Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

I pull my long hair out of the topknot, praying for volume instead of dreads.

  Volume it is.

  Again, I don’t question why that matters.

  My phone chimes with a text.

  I run my fingers through my hair, grabbing my phone and Wellington’s new debit card from the counter, sparing my phone a glance as I head out of the bathroom, tucking the card into my back pocket.

  I stop when I see it’s from Ben. It takes a moment to register. I haven’t received a text from anyone other than Derek in a long time.

  Ben: Move it.

  Seriously, what a dick.

  Knowing he must have sent himself a message from my phone sends a jolt of adrenaline through my veins as I text him back.

  Me: Aww… so sweet that you miss me! XO

  I hit send. And wait for a few seconds, but no reply. Good.

  I take my time slipping on my Toms and walk into the living room, ignoring the knots (or are they butterflies?) in my stomach.

  My steps falter as Ben walks from the kitchen, his head bent to his phone. He’s wearing the same ratty T-shirt from earlier with a pair of equally worn jeans and scuffed motorcycle boots.

  I get that he’s sexy—if you like dark, brooding, possible serial killers, which apparently is my new thing—but I’ve been around hot men before, even married one. So, what the hell is up with this Gollum-Lord of the Rings reaction to him?

  He looks up from his phone, quickly takes me in, his cold eyes and stoic expression giving nothing away. Suddenly my jeans don’t fit quite as well, my long hair feels like a frizz bomb of waves and curls, and my lips are sticky with too much gloss.

  “Ready?” he asks distractedly, his eyes back on his phone.

  “No, I’m standing here just for the fun of it,” I snap back, a bit too snottily.

  He looks up again, his eyes meeting mine, and exhales, shaking his head as he walks toward the front door. I follow, definitely not noticing the way his ass moves in his jeans or the faded outline of where his wallet is, which I find strangely sexy.

  Me neeeeds my precious…

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  My stomach jolts as the answer races through my veins. It’s so obvious I feel ridiculous for not seeing it: I haven’t been with a man since Greg. I haven’t been in this proximity to any age-appropriate, non-denture-wearing men in what feels like forever. Besides Derek, but he doesn’t count.

  It only makes sense that I would lust after the only guy I’ve been around who’s under eighty and not family. The realization that my Gollum reaction has nothing to do with Ben being irresistible man-candy, and everything to do with me just being horny, brings a genuine smile to my face.

  I feel twenty pounds lighter as he holds open the door for me. His eyes narrow in on my bright smile. That’s right, buddy, turns out it’s not you, it’s me. I grab my purse, slipping my phone inside, taking my time to walk out the door.

  “Thanks, honeybuns,” I chirp, stepping onto the porch, breathing in the fresh air while listening to the birds singing me a song. They might even get together with the neighborhood mice and make me a dress later, who knows.

  “Anytime, Shortcake,” he quips at my back, shutting the door and bringing out his keys to lock it.

  I bristle but keep my mouth shut. Squirt, half pint, bite-sized, small fry, shrimp, sit-and-spin, smalls, mini-me, munchkin, I’ve heard them all. Shortcake has always felt the least offensive. And if I’m honest, I thought it was sort of cute.

  Until now. Until Ben.

  I exhale, looking up to the sun peeking through the trees, trying to hold onto the “good day” vibes slipping through my fingers.

  My gaze slides to his motorcycle, and I inwardly grin, wondering how Mr. Genius plans on bringing back the supplies.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I call over my shoulder, no denying the smug satisfaction in my voice.

  “Nope.” He turns from the door.

  “You sure about that?” I can’t help but smile.

  “Yup.” He passes me without a glance and quickly descends the stairs in that effortless way people with good coordination do. It adds to my giddiness at the possibility of knocking him down a few notches.

  I rummage through my purse for my phone to text Derek, to ask if we can borrow his truck. As I start a text that will have me saving the day while rubbing his face in it, I hear the grinding sound of metal on metal.

  I glance up to see Ben sliding the garage door open and disappearing inside. I totally forgot about the garage. I’ve only been in there once, to retrieve a ladder for what should’ve been a quick lightbulb change.

