The Girl He Wants Page 7

  Chapter 8

  Though I’ve lived in America for eight years now, I simply can’t do coffee in the morning. The aroma of ground beans does not bring forth a sense of calm. It does not ease away my tension, and the lack of a teabag to bob in the steamy water removes that essential moment where time feels as if it’s standing still, waiting for me to map out my day, before it begins its forward charge at breakneck speed.

  I scan the paper as I fry an egg. The timing of the bagel popping up in the toaster and the egg cooking to a perfect crispness around the edges is a skill I’ve perfected since college, when this meal became my morning standard. Along with my tea, of course. I compile my breakfast and move it along with my cup to the table.

  The knock at my door is so unexpected I question my hearing. Through the peephole, I see Stacy, his hand resting on what I assume is the top of his daughter’s head. Not that I can see her since their heights are so drastically at odds. But it’s a safe guess.

  I smooth the front of my natty pink robe, wishing briefly for something sexier. But when I slipped it on over my silk bed gown, I wasn’t expecting anyone to come round and certainly not as I was steeping my elixir of life.

  He knocks again.

  I crack open the door and peer out.

  “Hallo.” Bollocks, it’s a terrible time to realize one’s teeth haven’t been brushed. Who gets up and brushes their teeth first thing? Perhaps I should consider doing that to avoid these occasional and awkward moments.

  “I’m so sorry, Jayne. We’ve had a—” Stacy begins.

  “Fire. Dad burned the bacon.” Cordie looks at me with the same beautiful blue eyes she inherited from her father. “Can’t you smell it on us?”

  I tuck my robe in tightly, which only makes the threadbare spots more obvious, before pushing open the door. “That’s not the smell of bacon. Bacon has a delightful smell—”

  “Until you burn the fat,” Stacy says.

  “That smells like...rubbish.” Involuntarily, I curl my lip.

  “You should smell our house,” Cordie says.

  “No, thank you,” I say and smile. “How can I help you?” I gesture for them to come in and step back to allow them—him—room to pass.

  “Part of the reason I burned the bacon was because I was distracted with an issue Cordie is having.” Stacy looks at his daughter.

  “Another reason he burned the bacon was because he set the microwave for five minutes and not thirty seconds.”

  “Which I would have been aware of had we not been trying to braid your hair and looking for your belt.” I glance at the waistline of her cute dress; the belt loops hang limp and empty.

  “Listen, Jayne. I know this is early and we’ve clearly caught you at a bad time.” He nods to my robe. “But any chance you know how to do a, uh, what did you call it?” He looks at his daughter. “A fishtail braid? I tried watching the videos. I can’t do it.” His tone is frustration mixed with a bit of sadness, or is it self-recrimination? “I really tried.” He has such sad, pleading eyes when he looks at his daughter that I’m compelled to make it all better.

  Because I can. It’s so easy to fix this.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I know you tried. I can wear my hair loose.”

  “Nonsense, I’m an expert braider, I’ll have you know, and I’m sure you have a lovely belt for that dress, but I have an amazing scarf that would go perfectly with that outfit. Are you interested?”

  “Sure, because we can’t find the belt in any of the boxes. We can’t find anything because of all the boxes.”

  “Thanks, Jayne.” Stacy wraps his large hand around my upper arm and squeezes gently. Tiny gooseflesh dances down my body and I inadvertently sway toward him, wanting more gooseflesh and tingly skin.

  “Right,” I say and clasp my hands together over my chest to hide the evidence of how pleased my body is to see him. “I’ll just pop into my room and grab that scarf and elastic for your hair. Have a seat.” I pull out a chair at my kitchen table.

  Stacy steps toward me; I step back. My hands holding the lapels of my robe together.

  “I’m gonna run home and air out the house. It smells pretty bad in there. Is that okay?” He whispers the last bit.

  “We’re fine,” I say.

  “It smells worse than bad. It smells horrid. Repugnant, vile—”

  “I got it, Cordelia. Thanks,” her father says before slipping out my front door.

