by Brynne Asher
She smiles, crawls up to sit on the counter, and we begin to bond over cookies.
I move around the kitchen to Bruno Mars, who’s Uptown Funk-ing me up, as I clean from the chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches. They were devoured by all, Cara included, who skipped out to play with the boys. Sophia was right—Jordy and Cara are good kids, easy and fun to be around. The afternoon was a rush and flew by before I knew it.
Cara opened up a tad. She talked about her daddy and brother a bit, but mostly, she listened to me go on and on about food, my nieces and nephews, and pretty much anything else I felt like going on about.
I barely hear a knock on the front door over my music. I quickly turn it down and yell before double-timing it to the front door, “Sorry, coming.”
I get to the door, but as I’m opening it I have to keep the dogs back with my foot. Lanny’s a vet—shouldn’t a vet have perfectly mannered dogs? Henry is part Basset-part something-or-other and Ginger is a red haired Dachshund. The two of them together are louder than the kids combined and bring berserko to a new level when someone’s at the door.
“No, Ginger.” I try to keep them back.
Over the commotion of the dogs, I hear a guttural, “You.”
That voice makes me freeze and I look up from the dogs, not caring if they run out the front door because I know they won’t go far. I see none other than the brick wall from last week. My eyes travel up another athletic ensemble, but clean this time. He’s lost the ball cap and his dark blond hair is short, so short I might not be able to tell its dark blond if his goatee didn’t give it away. But my eyes settle on his pissed-off bright-blue ones that are glaring, just as they did last week after he practically entered me into a wet T-shirt contest.
“You?” I bite back, but in a question.
“Who are you?” he demands.
Ah, hello? Stranger-Danger 101. No way am I telling him who I am so I ask right back, “Who are you?”
“I’m Lanny and Sophia’s neighbor. Now, who are you?”
“I’m Pai—wait.” I take a good look into his bright blue eyes. I tip my head when I realize I’ve been looking into them all afternoon, but in a miniature, much sweeter creature who’s more endearing than the asshole standing before me. I narrow my eyes. “You can’t be.”
“I’m Jordy and Cara’s dad,” he informs through a frown.
“No,” I say, albeit distracted. Turning, I look through the house toward the backyard where the kids are playing while fighting with my head, trying to make it not so. Looking back, I jut my thumb over my shoulder. “Those two precious children cannot be yours.”
“You’re Sophia’s sister?”
“But … they’re practically perfect, as far as kids go. And you’re … well,” I pause, searching for the appropriate word, not wanting to be a bitch. I know I can be bitchy, but I hate being a bitch, so I opt for flipping my hand out and finishing. “Not.”
“Shit,” he mumbles as he crosses his arms and shakes his head, looking to his side.
From the side, I get to see him in profile. Strong, masculine features with solid cheekbones carved into lightly tanned skin. He has a hint of sun, suggesting he’s been outside doing something with purpose, as opposed to frolicking in the rays only to get some color. And even though I’ve never appreciated facial hair on a man, his goatee is lush. It frames his lips like a bowl of chocolate ganache that you want to dive into and devour, licking up every last gooey drop. Maybe it’s because of the dark blond, but it looks soft, not wiry or prickly. Not that I‘ve had any experience with manly facial hair, because I absolutely have not. But his gives me the urge to expand my horizons in new and unchartered ways, which in turn, makes me fidget.
He glares down at me. “I’ll make other arrangements for the rest of the week.”
I pull my attention away from his soft goatee. “Other arrangements?”
He frowns. “The kids. I’ll find someone else to watch ‘em. We won’t have to see each other again.”
“But, I like your kids,” I attest. “We had fun today. They must get it from their mom, they’re sweet. I’m still shocked they could even be far distant cousins of yours, let alone your own.”
The brick wall huffs a somewhat sarcastic and frustrated breath. “Trust me, if they’re ‘sweet,’ they didn’t get it from their mom.”
