Chapter 1 – Wet T-Shirt Contest

 

“Would you stop worrying, Soph,” I reiterate to my sister, again, as I roll my eyes at the teenage boy who won’t take his off my boobs while handing me my diet limeade.  “Hey,” I bark with the phone still to my ear, “eyes up here.”

“Oh, sorry,” he says sheepishly, his face turning red.  He has the nerve to add, “Come back soon.”

“What was that?” Sophia asks.

“Nothing,” I say as I make my way through my favorite crowded burger joint.  Stopping to grab a straw, I go on, “I’ll be there Monday to pick the boys up from camp at two o’clock.  And yes, I remember I’m picking up your neighbor’s kids every day and keeping them for a couple hours, too.  They go to camp every day, you’ll be home next Sunday afternoon.  I know how to feed them, clean them and protect them from peril.  I promise they’ll be alive when you get home.  Mom’s keeping Isabella, the boys are easy.  Just go.  Celebrate your ten years and get your freak on with your husband.  We’ll be fine.”

“Thanks for keeping our neighbor’s kids.  I promise it’s just a couple of hours until their dad gets home every day.  I said I’d help out this summer and I hate to leave them in a lurch right at the beginning because we’re going away for a week.  They’re well behaved and polite, they shouldn’t be a problem,” she explains.  “I just hate being away from the kids.  I don’t want them to be sad because they miss us.  We really should’ve planned a weekend trip.  An entire week in Hawaii is too long and far away.  What were we thinking?”

“It’s not a big deal.  They’ll be too busy to miss you,” I argue.

I hear my oldest sister sigh into the phone.  She can be a crazed mom when she doesn’t have control over her kids.  She and her husband, Lanny, are headed to Hawaii for their ten year anniversary.  I’m staying with Noah and Cayden who are six and four and my mom is keeping nine month old Isabella.  She put the kids in day camp all week with her neighbor’s kids so I can get some work done.  They’re dropping the boys off at camp on their way to the airport and I’m on duty for a week starting Monday afternoon.

“Cayden’s been needy lately, I don’t know if it’s us leaving town or what.  He might get up in the middle of the night to climb in bed with you,” she continues being a crazed mom.

I turn and stop, dropping my head as I try to keep my patience with my oldest sister, “Well, it’s a good thing their favorite aunt is staying with them.  They love me, I’m sure they won’t even miss you.  In fact, I plan on kicking this week’s ass so much they’ll be begging you to leave again so they can have me back.  Listen, I’ve got to go.  I’m on my way to Gabby’s to use her kitchen for a shoot to post on the blog.  My groceries are getting hot in the car.”

“Fine.  I’ll call you tomorrow and run through the schedule one more time,” she adds, taking her crazy to a new level.

“I’ll be waiting by the phone with bated breath,” I say sarcastically.

“Paige!” she admonishes.

“Gotta go, love you,” I say as I turn on my heel and hang up on my sister.

But the instant I turn, I slam into a brick wall and am covered in cold, wet liquid.  And that liquid is soaking through what little clothing I have on since the heat has set in, even though we’re barely into summer.  I look down and I’m wet to the bone, covered in ice-cold fountain drink.

“What the—” I sort of scream, but am promptly interrupted by the brick wall biting out, “Damn it, watch where you’re goin’.”

I look down at my white tank that is now plastered to my body with some sort of dark cola drink that’s freaking cold and sticky.  It’s dripping down my khaki short-shorts with the frayed hem and has probably ruined my chunky leather belt.  My hands are still full, holding my phone, bag of food and limeade.  I can do nothing but gaze down at my chest that would at least get me into the finals of a wet t-shirt contest on spring break in college, if I was in college, which I’m not.  Every detail of my lace demi cup bra is now on display and hell if I’m not already nipping out from the ice-cold liquid. 

Yep, I would totally make it to the finals, if not place in the top three. 

My only option with no hands is to fold my arms to cover myself and repeat what I tried to say a second ago, “What the hell?”