  “That’s quite a vocabulary you have.” Is it common for a child her age to have such an extensive one? “How old are you? Nine, right?” I may have not heard correctly once he said he had a child, as I was likely caught up in the disappointment that he quickly became off limits.

  “Yes. I’m in the gifted program. Dad says I don’t talk like I’m in the gifted program.”

  “How do gifted children talk?” She’s quite cute with her cheeky, matter-of-fact attitude. She sounds like she’s in the gifted program to me.

  “I dunno. I guess I’m supposed to use bigger words. He says I say dumb too much.” She shrugs. “Whatever.”

  I hold up one finger before popping into my room for a quick change into some yoga pants, a bra, and t-shirt. I swish some toothpaste then find the scarf I was thinking of and an elastic, and head back to my front room. Cordie is sitting in a chair reading the paper. The comics.

  “Do you like this?” I hold up the scarf.

  Her eyes go wide. “It’s too pretty for me to wear.”

  Her dress, a cute navy and pink combination, is accented with tiny white stitching. My scarf, white with strands of navy, matches perfectly.

  “It’s a scarf and you must admit, it’s perfect.”

  “It really is.”

  “Here, stand up and I’ll tie it around.” When we’re done, I lean back and smile. Heavens, I love putting clothes together.

  “You’re the one that helped my Dad get his clothes, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You did a great job. He looks kinda cute for a dad.”

  “If you think so.”

  “Don’t you think so? Most of the moms at my old school thought so. Jill thought so.”

  Jill?

  “I think everyone looks good in nice, well-fitting clothes. Sit.” I pat the chair. “Let’s do your braid.” I brush out her long strands, and I’m taken back to when Pippa was this age and I’d mess with her hair all the time. After the scissor incident, I spent serious quid trying to buy her forgiveness by acquiring headbands and clips for her in effort to do up her nearly shorn head. She always had cute hair thanks to me.

  “Is that your breakfast?” She points to my plate.

  “It is.”

  “What is it? I don’t mean that to sound rude.” Her gaze is fixed on my plate.

  I laugh. “It’s a toasted bagel topped with a fried egg and baked beans. Not your American-type baked beans made with honey and bacon. These are Heinz goodness that I have to find in specialty stores. Looks gross to you?”

  Her stomach growls. “Nothing looks gross next to Dad’s chocolate chip waffles. You should have seen them. I didn’t think it was possible to do that to a waffle. And the bacon. After he tossed it in the trash can, smoke continued to come out and he just stood there staring at it.”

  I suppress a laugh. “At least he tried.”

  “Yeah. My Mimi always made me chocolate chip waffles on important days like the first day of school.”

  “That’s not today?” How can that be? I try to mentally conjure up an image of the calendar but all I get are accessories and skirts.

  “It’s the first day of nerd camp,” she says quietly. “Dad thinks I can meet friends here before school starts.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Yeah.”

  I finish her braid and sit next to her. “I would be too. I hate first anything. Dates, client interactions, business meetings. They all suck immensely.”

  She smiles, the edge
s wavering ever so slightly. Her stomach growls again and her gaze darts to my breakfast.

  “Can I try that?” She slides the plate closer.

  “Are you sure? Most people don’t like beans.”

  “I’m sure.” She nods emphatically.

  “Let me warm it a bit.” Fifteen seconds in the microwave does the trick. Then I cut it in half, sliding one portion onto a plate for her. Sitting into the chair across from her, I push one plate her way and pull the other toward me.

  “Are you sure you want to eat beans on the first day of meeting others? They might make you windy.”

  Cordie looks between me and her plate, her fork poised, ready for action. “What does that mean?”

  “Windy is flatulence.” After slicing off a bite, I slide it through the gravy of the beans, scooping as many as will load onto my fork before devouring it all in a manner Mum would deem horrifyingly unladylike.

  For me, food is decadence and reward. With the same passion I seek and take pleasure in eating, I loathe exercise. And therein lies the issue. My solution, shapewear.

  “Wow, this is really good. I mean, I thought it could really suck but after seeing what Dad made I figured I might be okay with this.”

  “So hunger, plain and simple, brought you to try it.”