Not understanding what that’s all about, I go on. “Well wherever they got it, they’re sweet and Noah and Cayden like having them here. I don’t mind watching them. Cara and I baked cookies today. She even talked to me a little bit. I’ve made it my goal to get her to speak an entire paragraph by the end of the week. Don’t rip that away from me—we’ve bonded over cookie dough. I’m pretty sure I can make that happen as long as sugar’s involved.”
He frowns again. “Cara talked to you?”
“What, she doesn’t talk?”
He sighs. “She’s shy. I can’t seem to pull her out of it,”
“Well, I’m anything but shy so there’s no need to make other arrangements. As long as you don’t dump Dr. Pepper on me, I’m sure we can muddle through the week. You’ve already ruined my favorite tank,” I complain.
I don’t know if it’s the mention of Dr. Pepper or my favorite tank, but his eyes move over me in a way I can feel it. I mean, I know I’m no catwalk model beauty queen, but it’s not like I’ve fallen out of the ugly tree. I’ve had eyes rake over me plenty of times, but never where I can feel it. And hell if the touch of his eyes dragging down my body doesn’t make me fidget again. As if he caught my fidget, his blue eyes dart back up to mine.
“I’ll get the kids,” I offer if for no other reason than to break his look and get him off my sister’s front porch. I don’t need his eyes touching me any longer.
I walk myself to the patio door and sticking my head out, yell for them. “Jordy, Cara—your dad’s here!”
They all come bounding, little Cara and Cayden trailing behind the big boys. The noise of kids’ voices rumble through the house as they make it to the front door ahead of me. I hear Cara’s voice squeal, “Daddy,” about ten times louder than any sound she ever uttered with me today.
As I round the corner, I’m forced to stop in my tracks from the sight in front of me.
The brick wall has picked Cara up, holding her high as he rubs his face in her neck, affirming my earlier notion that his goatee must be as soft as silk if it can make a five-year-old laugh when it tickles her. And, as if the clouds have parted letting the sun shine through after forty days and forty nights, I see him smile at his daughter through his lush goatee. “I missed my punkin’ pie.” He then directs his gorgeous smile down at Jordy and places his big hand right on top of his head. “Hey, buddy.”
And wow. That smile.
Seriously. Dadmire.
Dadmire – defined by all single women admiring a man who’s hot to begin with, but his hotness quotient increases leaps and bounds by him doing hot dad things. Examples: calling his girl punkin’ pie, his boy buddy and looking like there’s nothing he wants more in this world than the two kids in front of him.
Yeah, dadmire—smothered in real whipped cream and topped with a cherry. Maybe even sprinkles.
Shit. I can’t stop fidgeting and I think I creamed my panties.
Because this man who has proved to me now more than once he’s an asshole, albeit a hot one, takes my breath away witnessing him with his kids. I gaze at the scene in front of me and even though I’ve always known this about myself, now, I know. As if the fog has lifted off a dull, hazy day letting the light shine through, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt. There’s nothing more I want in this world than to have a man look like that at kids I get to give him.
Nothing.
He looks to me, switching his face to blank and frowns. “I’ll see if I can get away early tomorrow.”
Shaking my head a bit, I break out of my Dadmire Daze. “Wait.”
I turn back to the kitchen, find the wrapped plate, and make my way back t
o the front door. “Here. Cara made cookies—she worked hard on them. You should take some home.”
Jordy looks up to me with a happy smile. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll see you after camp?” I ask and he nods. I look up at Cara who’s snuggled in her dad’s neck. “Bye, Cara. We’ll find something fun to do tomorrow, too.”
She’s back to quiet. “Bye-bye.”
I give her a grin before her dad pulls my attention to him, as he promises, “Tomorrow.” Then he plops little Cara down. “Run home.”
As Jordy and Cara head out, he turns to leave when I call, “I’m Paige, by the way. Paige Carpino.”
Turning back to me, he turns stoic. “I know. Sophia told me your name.”
“Oh.” After a moment hangs between us with him standing on the front walk, I add, “So, are you just the nameless guy next door? Or are you going to challenge me, forcing me to get Cara to tell me your name tomorrow. I don’t want to push my limits with her. Tomorrow’s only day two and I’ve got ‘til Friday to get her to speak paragraphs.”