“What the hell, what?  You walked into me.  Watch where you’re goin’,” I hear an angry, guttural voice come from the brick wall, forcing my eyes up.

What I see is a big guy.  No, not a guy.  A man, and a big one.  I mean, I know I’m small—even though I prefer the word petite—most adults are bigger than me.  But he’s big in a way it’s worth mentioning twice.  He’s probably around six feet tall, he has at least nine inches on me, but he’s broad and thick.  He looks as hard as a rock.  Even though I’m covered in dark sticky fountain drink while trying to cover up my wet-t-shirt-contest-worthy-boobs with my hands full, I secretly have the burning desire to poke his pec with my index finger to see if it’s as rock hard as it appears.

“Um, here,” I hear a small voice come from the side and I look over to see the teenage boy who was ogling me at the cash register.  He looks as if he’s in heaven staring at my boobs, but wet this time, holding a wad of paper napkins out for me.  He never looks up as he continues with bug eyes, “Can I help you dry off?”

Are you kidding me?

“Hey,” I snap to get his attention off my chest.  He jerks himself out of his wet t-shirt contest trance and looks up.  I go on while shoving my food and drink out for him, “Hold this.”

Grabbing the paper napkins that will surely be of no help in this situation, I yank my top away from my body.  Trying to blot it with the wad of useless napkins, I start to rant.

“Everyone’s always in a rush.  I mean, is it that hard to look where you’re going?  Like no one else has a busy day, somewhere to be or a deadline to meet. Not even a ‘sorry,’ or an ‘excuse me,’ or a ‘my fault I spilled my whatever-this-is all over you’.  Nope, I get a ‘you walked into me.’”

“Darlin’, you did walk into me,” he repeats, certainly wanting to piss me off more.

I look up at his frowning face.  But even through the frown, I can’t take my eyes off his that are glaring right back.  And those pissed-off eyes are perfectly bright blue, framed in matching pissed-off heavy brows.  His short clipped goatee is dark blond and surrounds his hard set mouth and chin, matching the rest of his perfectly pissed-off bone structure. 

He’s wearing a black Under Armour fitted ball cap turned backwards.  Even from here, I see a pair of what look to be sporty Oakley’s sitting on the back of his hat, resting on the brim with the arms hugging his head.  He’s wearing a royal blue t-shirt, faded from wears and washes.  It reads “The Shed” and underneath in smaller letters, “Run Hard, Run Deep.”  Looking down I see loose black athletic shorts on his thick legs with running shoes to top off his athletic ensemble.  I can tell it’s not for show because I not only see the sweat on his shirt, but he smells like a man who’s been working out.  I can’t say he stinks and he undeniably could use a shower, but if a smell could be rugged, he’s bursting with it.  Even though I’m not around many like him, don’t ask me how, I just know he smells all man.

But I have to focus here.  Even with the horny teenage kid standing to our side, I say, “Don’t call me darlin’.  I’m the one wearing whatever drink this is.  You spilled it on me, this is not my fault.”

“Dr. Pepper,” he clips, still frowning.

“I don’t care what it is,” I sort-of shout.

“You asked,” he says.

“I did not,” my voice rises.

“Do you want me to help you to your car?  I can carry your food for you,” the kid offers with a glassy look on his face.

“No!” the brick wall and I both answer at the same time.

I exhale a breath of air and yank my shirt out as far away from my body as it will go.  Shoving the napkins back at the kid, I demand, “Give me my food.”  I look back up at the bright blue-eyed brick wall with perfect facial bone structure and add sarcastically, “Really, it’s okay.  I forgive you.”

He raises one of his pissed-off, thick eyebrows and shakes his head.  Grabbing my food that I’m not at all hungry for anymore, I sidestep them both and head out the door. 

My afternoon has gone to shit.  Now I need to make a stop at my apartment to shower, change and maybe make it to Gabby’s so I can meet my deadline.  Who am I kidding, I might get a start on my photos, but there’s no way I’ll be able to write all the articles by tonight. 

