by Amy Brent
--
Saturday morning, I arrive at the impressive, gray-stone mansion right on time.
“We were ready half an hour ago,” Clayton jokes as he opens the door.
“I like to keep people guessing,” I say with a wink.
Our gazes rest on each other for a bit too long. His eyes flick to my lips while my head reels. I like to keep people guessing. Seriously? What am I doing, trying to channel George?
I shift uneasily, resisting the overwhelming urge to scratch my butt crack. I don’t know what got into me this morning, other than me sleeping through my alarm and having a grand total of five minutes to get ready, but I actually threw on the stupid skimpy underwear. And now here I am, all ready to babysit in my sexy black thong.
Yep, I’m officially the world’s worst babysitter, not to mention the world’s worst aunt.
“Stevie!”
The whole reason for me being here races up to me and gives me a barreling hug.
As I hug him back, my whole body sighs.
“You look nice,” Clayton says, his gaze on my T-shirt.
“Thanks,” I say in a high-pitched squeak that isn’t my own.
No way am I about to admit to him that out of the five minutes I had to get ready, four of them were spent deciding what to wear.
Then there’s the whole issue of how Clayton looks. Yesterday, in his black suit jacket with a white collared shirt underneath and his styled hair, Clayton was mouthwateringly sexy.
But now, clad in a tight-fitting black shirt that showcases his toned physique and some low-slung blue jeans, let’s just say there’s a lot more saliva in my mouth.
The car ride to Legoland is one long Sesame Street sing-along. I can’t help but smile, remembering my own childhood. My sister and I were basically raised on Sesame Street.
With a glance over at Clayton, however, I find his attention solely focused on the road.
“Not a Sesame Street fan?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“My parents never really were into that. My dad more specifically. He was all about drilling a good work ethic into me early on. Thought a lot of kids’ stuff like Sesame Street and that was silly.”
“And you?” I ask, not impressed.
The way Clayton said that, in a reasonable tone of voice, indicates he agrees with his dad. His hands visibly tighten on the steering wheel.
“I think my dad was wrong about a lot of things.”
Silence.
Clearly, I’ve hit a nerve, one that’s pulsing in a vein on his neck. Remembering my old iceman ex, Wednesday, I find myself freezing up. Even before our big unofficial breakup, Wednesday had a gift for shutting down whenever things didn’t go his way.
Great. Looks like I’ve crushed on yet another jerk of the century. When am I going to learn?
The rest of the car ride is quiet. Clayton makes a few vague attempts at conversation out of politeness more than anything.
When we pull up to the hulking cube that is our destination, Winston starts losing it.
“Legoland! Legoland!”
Once we actually get him out of the car, he’s about ready to run.
“Hold your horses, bud,” Clayton says, tugging his eager son back. “Stevie probably doesn’t want to sprint all the way up there.”
“Speak for yourself,” I challenge, taking off at a jog.
Smirking, Clayton starts running, taking Winston along with him.
By the time we reach Legoland, we’re all gasping for air and laughing.
“Stevie won,” Winston declares stoically, turning his grave blue eyes to his father.
“I didn’t know it was a race,” Clayton shoots back coyly. “Otherwise I would’ve gone much faster.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” I quip.
Now that we’re stopped and Clayton’s deep sapphire gaze is piercing me, my heart seems to be racing even faster. Is it just me or did his eyes just dip to my lips?
“We better get going,” Clayton says, seemingly as much to remind himself as to tell me.
It doesn’t take long for us to get our tickets and begin our winding tour of the big place.
As it turns out, Legoland is not adequately named. Legoworld or even Lego-universe would be a more accurate title. The place is sprawling and has displays featuring Star Wars and its hundred-piece ships, a full hockey rink and stands, and even the towering parliament buildings in Ottawa. It’s hard to say which is the most extraordinary.
Every time we go to a new room, it’s absolutely adorable. Winston gets a look on his face as if he’s seen God. Then he proceeds to declare with a firm head nod, “This is the best one!”
With him in little green dino boots, russet cords, and a stretchy green-and-black striped sweatshirt, I want nothing more than to sweep him up in my arms and give him a big hug. So, finally, I do.
Turning to Clayton, I say, “This outfit is the cutest! You dress him?”
He scoffs. “Of course I do. Why? You don’t think I dress myself as well as I do my own son?” One deep red brow quirks up.
I let my gaze rest admiringly on him for a moment before saying “no comment” with a wink.
Clayton steps forward so that our gazes are locked.
“Careful.”
There’s no joking tone in his words, although there is a taunting fire in his eyes.
Something between a gulp and a shiver passes through me. I’m definitely not imagining that I’m the only one aware of this attraction. But still, I haven’t forgotten how cold he went in the car, similar to Wednesday. Whenever the conversation or course of events took a turn he didn’t like, he checked out completely. Good-bye boyfriend, hello iceman.
Not to mention that this whole dynamic is inappropriate anyway.
“Look,” I say, ripping my gaze off him as I place Winston back on the floor and turn to where Winston’s enthusiastic eyes are locked. “There’s a section where you can build your own Lego stuff.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than Winston is sprinting there. I follow him without looking at Clayton, although I feel his eyes raking over me from behind.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, beelining for the bathroom instead.