He shakes his head like he thinks I’m ridiculous. “Cam.”
“Cam?” I ask, thinking that’s strange. “Just Cam?”
He crosses his arms. “Just Cam.”
“Got it. You’re like Elvis or Madonna. I guess ‘Cam’ stands on its own, not needing another pronoun as an additional identifier.” I lean into the door jam.
He exhales and even his goatee twitches as he huffs, “Montgomery.”
“I knew that,” I throw back haughtily. “I picked up your kids today. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Cam Montgomery. Just don’t bring any beverages and we’ll be good.”
He rakes his eyes over me where I can feel them again before shaking his head and turns toward his house to make the two-acre jaunt home. I feel myself flush, not wanting to, but liking the feel of his eyes on me nonetheless.
Mmm. Dadmire.
But I put Cam Montgomery out of my mind. He’s got a family. Why are all the interesting ones taken? Even if he can be an asshole who doesn’t think his wife is sweet for some reason.
“Boys!” I yell as I make my way through the house. “What do you want for dinner?”
Chapter Three
Sugar Daddy
Paige
“I’m sorry, Brian. Not tonight.”
He keeps trying. “Come on, we can take the boys to do something fun. Maybe mini golf.”
“They have to get up early to go to this camp Sophia has them enrolled in. Let’s do lunch next week when I’m not on aunt duty. This mommy gig is busy and the nights fly. Before I know it, it’s bedtime,” I explain, exasperated, for the third time.
He sighs over the other end of the phone as I move through HomeGoods, looking for unusual plates and platters for my photos. I’ve got to keep things pretty and interesting to keep my blog looking fresh.
“Okay, I’ll call you next week.”
“Did you give into your sister? Are you going to go out with her friend she keeps trying to set you up with?” I try to change the subject. Brian’s sister has been trying to set him up with her friend and I wish he’d go. Maybe then I could breathe easy about our friendship staying in the friend-zone and not the unfriend-zone, where I think Brian wants it to be.
“Not yet, I’m thinking about it.” He doesn’t sound happy.
I leave the dishes and head to the garden aisle for some inspiration. “I think you should go for it. Angela wouldn’t screw her brother over. I’m sure it’ll be great.”
“Shit, Paige. I’ll think about it. Are you trying to get rid of me?”
I smile. “Of course, not. I just want you to meet someone and be happy.”
“Yeah, happy.” He breathes, frustrated.
I pick up a wide, but shallow, galvanized bucket. I multitask, thinking about using them as salad bowls for a picnic. “Yes, happy. You need to branch out. Call Angela and let her set up the blind date. Look, I’ve gotta check out. My hands are full and I didn’t get a cart. I’ll talk to you next week, we’ll do lunch. If you’re smart, you’ll have been on a date with your sister’s hottie friend and you can fill me in.”
“We’ll see,” he says before we say our goodbyes and disconnect.
I pick up two more buckets, thinking these are perfect and head to the checkout. I’ve got to pick the kids up in twenty minutes and my mom is coming to Sophia’s this afternoon. My older brother, Tony, is turning thirty on Monday and she wants my help planning a big family dinner. I check out with my new bucket salad bowls and head to pick up the kids.
“So, why do your parents think you need a cell phone?” I ask Jordy as we dip our leftover chocolate chip cookies in milk. They’re always better in milk after a day or two when they dry out a bit.
Jordy called their dad, letting him know we made it back to Sophia’s house. This time Cara confiscated the phone and I heard her speak paragraphs to her dad about her day. I’m bound and determined to get her to talk like that.
Jordy shrugs. “I dunno. Dad wants me to call him after we leave camp. He wants us to call him whenever we wanna talk to him, so he said I needed my own phone.”
I frown as I take a bite of my soggy cookie. I still think it’s weird. It’s not like they aren’t with adults all the time that would have a phone for him to use.
“I have practice tonight,” Jordy informs us.