I walk my wet t-shirt winning self to my “mom-car” that my parents just forcefully handed down to me, insisting my Civic was on its last leg.  I know I’ve had that car since high school and all through college, but no one at the age of twenty-six who dresses like I do and lives in a kind-of crap apartment drives a three year old Lexus GS.  As I round it to get to the driver’s side, my eyes flit to the windows of my favorite burger joint.  I see the brick wall standing with his arms crossed watching me.  The minute I catch his eyes, he shakes his head and turns toward the front of the restaurant. 

What the hell?  I hope they make him buy another drink and clean up the mess on the floor.  What an asshole. 

*****

I feel terrible. 

“I think it’s all aired out.  Really, I’m feeling better now,” my cousin, Gabby, says while trying to make me feel better even though she still looks a little green around the gills.  She’s newly pregnant and the smell of BBQ pork with all the fixings sent her straight to the bathroom when she walked into her house after a long day of work.

Gabby has an amazing kitchen and it looks great on my blog.  She, along with the rest of my family, let me use their houses for photo shoots.  But today I’ve apparently stunk it up and made her sick, even though I think it smells delish.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.  “I wrapped up leftovers for Jude so you don’t have to cook dinner and took the rest out to my car.  I hope the smell is completely gone.”

“Don’t worry, I never know what will make me sick.  It came on last week, maybe it’ll pass soon,” she explains.

I started my catering business a few months ago called, Birds of a Feather, and I’m doing fairly well.  But what has surprised me and everyone else is the other side of my business that has come to life out of nowhere. 

When I started catering a few months back, I hit the land of social media hard thinking it would be free advertising.  With my degree in Graphic Design, it was easy to throw together a website and link it to all the popular social media outlets.  My followers quickly grew far and wide.  I thought, why not sell advertising and make a little extra money?  It took off in a way I never dreamed.  I’m still catering, but now I plan my blog around holidays, entertaining, in-season food, meal planning and anything else I feel like writing about.  I manage my own advertising sales so I make more than if I farmed it out.  Now I’m running two businesses and am busier than I ever planned when I started this venture. 

Right now I’m ramping up for summer and the Fourth of July, which is more than a month away, but people like to plan early.  Thus the reason for the BBQ spread that has made my pregnant cousin sick from the smell alone.  Not really a shot of confidence for a caterer. 

I turn and look toward the garage door when I hear Gabby’s husband come in and call, “Hey, Jude.”

He barely greets me with a lift of his head because his eyes go straight to his wife and frowns, “What’s wrong?  Are you sick again?”

Gabby tries to give him a bright smile and lies, “No, I’m fine.  It goes as quickly as it comes.”

He strides straight to her while frowning and lifts her face to his, “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans.

“Sugar, don’t be a smartass.  You know what I mean.  Call the doctor,” he demands.  Jude has taken overprotectiveness to a new level since Gabby got pregnant.  And he was protective to begin with, but now he’s off the charts. 

“I’m fine,” she insists, looking over at me rolling her eyes. 

“I’m really sorry I made you sick.  I won’t bring food over again until you’re passed this,” I say.  “I left dinner in the fridge for you, Jude.  You might want to eat it outside.”

“Thanks,” he says to me without looking away from his wife and leans to kiss her forehead. 

“I’ll get out of your way,” I say as my phone starts ringing.  I see it’s my friend Brian, so I let it go to voice-mail.  “I’ll be at Sophia’s all next week with the boys, maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Sounds good.  If you run out of things to do, bring them over.  We can build a fire outside and roast marshmallows.  I wonder if the smell of toasted marshmallows will make me sick?” she ponders, asking no one in particular. 

“We’ll see.  Thanks and sorry about today,” I grin back. 

“Don’t worry,” she says as I let myself out and head to my car.

*****

I’m on my way home and sigh as I contemplate what to do about Brian.  He and I have been friends since our third year of college at Creighton.  It’s not lost on me that he wants to be more than friends, but I’m not interested in him that way.