  “Yeah.” Her smile is filled with pixie mischief that shines from her eyes. She shovels the food in at such an alarming rate I fear she’ll choke. When she’s done she takes the plate to the sink, rinses it, then comes back to sit across from me.

  Sodding hell, she’s a better roomie than Pippa, who whole-heartedly believes kitchen gnomes will suddenly appear and magically clean the kitchen.

  “Don’t tell my dad I ate that. It’ll hurt his feelings.” She quirks her lips to the side. “Please,” she adds, possibly an afterthought.

  “Want a spot of tea to wash it down?” I tilt my cup her way.

  “Does it have caffeine? I’m not allowed to have caffeine. Dad says it will stunt my growth.”

  “Is that so? I hadn’t heard.” Or paid much attention.

  “I thought all adults knew that. It’s your job to make sure us kids don’t do stupid stuff, right? That’s what Dad says.”

  I rise, nearly six feet in my stocking feet, the living contrast to her statement. Unless it did stunt my growth? Imagine that. “I’ve drunk tea since I was maybe a tad older than you.” I don’t mean to sound defensive. Honest.

  “You’re tall. I’ll probably be ginormous like you because Dad is so tall.” Her gaze travels my length several times.

  “Thanks. But what about your mum? Maybe she’s not so tall.” I refill my cup with hot water and add a second bag to steep. I don’t know how long it’s going to take Stacy to air out his house, but I’m going to need strength from the gods, as I usually don’t enjoy talking to people early in the morning. Hence, the earliest my shop opens is ten.

  “I don’t know my mom. She ditched me after I was born. Dad said she played volleyball for the college. Not that I’ve seen many volleyball players but she looks tall in her pictures.”

  What does one say to that? Poor child.

  “My condolences then. Trousers will be a bloody nightmare, but you’ll always look good in a skirt.”

  It’s an interesting tidbit about Stacy. Is he the sort to prefer athletic women? I file the information away, to use later with the girls should they harangue me about how I should be jumping his bones. I am most decidedly not athletic. Two very good reasons to stop thinking about my hunky neighbor. One stands in front of me and is likely armed with a bazillion more reasons.

  “Who’s Jill?” I ask, despite my resignation that I wouldn’t.

  “Oh, Dad was going to marry her and then we moved here.”

  Marry? So he wants a wife? Or did at one time.

  “You don’t say?” Because I was never in the gifted program, it’s all I can come up with.

  “Yeah, then she dumped him,” Cordie states matter-of-fact.

  A knock at the door is followed by Stacy pushing it open from the outside and poking his head in.

  “Hi, may I?” His gaze darts between his daughter and me. One brow lifted. Was he expecting a brawl or something?

  “Sure.” In one gesture I indicate he should come in and stop being ridiculous.

  Easing the door closed, he says, “I’m afraid there’s no hope in getting that smell out of the house. We’ll have to burn everything and start over.”

  Cordie pumps her fist. “Good. Then we can move back to Mimi’s.”

  Stacy’s smile is wan. “She’s not happy being here,” he tells me.

  “I’m in the room.”

  “I’m not talking about you; I’m explaining to Jayne why—” He shakes his head and grunts. His daughter has since crossed her arms over her chest and looks ready to deliver a lippy comeback. I’ve seen the same stubborn look on Pippa’s face many times.

  Time to offer some assistance. “I know of someone who might be able to get the smell out. A cleaning lady of sorts. She can work on it while you both are gone.” I have no intention of refereeing a fight this morning or any morning for that matter.

  “Can she unpack the boxes too? Because it’s no fun living in a cardboard city.” Cordie directs an irritated look toward her father, who’s turned a lovely shade of pink.

  “Now, Cordie—”

  “She’d certainly help with the boxes.”

  His gaze swivels to me. “Seriously? Because that would be amazing. Amazing. With the business trying to start up and getting Cordie settled...there’s little time to unpack.” His look is one of pleading hope.

  “And he hates it,” Cordie says.

  “That too.”

  Laughing, I say, “I’ll ask but I’m certain she can use the money. Not that you’ll have to pay a tremendous amount or anything. Leave me a key and I’ll pass it along.”

  Stacy begins to pat his pockets, presumably searching for his keys.