“What kind of practice?” I ask.
“Baseball,” he says with a mouthful of cookie. “My dad’s the coach.”
“Huh,” I reply with my own mouthful.
“I play basketball,” Cayden pipes, not wanting to be left out.
“You’re a baller, I love to watch you play.” I smile at my nephew.
“Daddy says I get to play basketball next year,” Noah adds with milk running down his face. I smile as I wipe his face with a napkin.
“I take gymnastics,” Cara informs, albeit quietly.
“You do?” I ask. “That’s fun.”
“Cara tried to play T-ball, but she didn’t like it,” Jordy says.
I look at Cara and she wrinkles her face shaking her head with a big no, affirming she didn’t like T-ball.
“Gymnastics is for girls,” Noah says, bumping Cara on the arm with his shoulder.
“Uh, have you seen the Olympics? Boys can do gymnastics. Not to mention, their arms are really nice.” All four kids frown in question, so I shake my head. “Never mind.”
Jordy goes on, informing me more about his dad. “Dad wanted her to play softball but she didn’t even like T-ball. He said she could take gymnastics if she promised to try basketball this winter.”
I frown and say, “I think gymnastics is great. Sure, you should try new things, but there’s nothing wrong with sticking with what you love. My mom made us all take music lessons. Sophia and I played piano, my other sister Charlotte played the flute and my brother played the drums for a few months. Of course my parents let him quit because they said he was too busy with basketball, but I think they didn’t want to tell him how bad he was. They got tired of listening to the drums in the house.”
Cayden laughs. “Uncle Tony played drums?”
“Not really,” I say. “He made a lot of really bad noises. It was a blessing they let him quit. He was awful. But my mom made us girls take lessons for years. It really wasn’t fair.”
A knock on the door breaks into our extracurricular activities discussion. I look to the clock and frown, thinking “Just Cam” isn’t supposed to be here for a couple hours.
“Eat your cookies. I’ll be right back.” I head to the door and when I open it, Cam Montgomery is standing there, but today all I see is his profile. He’s facing the side of the porch with his arms crossed and even from the side, I see his jaw is set hard.
“You’re early,” I note.
His body stays where it is, but he turns to me scowling. “Is that your car?”
“What?” I ask, poking my head out the door to see what he’s looking at.
/> Still not moving, he looks back to the driveway, jutting his chin. “The Lexus.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s my car,” I say with zero enthusiasm.
“You’re well taken care of,” he mutters and finally turning to me. “Tell the kids it’s time to go.”
“Excuse me?”
He frowns. “I said tell the kids it’s time to go. I came early, but I’ve gotta get back to work for a couple hours. They can come with me.”
“No.” I frown right back. “I heard the part about the kids. What did you mean when you said I was ‘well taken care of’?”
“Just sayin’, you must’ve landed yourself a good one to set you up like that so young,” he drawls.
Oh, he did not just say that.
“Landed myself a good one?” I repeat just to make sure he’s saying what I think he’s saying.
“Yeah.”
“Are you inferring that the only reason I could have a car like that is because a man is taking care of me?” I seethe.
“You?” He looks me up and down. “I bet they’re lined up to take care of you.”
“They?” I barely hearing myself this time, not believing this conversation.
He glares at me. “You know who I mean.”
“I cannot believe you,” I start. I mean, really. Who does he think he is making assumptions like that about other people? Shaking my head in disbelief, I put one hand to my hip and flip out the other, ranting. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ve landed myself a Sugar Daddy. I pretty much do anything he wants or needs and, in return, he provides me a luxury vehicle. He also dresses me. See my fancy clothes? I think I picked this little thing up at Neiman’s the last time my Sugar Daddy took me to the big city for a shopping spree. Oh wait, this top is from … hang on, I forgot.” I yank the neck of my t-shirt to the side so I can crane my head to read my tag. “This is from the Gap. I really don’t feel like taking my shorts off for you, since you’re not my Sugar Daddy and all, but I’m pretty sure I picked these up at Target.”