My phone rings over the Bluetooth in my new fancy car telling me it’s Brian calling.  Again.  His persistence lately is reaching new levels.  If he doesn’t let up, I’m going to have to say something.  I press the button and answer, “Hey, Brian.”

“What are you doing tonight?  We should take in a movie, maybe grab a late dinner?” he asks.

I shake my head as I drive, “I can’t.  I got behind and need to work tonight.  I told you I’m keeping Sophia’s boys next week, I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Not a big deal.  I’ll bring over pizza and beer, keep you company,” he says brightly, intruding into my quiet night of work. 

“I’m really behind.  I need to focus,” I insist.

“Come on, Paige.  It’s Friday.  You need to relax a little bit.  You can catch up this weekend,” he keeps on.

I shake my head at myself and do what I always do—give in—because I have a hard time saying no to people.  “Okay, just for a bit.  But don’t bring a pizza, I have a ton of BBQ with all the sides I made today for the blog, but bring beer.  Remember I can’t hang out all night, I have work to do.”

“Cool.  I love it when you feed me.  See you in an hour,” I hear him smile over the phone making me silently groan because, again, I don’t know what to do about him.

I don’t have tons of friends outside of the Carpinos.  My family is huge and I never have to venture far for friendships.  I do have a new friend, Rosa, but she’s eighty-five.  I take her to the grocery store and hang out a couple times a week.  Maybe it’s time I expand my horizons, widen my network.  What I do know is Brian is pushing the friendship boundary lately and I don’t like it. 

I’ll work tonight, edit the pictures I took today and get started on my articles.  I’ve got a dinner to cater next Thursday that needs to be planned and I grit my teeth as I think about having to do laundry.  If my favorite tank is ruined, my day will officially suck.  I’ll try soaking it in bleach first. 

Damn the Dr. Pepper-drinking blue-eyed asshole. 

*****

“When are you going to move?  You can afford something nicer, not to mention bigger now that you’ve got ‘Birds’ up and running,” Brian says from behind me where he’s lounging on my old sofa. 

I turn away from my computer to shoot him a dirty look, “Don’t make fun of my business.  People love the name and my logo kicks ass.”

“I still don’t get what it has to do with food,” he says.

I turn back to my work and continue to edit the images as I explain, “I told you, it has nothing to do with food.  It has to do with me.  Birds of a Feather, like the saying, they stick together.  It’s about family, supporting each other, you know.”

“I guess,” he sighs.  “Maybe that’s why I don’t get it.”

This time I turn fully around and spout, “You need to stop.  Your mom and sister are great.  Just because you don’t have a huge family doesn’t mean you don’t have what I have.  You might’ve lost your dad when you were young, but the three of you are tight and they love you.  I hate it when you talk that way.”

Brian’s dad died when he was just six-years-old and besides his mom and sister, he really doesn’t have a large extended family.  He’s got his own lot of guy friends, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one he ever talks to about his dad, and even I know little about him.  Brian mentioned he had health problems and his mom once alluded to the fact it was more, but never elaborated.  It’s not my place to ask and I never have.  I’ve seen pictures of his dad at his mom’s house and Brian is a carbon copy.  Tall and lanky, but fit, with the same shock of brown hair and deep brown eyes. 

He gives me a half grin and drains the last of his beer before saying, “Relax little one, I don’t need any counseling.  I’d better go so you can work.  Thanks for dinner.  If it looks as good on the Internet as it tastes, you’ll hit it out of the park.”

I get up and walk him the whole seven steps to my apartment door and smile up at him.  Giving him a sideways one-armed hug, I say, “Thanks.  And thanks for the beer.”

He returns my only-for-friends hug, “No problem.  Maybe I’ll swing by your sister’s next week, hang out with you and the kids.”

“I don’t know, give me a call first,” I say.  Tonight has been good—Brian hasn’t pushed our friendship boundary once.  Maybe he got the hint and I won’t have to say anything after all. 

He gives me one more grin before leaving and says, “Lock up.”

I roll my eyes before slamming my door on his heels.  Men.  Like I’m not going to lock my door.  Do they all think we’re idiots or something?