Tucked in the mint-green colored stall, I try to get myself together. Nothing is happening, I remind myself. Not only would it be completely unprofessional, but it would be completely stupid too.
This is my sister’s ex we’re talking about. Anyone who would date Helena clearly has some serious issues. Granted, they split up pretty fast, but still.
Not to mention I need this job. How likely am I to land another one when one of my reviews says, “Pretty good with the kid; even better in bed”?
Despite the circumstances, I chuckle darkly to myself. Soon, however, my mirthful smirk droops into a scowl. Anyway, it’s not like I have any idea what I’m doing. Good old virgin me.
Clayton would probably laugh outright if he found out the truth. So far, I’ve experienced the whole range of unfortunate male reactions, from outright disbelief to random chuckling to sleazy offers.
I want no part of it. No part of hooking up with my boss and no part of having to deal with another awkward situation. I’ve had enough by this point to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.
Back outside, Winston and Clayton aren’t at the block-building station. After a quick walk a bit further on, I find them at the food stand. They’re sitting in a booth with a couple of extra-large Slurpees. When I sit down beside Winston, Clayton gestures to the Slurpee on the table beside his.
“Got this for you.”
He pauses, his uncertain gaze snaking to me, as if he’s considering teasing that I can only have it if I sit beside him. His gaze stops on Winston, his frown deepens, and then he slides the Styrofoam cup over.
“Look, Dad,” Winston crows.
He blows into his Slurpee and produces several bubbles, which sends him into merry giggles.
“You think that’s something
?” Clayton says, a wide grin on his face. “Check this out.”
He lifts off the lid of his cup and put his straw on one of the ice chunks on top of the Slurpee. Sucking on the straw, he lifts it out of the cup and then shoots the piece of ice at me. I duck too late. It strikes me in the cheek while Winston claps his hands together, laughing.
Despite myself, I find myself laughing too.
“You think that’s something?” I say, reaching for Clayton’s Slurpee. Dipping my straw into it, my eyes never leaving his, I suck on the straw slowly until all his Slurpee is down my throat.
“She got you, dad,” Winston says, smiling out of his blue-tinted lips.
Clayton’s gaze still hasn’t left my mouth.
“Yes,” he says in a low voice. “I guess she did.”
I rip my gaze away from him and focus on my Slurpee.
Nice work, Stevie, you jerk. With my straw, I nervously bash at the purple crystals in the bottom of my cup. What did I just do, and what will be the consequences?
--
After we’ve exited Legoland, Clayton has some errands he wants to run at the grocery store and a nearby Staples.
“You don’t mind, right?” he asks me.
“It’s fine,” I say.
Really, I’m a bit worried. It’s already seven o’clock as it is. What am I going to do if it’s late by the time we get back to his place? The buses don’t run indefinitely, and it’s a long bus ride as it is.
Don’t worry. Worse comes to worst, you can just stay over at his place tonight, a taunting little voice in my head says.
A shiver eats away at me. No. It won’t come to that. It can’t.
The errands don’t take too long. It’s almost fun, rolling Winston in the cart up and down the aisles while Clayton picks up what he needs.
Once we finally amble out to the car, I’m not sure what time it is, although it’s definitely late. The sky outside is dark. We no sooner pull out of the parking lot and onto the road than Winston falls asleep beside me.
“Come up here,” Clayton says from the front, patting the seat beside him.
“Okay. Just pull over and I’ll come around up there,” I reply.
He shoots me an utterly unimpressed look, as if I’ve said the lamest thing of the century.
“You really think I can’t steer the car properly enough for the next ten seconds for you to climb up here safely?”
When I don’t immediately respond, he adds, “Trust me.”
That’s just the problem. I don’t trust him, and I certainly don’t trust myself. Nevertheless, my body obeys before my mind can think of a good excuse not to.
Once I’ve sat beside him, Clayton aims a smile my way.
“See? That wasn’t so—”
The next word is lost as he hurtles the car to the side to avoid hitting the suddenly stopped van ahead of us. Our car shoots over two lanes before settling on the shoulder of the road.
Meanwhile, the blue van, which stopped for seemingly no reason at all, now has its emergency flashers on.
It takes me a minute to realize that the reason I’m shaking is that I’m terrified.
Clayton puts his hand on top of my clawed one, sending a shiver to join the shakes.
“You okay?” He says it to me while he cranes his head back at Winston, who is still asleep. “Shit, that was close,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Just a few more seconds and…” His face crumples into painful-looking guilt. “I’m an idiot. I could’ve killed all of us.”
I place my hand on top of his.
“But you didn’t. You reacted just in time.”
His hand under mine is tightly balled, and I don’t think he heard me.
Clayton pulls back onto the road, and as the minutes tick on, a volatile silence descends. Although the almost-crash already happened, it still feels like it’s lingering, hovering over us. When we pull up to Clayton’s four-car garage, he turns to me. Surprise flashes over his face, as if he forgot I’m here.
“You want to come in?”
There’s a gentle sort of tenderness to his voice, but I shake my head.
