up the length of her jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, and shimmying them off. She kicks off her boots, and I’m back on the floor, finishing the task.
Set before me is stunning Andi in her shirt and a lacy black thong. My hand shakes with my want, and I grant it permission to run the length of her thigh, slipping under her shirt and to her breast. My thumb caresses her nipple over her bra, and she jolts.
“It’s been a while,” she mumbles, turning her head.
“Better for me. Don’t be shy.” I turn her chin with my finger and look into her eyes. “Be you.”
As my lips meet hers, my hand continues its exploration of her chest, eliciting soft moans and making her heart work hard. I feel its heavy beating under my palm, and I kiss her harder.
“What about your clothes?” she asks while her fingernails scrape my back under my shirt.
“I’m kind of hot in this flannel,” I mutter and sit up, ripping the already unbuttoned shirt off my shoulders. Quickly, I stand and get rid of the pants and boots. Everything thuds to the floor, and I’m back next to Andi in a hot minute, wearing only my boxer briefs.
I watch her gaze gulp me in, and I resist smiling. I may smirk, but when she sits and pulls her shirt off, leaving her in a matching bra and thong, I swallow, my words gone. She’s gorgeous.
We lie back down, front to front, on our sides, beginning a casual exploration of each other’s bodies. It feels new, but it also seems familiar. It’s all right and sexy as fuck.
Her hand slides over my side, down further, over my hip and around front. My own heart pounds in anticipation. When she takes hold of me, I fear I may burst. From a tug and a squeeze.
I capture her lips in mine, demanding control of the situation, and gently move her hand around to my ass. “Ladies first.”
From there, I let my fingers do the talking. Tickling her hip, making their way to her heat, opening, entering, pleasing. She’s had a baby, but this feels new, bright, or some shit like that. Whatever, she clenches around my fingers, and suddenly I’m ET with his heart lighting up in his chest. Or a porn star with an erection the size of the Empire State Building.
“Reid . . .” She says my name on a breath.
“Get there,” I tell her.
“Oh, I’ve not . . . in so long. You probably think . . .”
“Shhh.” I bite her lower lip and she goes off. My hand rides the crest and doesn’t stop until the waves of her orgasm have subsided.
“Need a moment?” I ask, and she blushes.
“I may,” she says, teasing me.
“Oh yeah, wait until—”
“There’s more?”
When she interrupts, I can’t help it. I nudge her onto her back and roll on top, running my length along her heat.
“Protection,” she mumbles.
“I got it.” I stand, grab a condom, and hurry to put it on, then get back to what I was doing.
I enter slowly, taking my time moving in and out. Andi brings her legs around and clenches my ass with her feet, and I dive deeper.
She says something like, “Whoa.”
“Good?” I ask.
She nods and then mutters the magic word. “Faster.”
I’m not going to lie; I go a little faster than I would like. But then Andi says I can sleep over, and I take my time the second time around.
Morning, lovers.
It’s impossible not to get bit in the butt by Scrooge this time of year.
Evil shopping circulars, incessant emails notifying you of sales, and kids whining everywhere. ’Tis the season from Black Friday to New Year’s Day.
Which is why we all need to give two thumbs up for Lila, a bright spot on the web. That little three-year-old midget can really make ya laugh. I love this kid. I know, I know, you’re wondering if I recently got hit on the head and am suffering a mild concussion, or have a personality disorder.
That’s right, I’m always spewing sarcasm, and now I’m forming the Lila Fan Club. I’m actually a nice person IRL, and I like this kid and her mom. I think they’re doing things right on the internet. She doesn’t always look perfect on camera: messy hair, stains on her shirt, still in pull-ups. Oh, and her mom stays out of the spotlight. She also takes breaks when Lila wants.
All in all, I love her.
Back to the reason for this post? Did you see her video on Santa? She’s on his lap—at the mall—whispering in his ear about how she knows he’s really the guy who works at the food court during the year. She tells him his secret is safe with her, and then sits up tall on his lap and asks for about two thousand dollars’ worth of toys and clothes, looking straight at her mom. It’s funny, and lightened my stress the tiniest bit.
I’m ditching the Scrooge hat today and donning my Santa cap, heading to Target (that’s right, this post has been sponsored by the dog with the big red eye). Target has all your holiday shopping needs, including garbage bags for all the wrapping paper wasted and the trash your company creates. Hurry up and save 10% at all stores today.
Tell them UAB sent you. Never mind, don’t. They’ll have no idea who you mean.
Happy holidays and affectionately yours,
The UnAffectionate Blogger
150 Comments
BadMamaDrama commented:
Do you have a fever? I don’t think you’ve ever been this friendly in a post.
DaddyStarbucks commented:
Go straight to the emergency room. This post was good and funny. You must be dying.
I refill my coffee and sit back at the dining room table, laughing at the comments. Me, laughing and smiling.
I think they’re right . . . I must be sick. This morning, I couldn’t help smacking up a rather jovial post for me. I do love Lila—she’s the one kid celeb I watch with Gabby. She’s kind of cute in a real way.
By the way, this Target ad is a big coup for me. Typically, they prefer bloggers with a big Instagram following, but they contacted me and I jumped at the opportunity. It’s paying for all of Gabby’s holiday presents and beefing up her 529 . . . yes, I’m patting myself on the back. #letsgetit
Hot For His Girl Page 10