  The sound of an engine whining and struggling to turn over gives me hope.

  Please, don’t let it start. Please, don’t let it start…

  The smooth, deep rumble cuts through my prayers and takes me down a few smug notches. The loud revs of the engine that follows nails the coffin of my defeat.

  Of course, it starts.

  A forest-green vintage Bronco rolls out from the garage.

  Of course, it’s cool.

  Of course, he looks like a badass behind the wheel.

  He pulls up to the walkway, and I slip my phone back in my purse, feeling deflated as I take the stairs.

  Schooling my expression, I open the heavy door of the truck and hoist myself inside, slamming it shut. I reach down for the seatbelt as he pushes in the clutch, slips it in gear, and takes off, gravel kicking up as we go. I snap the buckle in place, but the lap belt’s so loose I can’t imagine it’ll do much good. I fiddle with it for a few seconds, then let it go. Right now, it’s the least of my problems.

  We stop at the end of the driveway, and without warning, Ben reaches over and roughly adjusts my belt, jostling me with his sharp movements. He smells like Zest soap, manliness, and car exhaust, and right now it smells better than any cologne on the market.

  His arm brushes the side of my boob. My nipples pebble as a jolt of awareness strums a cord through my body.

  It’s not him, it’s you. It’s not him, it’s you.

  His dark eyes slice to mine, his face neutral, clearly unaffected by our closeness. I turn my gaze out the window, feeling my cheeks flush at my one-sided reaction to him.

  He gives the belt a final tug, until it cuts off circulation to my legs, and sits back in his seat. We don’t say a word as we turn onto the main road.

  I refuse to notice how smoothly he shifts the gears. I refuse to notice the way his strong hand engulfs the shifter-thingy, the way the sinewy muscles in his forearms move under veins. Nope. Not gonna notice any of that shit.

  Sunlight catches a delicate gold locket hanging from the rearview mirror. The ‘gold’ has rubbed off in places placing its value in the sentimental category.

  It sways like a pendulum with the motion of the truck. It’s hard for me to imagine Ben being sentimental about anything… it probably contains a lock of hair from his first victim or something.

  What’s worse than being in a car with a possible serial killer? Sitting with that possible serial killer in complete silence, that’s what.

  As if reading my mind, he pushes in the cassette tape. I brace myself for death metal, or something equally migraine-inducing, but instead the Bee Gees’ “How Deep is Your Love” sounds from the speakers.

  His eyes go to the radio and then jump to me. “You put that in there?” Confusion mixed with anger colors his deep voice.

  “Yeah, I snuck into your truck to put in a Bee Gee’s cassette tape,” I deadpan, “which I just happened to have lying around. You caught me.”

  We lock eyes for a second, and I can feel the exact moment realization hits us.

  We both abruptly turn forward in our seats.

  He feels it too.

  Rose.

  After a long moment, he ejects the tape.

  * * *

  There’s something weirdly intimate about shopping with a man. It usually signals the next step in your relationship, which is why it
feels unnatural following Ben around with this cart as we walk down the aisles.

  My gaze locks with a ruggedly handsome contractor with a goatee, maybe in his late-thirties, with a full sleeve of faded tattoos. His light-brown eyes casually rake down my body as he walks past. Was he checking me out? The thought sends a thrill up my spine. An immature part of me, which seems to be growing by the second, hopes Ben saw it.

  I look around… I mean really look.

  Men. Are. Everywhere.

  Doing and buying manly things.

  I suddenly love Home Depot.

  I breathe in the mix of cologne, fresh-cut wood, and metal. It’s not quite as intoxicating as my newfound love of Zestfully-clean manliness and exhaust but—

  My cart slams to an abrupt stop. My eyes flash forward to see I’ve caught the back of Ben’s ankle with a wheel.

  He glares over his shoulder, his brows pulled tight, his jaw clenched. “Jesus, woman,” he growls with a little flush creeping around his collar.

  “Oops. Sorry.” I’m trying not to smile in the face of his pain.

  Guess I’m a bit sadistic like that.

  He yanks the cart from my hands and continues down the aisle, pushing it with a slight limp.