  Cordie sighs heavily. “He does this a lot.”

  “Those jeans look nice on you by the way. You have good taste in clothes,” I say, tongue in cheek.

  “Sending me pictures of how to put everything together was a life saver. You should do that for every man.”

  “Are you looking for this?” I touch his hip where a single key hangs from a D-ring. When my finger makes contact with the fabric a tingle of pleasure, likely because I’ve made him forbidden fruit, travels up my arm where it bursts free and heats my body.

  Stacy touches the key and laughs. “Yeah. Thanks.” He removes the ring and places it on my outstretched hand. The tips of his fingers graze my palm and I’m forced to fight the impulse to close my fingers around his.

  “I’ll leave it under my flower pot for you when you get home. I’ll be at my shop late. Josie and I are finishing up her gown.” I pull in a slow, steady breath, hoping to focus on everything but my primal need to touch him again.

  “Thanks for your help.” He tucks a hand in his front pocket; the movement forces his shirt to stretch over his chest and my attention is drawn to the spot where I know a scar lies underneath his shirt.

  Suddenly, I feel a wee bit breathless.

  From the back of my place, upstairs, a bellowing guttural yawn breaks the moment of silence. An even louder burp follows it.

  “Oh dear,” I say, making my eyes go wide, feigning surprise though I’m clearly not. Soft, sweet Pippa can be quite crude.

  “Man, I’m sorry, Jayne. I assumed you were alone. We didn’t mean to interrupt,” Stacy says, fumbling his words, hands reaching for his daughter.

  “Oh, it’s no bother.”

  The sound of someone breaking wind, a loud release, echoes through the rooms. Cordie snickers. I close my eyes, biting back a chuckle.

  “Really, Jayne. We didn’t mean to interrupt. I...it was stupid to assume you were alone. We’ll leave before your friend comes out. Thanks for—wow, Cordie’s hair looks gre
at. Did you get that from a video, because I couldn’t figure it out.” He grips his daughter’s shoulder and pivots her toward the door.

  Above us, Pippa shuffles heavily in the direction of my loo, lets another one rip, and a door closes. I fail at holding back my laugh. She’d be mortified if she knew.

  “Flatulence.” Cordie joins me in laughing.

  Stacy pushes her forward. “Again, I’m so sorry.”

  I wave off his apology and sink down into a chair, laughing. The poor man is obviously embarrassed. Perhaps he doesn’t want his daughter exposed to my den of sin. Clearly he thinks I was entertaining a man.

  They’re out the door before I can compose myself. When I do finally gather my wits, I stand at the foot of the stairs, and when I hear Pippa come out of the loo, yell, “Are you all right there, Pips?”

  “Airplane food. It destroys my gut,” she says then moans. “I know better but I get so bloody hungry.”

  “Feel too tepid to earn some cash cleaning up an apartment and unpacking some boxes?” I ask when she come to the top of the landing. Clean up behind herself? No. Clean for cash? She’s a champ.

  “Aye-ya. Once I get some quality food in me, I’ll be spot on.” She has her runners in hand.

  “Headed to the grocer are you?” It’s a standing joke between us that the food I stock does not meet Pippa’s standard of quality. If it comes from a box, she turns her nose up. Whereas, I forgo a salad for a cupcake.

  “You’re lucky you’re so tall. If you were my height and ate like you do, you’d be round like a circle.”

  We’ve had this conversation so many times I can recite it in my sleep. Fortunately for me she’s easily distracted.

  “Here’s the key.” I place it on the table. “It’s flat twelve, across the street. He burned some bacon and apparently it stinks. Also, they just moved in so maybe, if there’s time, unpack some boxes. You’ll need cleaning supplies.” I move to my purse, removing some cash before placing it on the table next to the key.

  “Who lives there?” She’s lacing up her runners.

  I groan inwardly and go for vague. “It’s Brinn’s coworker. He just moved here.”

  It takes two beats for her to put the pieces together. “Oh, it’s the Stacy guy. If I see anything that indicates he’s a weirdo, I’ll let you know. Can’t have you pining for someone who’s mad.”