Stephanie
The next day…
“You should go out with Damien,” Anita says, a frown painted on her newly botoxed face. If I didn’t know my best friend so well, I’d say it was the injections making her face so sour. Unfortunately, it’s her personality that’s sour and has been since we met in the ninth grade. “Then he could do all this for you.” She waves her hand in disgust at me and my living room.
I clomp down the ladder and admire my handiwork. Not having a husband around means I get to do all the hard stuff on my own. My son-in-law, Easton, offered to help, but he and Lacy have a new baby to deal with. They don’t need to be checking off items on my honey-do list. I can do it myself.
“And what?” I tease. “Miss all this fun?”
Her nose scrunches. “You don’t have the arm strength to paint the ceiling, Steph. Look at all those spots you missed.” She points a manicured finger at my work.
“Well, crap,” I grumble. Rolling paint above your head is a lot harder than you’d think.
“Listen,” she says as she stands, abandoning the untouched muffin I served her earlier. “Let me call my groundskeeper. He probably knows a guy. If it’s the money that’s making you try to do all this yourself, you can always pay me back.”
Her words sting. It isn’t the money. I just wanted to update my living room after watching too many DIY shows on HGTV. I’d gotten the wild hair to paint my living room—ceilings and walls both. The people on the show made it look much simpler.
“It’s not the money,” I grumble.
She reaches forward and tugs at a strand of my hair. “You’re going to have a helluva time getting those white speckles out of your hair before work tomorrow. I’ll call Penny. I know it’s a three-day weekend and she’s probably booked, but she owes me a favor. She’ll do a shampoo and blowout, my treat to you. Just please go see her tonight. You’ll need to look good for Damien. Lest I remind you that you’re no spring chicken anymore. You have to drop your bait where the fish are biting.”
It’s my turn to curl my lip up. I hardly think thirty-eight is old. Sure, I have a daughter who’s graduated high school and a baby grandson, but I still feel like me. Stephanie Greenwood. It’s times like this that I miss my husband, Joe. He died in a car accident when Lacy was only three. The darkness from that loss still haunts me over fifteen years later. I swallow down my emotion and swat away my friend’s hand.
“I can wash my own hair,” I huff.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude but—”
Ding-dong!
I let out a sigh of relief, thankful for the reprieve from my overbearing friend. She thinks she has the good life with her rich doctor husband and spoiled rotten kids. But Anita never smiles. Her eyes don’t twinkle with life. She just exists.
I don’t want to exist like her.
I want to live.
I’m still rolling my eyes at my friend when I wrench the door open. I half expect to see Lace and the baby. Not him.
Anthony Blakely.
My new lawn boy.
I stare in shock, the mere sight of him reducing me once again to a blushing, stuttering mess. Just like yesterday. The heat he instantly creates makes me feel like a cougar hussy my friends and I are always joking about. I’m old enough to be his mother—in fact, she and I went to high school together—so the fact that I find him remotely attractive is disturbing.
But I find him a whole lot more attractive than I’d ever admit to anyone.
Anthony is gorgeous.
The kid towers over my five-foot-seven frame. He’s definitely several inches over six feet. Since he was the town’s football hero, his shoulders are wide and muscular. Every part of his body seems as though it was carved from stone. It’s his face, though, that makes him so handsome. That perpetual smirk. The I-know-I’m-hot look he’s always wearing.
“I’m here to mow,” he says, his tone bored. His knowing steel-gray eyes, however, are anything but bored.
“I, uh,” I stammer, already hating how stupid I sound in his presence. Yesterday, I could hardly keep my cool because I couldn’t stop staring at his square, chiseled jaw, wondering what it would feel like if I ran my tongue along it.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” Anita mutters behind me. “You came just in time. But are you even old enough to work?”
Anthony’s scoffs. “I’m eighteen.”
Lacy told me he was almost seventeen. Her post-pregnancy brain messed up and I’m thankful. A giant weight lifts from me that I’m lusting over someone legal at least. Despite what Anita says, Anthony looks all man to me.
“She’s trying to paint her ceiling,” Anita groans. “And doing a terrible job at it.”
“Hey,” I grumble in protest.
Anthony smirks before turning his gaze to my friend. “Does she need help?”
“No.” My argument goes ignored as they discuss my living room as though I’m not here.
“I’ll cover the cost, son, but please just help her. She’s too old to be getting up on ladders,” she confides, her voice low. “Send the bill to Dr. Morgan’s home address. My husband will cover it.”
Irritation blooms inside of me. I’m about to throttle my nosy friend. Anthony wisely doesn’t say a word, just nods his head. I give Anita a brisk wave until she turns her back to walk to her white Mercedes. When I flip her off, Anthony snorts.
“I don’t need the help,” I bite out before storming back inside. I’ve just started to close the door behind me when something stops it. A giant manboy comes pushing through behind me.
“Let’s see how bad you fucked it up,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.
I ignore the way it rattles its way right to my core. He saunters past me and I can’t help but admire his backside. All muscled perfection taking up my space. Once in the living room, he stands with his hands on his narrow hips. His ass is firm and bitable in his basketball shorts. I have to bite my own lip to keep from blurting that out to him. Heat caresses my skin as I wonder dirty things I have no business wondering.
Like…what does he look like without those shorts?
He turns back around and I’m caught checking out his ass. Except now, I’m staring right at his crotch. His shorts bulge where his cock is and he’s not even hard. My cheeks burn as I wonder how much bigger he could possibly get.
All this wondering is going to get me in some serious trouble.
“What do you think? Looks good, huh?” I utter, dragging my gaze up to meet his.