  “It was an accident, sheesh,” I say under my breath, catching up to him, his long stride making it difficult. “This would go a lot easier if we’d put our feelings aside.” I shrug. “Maybe we can even be friends.” That last part’s a bit of a stretch, but I decide to take the high road and give him a friendly, open smile.

  The fact that he looks utterly disgusted by the idea causes my smile to fade.

  “What makes you think I’d ever want to be friends with someone like you?”

  Someone like me?

  “You don’t even know me,” I say.

  “Think I got a pretty good idea,” he grumbles.

  As stupid as it sounds, my feelings are hurt. I’m hurt he doesn’t like me. Hurt that he thinks I’m someone I’m not.

  “Your loss, buddy, because I’m an awesome friend. Too good for someone like you, that’s for sure.”

  He laughs icily before stopping at a wall of paint, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket.

  “Go grab some plastic sheeting,” he orders, looking from the paper to the paint.

  Anger bubbles in my chest, and I want to punch him in the throat for ruining Home Depot for me. “You got it, sugar bear,” I say, with a perfectly executed sardonic grin, which is unfortunately lost to the side of his face.

  I spin on my heels and walk away like I have an idea of where the hell I’m going, which I don’t. I take my time perusing the aisles, looking through the pipe fittings and electrical wire like I’m at Sephora, in no rush to get back to Ben.

  Just as I spot the rolls of sheeting—of course, one aisle over from where I started—my phone vibrates in my purse. I grit my teeth and pull it out, expecting it to be Ben barking more orders at me.

  Swift panic steals my breath when I see Uncle Rick’s name on my screen. Uncle Rick who would rather have a root canal than talk on the phone. I curse Derek under my breath knowing he must’ve told him about Rose. I release a heavy breath through my nose and send the call to voicemail knowing if I answer, I’m going to end up a snotty, crying mess at Home Depot. In front of Ben.

  Guilt for ignoring the call presses down on my shoulders. I grab an armful of the plastic sheeting rolls and lug them, along with my guilt, back through the various painting doodads until I spot Ben in front of the wall of paint swatches… talking with a curvy redhead, who unlike me, doesn’t have to crane her neck back to look at Ben.

  She mostly has her back to me, but I can see Ben’s face clear as day. He chuckles at something she says, the smooth, deep sound hitting me like a punch in the gut as he gives her a slow sexy grin, showing a row of perfect white teeth, made even brighter against the dark shadow of his beard. She touches his arm, throwing her head back with a sing-song laugh.

  His eyes heat at her touch, and his grin widens.

  Never be friends with someone like you…

  Anger seeps into my body, lighting my chest on fire. I steady my steps, dumping the sheeting in the still-empty cart and push it toward Ben.

  Ben looks past his conquest. His eyes immediately lose their heat as they meet mine, then narrow in a silent warning.

  Cock block, you say? Don’t mind if I do.

  I wink at Ben as I pass the redhead, who smells like Victoria Secret’s Love Spell, and I turn my grin into an overly bright smile.

  He glares, and his jaw ticks.

  “Got the tarps, honey bear,” I sing before looking to the redhead. “Oh, hi.” I give her a surprised smile like I hadn’t noticed her and, now that I do, I’m oblivious to how drop-dead gorgeous she is.

  A pink blush creeps up her neck, no doubt from believing she just got caught hitting on my man. The scattered freckles peeking out from under her light makeup and perfectly arched red brows tell me she’s a natural redhead, a real-life unicorn as Bob from Radiology would’ve called her. Yeah, Bob had a thing for redheads. And by “thing” I mean obsession, which made the fact that his wife had short, curly black hair kinda weird.

  She gives me a wide smile. “Your, uh, boyfriend was nice enough to help me decide between colors,” she stammers out, taking a casual step back, looking between us.