“I probably shouldn’t. It’s getting late.”
Clayton nods absently. “But could you?” He says the words even more softly, as if it would be too much to even hope for me to say yes.
I cave. “Okay, but just for a little.”
He doesn’t respond. He’s already gotten out of the car and scooped Winston up in his arms.
As Clayton carries his son to the house, one of Winston’s eyes half opens and slides to his dad.
“Hello, sleepy,” Clayton says, fumbling with his key.
“Here. I can do that,” I say.
He shoots me a grateful smile as I take the key and turn it in the lock.
Inside, it takes all of five minutes for us to tuck Winston into bed. His sheets are little red rockets in perpetual flight beneath a blue comforter.
Even after Winston’s little eyes have drooped closed and a contented smile eases onto his lips, Clayton still hovers by his bedside. His eyes haven’t left his son’s face. Even in the dull light, his adoration for his son is unmistakable.
It feels like I’m prying, seeing him like this. I’ve just turned away when he says, “Kids—there’s something really special about them.”
He sounds almost surprised, like if had you had asked this question to him a few years ago, he would’ve given you a different response.
“They are,” I say. “But I’ve got to get—”
Without warning, he takes me by the arm. While ushering me to the stairs, he shoots me a warm look.
“Sorry,” he says, as if remembering himself, and lets go of my arm. “It’s just…that near crash really shook me. My Winston, my son…”
His eyes close and his teeth grit together. It looks like every tendon in his body is standing out, like he has feverish worms under his skin.
“Would it be too much for you to stay the night?”
At the words I fear most, my voice leaves me.
“Of course you’ll be paid for it,” he says quickly. “And if you really do have to go, then of course I’ll drive you.”
All I can manage is a nod. If I try to open my mouth, the “no” I want to say will be superseded by “yes” anyway.
Goddamn the consequences. I’m staying the night.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to have a glass of wine to take the edge off things,” Clayton says as we go down the stairs. With his hand on the banister, he descends like a god of his own realm. That’s one sense I got from him the second I met him—he’s a man of control who knows what he wants.
The realization sends trickles of nervousness through me. That’s all fine and dandy, but what does Clayton Matthews want with me?
“Of course you don’t have to have any.” Clayton continues into the kitchen, where he produces a dark wine bottle from a cupboard.
Oh shit. This just got very bad.
Seeing my expression, Clayton’s cheeks go white and then blotchy.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “That was stupid and totally inappropriate. This is… Do you want me to drive you home?”
His question prods me into hyper-consciousness.
What I should do is obvious, as is the danger inherent in staying here. I can see what will happen if I choose the expected response, say, “Yes, please drive me home.”
Clayton will drop me off at my parents’ duplex. I’ll go up to my bedroom, curl myself sadly under my soft cotton covers. Maybe George will even be waiting there. She probably won’t say it, but she won’t have to. Another night in my life. Another same old boring old night sleeping by myself, wishing I was the type of person who took risks, did exciting things, was daring.
And now here’s my chance to finally take a deliciously exciting risk, and I’m going to pass on it?
“Is that a no?” Clayton says, adopting a completely different demeanor.
It’s as if my uncertainty allowed hi
m to discard one mask and adopt another. This one struts around me like a lion eyeing a gazelle.
Instead of responding, I grab the wine bottle by the neck and hoist it up to my mouth. I drink from it deeply, ignoring the burning sensation down my throat. I’m not a drinker, but tonight I will be.
The sips of wine lead us to the couch. There, we chat for a few minutes, our bodies edging closer heedlessly. When our sides touch, Clayton is the first to rise.
“We should probably get to bed.”
The words sound like more of a question than a suggestion. Nevertheless, I rise.
“We should,” I agree airily, the room swimming before me. I’m officially the world’s biggest lightweight. I’ve downed all of one glass worth of wine and I’m pleasantly tipsy. Nevertheless, I hold his gaze, daring him to take me up on my words. Daring him even more to take me up on the words that my eyes are saying but my lips haven’t yet.
Right now, a battle of wills is happening. It’s wide-set sapphire eyes against my own baby blues. The winner takes all. The only problem is, I’m not sure what either of us wants or if we even know.
This is so wrong, a voice reminds me. I turn away.
“I’m sorry,” Clayton says softly.
I turn back to him with a rebuke on my lips, for him not to be sorry, that it’s too late for sorry. But I twist straight into his lips.
The kiss blasts into me. A whole wave of sensation overtakes every nerve in my body.
All tendrils of thought die upon contact with this feeling. As his hands sweep over me and our lips mash over each other’s, there’s only this.
When he finally draws away, tugging my lower lip with him, he groans.
“Stevie…”
This time I’m the one crashing my lips into his. I’m the one letting my hands roam where they will. Because fuck Clayton Matthews. He’s going to have to finish what he started. Right now, there’s no room for carefulness in our minds with what our bodies are doing.
My hands feel the impressive bulk of his chest muscles, my fingertips slowly sweeping around as if reading sign language on a wall. Meanwhile, his tongue stabs into my mouth, a shadow of where we’re headed. Instead of the fear this should inspire, it only sends an excited tingle between my legs.