His dark brow is lifted in amusement. “Pretty damn good,” he says and then bites the corner of his bottom lip. He lazily roams his gray eyes over my horrible outfit. If I had remembered this gorgeous guy was going to show up on my doorstep today, I would’ve put on makeup or worn something sexier than one of Joe’s old paint T-shirts and a pair of shorts. I certainly would have worn a bra. As if clued into the way my nipples are peaked, he drops his stare to them. I swallow and quickly cross my arms over my ample chest to hide the evidence of my arousal for him.
“So you should, uh, go mow or whatever.” My cheeks continue to blaze with heat. It’s the way he looks at me. Nobody does it like Anthony Blakely. Not even Damien Rice. Sure, Damien is interested in me, but he doesn’t look at me like this.
Joe did.
Pain, sudden and fierce, clutches at my throat.
My knees buckle as I remember how he’d grin at me in the mornings as he woke me with kisses to my breasts. So much time has passed that I don’t get hung up on these memories, but Anthony triggers them. This also happened yesterday when he showed up on my doorstep. I ended up bolting to my room and crying after he left.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his deep voice infecting me like a plague I have no defenses against. His strong hands steady my hips. It’s then I realize I’m shaking and my knees keep buckling. I start to push him away, but I end up clutching onto his shirt instead to keep from collapsing. My breaths come out choppy and ragged. A cold sweat breaks out over my skin. “Calm down, Greenwood. You look like you’re about to pass out. Breathe. I think you’re having a panic attack. I used to see this a lot with my teammates before a big game. Breathe.” His calming words do slow my racing heart.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my words thick and sludgy in my throat. “I just…I was…” Tears well in my eyes and I blink them away quickly. “I was thinking about my husband.”
His thumbs are running circles in a comforting way on my hip bones. It’s distracting me. Perhaps that’s his intent. “You miss him.” His words are a statement, not a question.
I make the mistake of raising my gaze. The arrogant smirk he wears so well is gone. His dark brows are furled together in concern as his steely eyes flicker over my face as to assess for damages or tears. It warms my heart. I’ve spent the last fifteen years pouring every ounce of me into taking care of my daughter. But nobody has ever looked at me. Not with concern or worry. I’m Stephanie Greenwood, badass single mom. I kick butt at my advertising firm and give those other gym rats a run for the money when I’m on the Stairmaster. I’m not weak. I’m tough as nails.
So why am I suddenly so soft and vulnerable in Anthony’s grip?
I blink away the silly thoughts of him leaning down and kissing my lips. He’s just all male and imposing. Anthony smells so good. Of course, it’s natural to react to someone like him. I’m not dead, for crying out loud. Just old.
“I…do you want a muffin?”
The concern on his face melts away as he flashes me a panty-melting grin that must have made him very popular at his high school before he graduated. I bet this very young eighteen-year-old kid had the entire cheerleading squad in his back pocket.
Just like Joe.
I pull away from his strong grip and stumble toward the kitchen. My heart is on fire and aching and out of control. Thoughts of Joe—memories I haven’t thought about in forever—flip through my mind like a movie.
Homecoming game.
Prom.
Graduation.
All moments when we’d been young and in love. Before marriage. Before our baby. Just when the need for each other outweighed everything else. More than cheerleading and football. More than good grades. We simply had that hot, heavy type of love that was real.
My hands shake as I uncover the lid to where the muffins are hiding. Sometimes, when I’m stressed out, I’ll bake. It’s terrible for my diet, but it’s something I’ve always done. I pull out two muffins and set them on the counter. The tears are barely at bay, so I stare at the chocolate chips on the baked goods until the sadness drains away.
“Are you okay?” Anthony asks, the heat of his solid body warming me from behind. He reaches past me and picks up a muffin. I turn to watch him unwrap it, a crooked smile on his handsome face.
“I’m fine. They’re chocolate chip.” My voice is squeaky and I want to shake myself. Of course they’re chocolate chip. Ugh.
“You made them?” His brow lifts in question as he bites the muffin top.
I try not to stare at his mouth. He has a man’s mouth. Dark hair dusts his face and those lips are full. Delectable and soft.
“I did.”
“My brother is going to love you.”
Another surge of heat rushes through me. I’m reminded in this moment that Anthony has a twin named Aiden. “Oh, how nice.” Really, Steph?
He smirks as he demolishes the muffin. I don’t argue with him when he steals the second one. Truth be told, it makes me happy to see someone besides me eating the damn things. Once he’s finished eating, he tosses the wrappers in the trash and stares at me with soft gray eyes. “Let me help you.”
“I can manage—”
“Oh, I know,” he utters. “But if anything, you could use the company, right?”
The last thing I need is to be hanging out with Quinn Blakely’s hot as hell son. And yet, I’m nodding. I’m agreeing to something that has the potential to be very bad. I can’t even act normal around this guy. He’s so stupid-hot that I lose my mind. Very bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
“We good?”
So good.
“Yep,” I squeak out.
“It’s settled then,” he says, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he reaches behind him to grab at his shirt. I watch, completely dumbfounded, as he pulls his T-shirt off over his head, baring his sculpted tanned chest at me.
Holy shit.
Abs for days.
And dear God, that dark hair that trails from his belly button and disappears under his shorts is harmful to my health. I think I’m developing a heart problem. It’s stuttering right out of my chest. His hands go back to his hips and his fingers settle into the groove of his V-shaped muscles on his lower abdomen. I want to swat his hands away so I can admire them unobstructed.
He laughs—smug ass—and I jerk my eyes away from his lower body. I certainly don’t want to get caught looking at his crotch again. Thankfully, he saves me and saunters out of the kitchen.
I drink an entire bottle of water to cool off before I do anything regrettable like jump on his back and hump him like some horny animal.
This is bad.
So bad.
Damn you, Anthony Blakely.
Damn you.