  Ben’s shoots me a quick what-the-fuck look before he goes to correct her. “She’s not my—”

  “She’s right, babe, you’ve got a great eye.” I hook a hand under his arm, ignoring the muscle tensing beneath it. “That’s why I put him in charge of the colors for the nursery,” I finish, turning my adoring eyes to him, relishing the shock and disbelief written in his. I shoot him a quick wink and cradle my other hand over my non-existent baby bump, looking back to the redhead. “It’s early yet, but we just couldn’t wait to get started.” I beam up at Ben like he’s my love-story. “Right, buttercup?” #SorryNotSorry.

  His eyes narrow for a breath. Then his face melts into a freaking gorgeous smile.

  “Right, babe.” His deep voice brushes like velvet, warm against my skin.

  My stomach flutters.

  My smile falters into something I’m sure looks nervous and forced, because it is.

  He turns to the redhead and without missing a beat says, “I don’t care if it’s not technically mine.” He looks back to me, his voice soft and tender. “I’m gonna love it like my own.”

  He’s gazing at me like a man so lost in love he’ll never find his way out. And even though I know he’s full of shit and probably plotting my murder, I melt a little.

  I break eye contact before I end up a sad puddle on the floor, and turn back to the redhead. The look on her face says she fell for his act hook, line, and sinker.

  “I’m one lucky girl,” I tell her as I dig my nails into Ben’s arm. “Most men would feel insecure about having to use a donor.” I lean in, cupping my hand to the side of my mouth and continue in a mock-whisper, “Low sperm count.” I turn and beam back at Ben, giving him a conspiratorial smirk. “But not my guy here. He’s a champ.”

  We lock eyes for a beat. The sky darkens as unspoken curse words rain down on me like arrows. This is Sparta!

  “Well, congratulations,” the redhead rushes out before making her getaway.

  “Thanks!” I call out blindly, my eyes still locked with Ben’s, my smile sugary sweet.

  I drop my hand from his arm because it feels weird now and take a step back. My smile cools around the edges as he follows me with a step forward.

  At a glance, we probably look like two people head-over-heels in love, counting stars in each other’s eyes.

  “What? Not funny?” I tease, feeling just a little freaked out at the intensity of his gaze. A shiver runs up my spine at the menacing stillness of him.

  I move back another step, my shoulders hitting the plastic paint-swatch display. He’s not touching me, but I still feel trapped.

  I f
orce out an easy laugh while giving him a playful nudge on the chest, trying to lighten his black mood. “Awe… come on, buddy. I was just messing around.”

  He chuckles, but it’s empty and cold. Then he tilts his head down and cocks his brows. “Guess I didn’t make myself clear… so let’s try this again.” His baritone voice drops. “I don’t want to be your buddy. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t like you.” He leans in closer, his eyes branding mine, his voice a scalding whisper against my skin. “You don’t want to play this game with me. You’ll lose.” His eyes slice to my lips, then back. “And while I’m laying it down, you’re not my type, so you can stop trying to get with me. Ain’t gonna happen.”

  I’m stunned silent.

  He takes a step back, leveling me with his glacial glare. “We clear?”

  I can’t believe I ever thought he was hot.

  I square my shoulders, trying to grasp onto the remnants of my dignity and force a saccharine grin. “First, I’m not a huge fan of yours either. Second, you don’t want to be friends? Got it. No problem.” I take a step forward. “But just so we’re clear, I did think you were kinda hot… but then you opened your mouth, and it turns out I don’t find Neanderthal-grunting jerks with low IQ’s all that sexy. So, yeah, you’re not my type either.”

  “You done?” He folds his arms over his chest.

  It’s official. He’s ruined Home Depot for me. Bastard.

  “I’ve never been more done,” I sneer back.

  “Good.”

  “Good,” I say, needing to get the last word.

  “Great,” he counters. It looks like I’m not the only person regressing into childhood.

  “Brilliant,” I put my hands on my hips, raising my brows. I can go all day, buddy.

  With a scowl and irritated shake of his head, he grabs the cart and loads it up with gallons of paint. The way his corded muscles move and bunch as he pulls the gallons down from the shelf is completely lost to me.

  Completely.

  I follow a few steps behind him, pretending to be enthralled with my phone, while he grabs the rollers and brushes before leading the way down the aisles to the check-out.

  I glance up from my phone. My lungs spasm when I see the long lines.