Days turned to weeks and I think the girls and I have finally found our groove and established a routine that works for us. Both girls love their babysitter, Mrs. Larson. She’s fun and gives off more of a grandmotherly vibe than task master, which seems to benefit Arizona. I would love to put her in a preschool, but after talking with Dakota we’ve decided to wait until she’s home. In the meantime, I’m chomping at the bit for my parents to take the girls this weekend.
You know you’re an adult when you realize how excited you are to clean the house in the daytime, take a nap, read a book, and maybe even watch a movie! If all goes well, I may even squeeze in a pedicure. The sky’s the limit.
After caring for the girls by myself, I understand why Dakota used to practically shoved Arizona in my arms with the mere suggestion I take her for a few hours. I thought she simply wanted me to bond with my niece. Nope, the reality was she was looking forward to peeing without an audience.
A quick glance at the clock on the wall confirms I only have a few hours left in my work week. Tonight, the girls and I are going to have a relaxing night and then my parents will pick them up tomorrow morning after breakfast. I may be ready for the break, but even I know I’ll miss them tomorrow.
Beyond the routine at home, I’m finding my niche at work, too. Jameson has been in the office less and less over the last few weeks, and while it’s a great feeling to know he trusts me with his business, this is a very lonely work environment. I might have stayed on the line with one of the clients a little longer than necessary last week. She was a good sport and didn’t mind reviewing her list of concerns on her home remodel two, okay three, times. I did also manage to score a new lasagna recipe from her so that’s a bonus.
This week has been particularly quiet in the office, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’d even take an encounter with Owen at this point. Yep, be careful what you wish for.
The door to the office opens and I sense him before I hear him. Maybe it’s that I smell him. Not smell in a gross way, but a way that is like some weird mating call. I’m sure there’s a name for that but I can’t think of it because there he is, walking toward me in a pair of khaki cargo shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt that, thanks to the sweat on his body, is clinging to his torso and chiseled chest, and a pair of sunglasses sitting atop his head. That smile I mentioned taking over his face as he gets closer to my desk has me quickly looking away in embarrassment. I know he can tell that he affects me. I know my tell-tale giveaway to embarrassment has completely taken over my arms, neck, and cheeks in a glorious shade of strawberry.
“Well, Miss Walker, fancy meeting you here.”
“Oh, hey.” I don’t take my eyes from my screen and very diligently read the same line over and over. Why does he make me nervous? I don’t get nervous.
“Here are some invoices for you and I signed off on the time cards for my crew.”
I finally lift my eyes from my screen to see Owen sitting in the chair in front of my desk, leaning back so he is rocking on the back two legs of the chair, with his arms crossed, and a smirk on his face. The same smirk he usually offers me before not so subtlety suggesting something flirtatious.
“Thanks. Checks will be ready Monday as usual. Was there anything else?”
“What’re your plans this weekend? Date with your boyfriend? Painting your nails with the squirt?”
Clicking the save icon on the spreadsheet I’m working on, I sit back in my seat, crossing my feet at the ankle while folding my arms, and contemplating how to answer this. He’s trying to get to know me and I promised myself I’d be open to new friendships. Owen Butler is a lot of things, and while I’m not sure he’s completely harmless, I doubt he’s much more than talk.
“No boyfriend,” I casually respond before whispering under my breath, “anymore.”
“What? Some schmuck let you go? What a loser.”
I snort out a laugh; I guess my whisper was louder than I thought. The more I’ve thought about my relationship with Kent, the more appropriate a word like “schmuck” is a perfect way to describe him. Boring, self-absorbed, career driven, and missionary style are also other ways.
“Well anyway, I’m actually going to just hang out this weekend. The girls are going with my parents and it’ll be the first time in weeks I’ve had time to myself. How about you? Got a date?”
Owen chokes on what I think was supposed to be a laugh, startling me a little while simultaneously sending a little shiver down my spine to my lady bits. His voice is deep and gravelly, as is his attempt to laugh, almost like he doesn’t do it very often and his vocal cords don’t know how to respond.
“Yeah, I don’t date. Hook up maybe, but dating indicates I’m interested in a relationship and that’s not the case.”
“I hear ya. A relationship is the last thing on my mind these days.”
We sit in silence for a few ticks before Owen clears his throat and rests his chair on all four feet. I follow suit by sitting up more in my chair and grabbing my mouse. A few clicks and Owen stands and then taps the top of my monitor.
“You should call the girls.”
I look up at him, slightly confused, but not before acknowledging the sweat has dried from his torso while his shirt still clings to his skin. He must notice my gaze has lingered a little longer than necessary because he offers me that smirk again.
“Sorry, the girls—Piper and Ashton. Me and the guys are heading to the lake for a little fishing so I’m sure they’re around.”
“Oh.” The realization of how much my life has changed in the last few months struck me; when he said “the girls,” I thought of my nieces. “Yeah, uh, maybe.”
“Well, all right then. Have a good weekend, Minnesota. See ya next week.”
I don’t bother asking Owen to not call me by my full name. I know he knows it’s not my preference. And honestly, for whatever reason, it doesn’t bother me when he says it. I would never tell him that, but it’s true.
After another hour of work, I log off my computer before locking up the office and heading for home. Once I’m home, the girls and I bid Mrs. Larson goodbye and I change out of my work clothes and into something more comfortable—less constricting.
Jameson has told me repeatedly that I don’t have to dress up for the office. We’re a small construction company in a town that is far from formal. I mean, the fanciest restaurant is a steak house about twenty minutes from town and even that is more of a lodge theme than five star. Regardless, I can’t seem to shake the need to dress in my pencil skirts and heels. I have taken a less-than-formal approach with my tops and hair. Things that Jameson wouldn’t know about me, but I know I’m less corporate than I have been the last few years.
With a pair of shorts and a tank top on, I convince Arizona that a picnic in the backyard is a great way to eat our dinner of leftover pizza. While Arizona runs and plays with a bubble wand, Cali sits quietly on a blanket playing with her toys, and I let the conversation with Owen consume my thoughts.
Our conversation was nothing but small talk. An effort to be more than co-workers and perhaps a little bit of friends. As with our other limited interactions, I sit here hours later with regret that I never asked about him. I allow him to control the conversations and each time offer him a little insight into me and never take anything away about him.
I know Owen is about twenty-nine years old. His birthday is in January and he lives in an apartment. From what I can gather after the cookout at Jameson’s, Landon is his roommate. I know that Owen drives a Jeep and the one time I went to a job site, I confirmed that: he has abs that, if necessary, I could use for laundry, his back could give an Olympic swimmer a run for his money, and I, apparently, find large tattoos sexy. I also know he prefers classic and nineties rock to country music.
Meanwhile, he knows about my nieces, that I had a boyfriend and don’t any longer, that I spend my time at my house, I have no friends, and most importantly that I lose approximately forty IQ points when he’s around. Seems like an uneven playing field if you ask me.
Arizona has successfully emptied the contents of an entire bottle of bubbles without incident. Lucky for me, she didn’t try to share the bubbles with Cali—again. And by share, I mean give her them to drink.
I gather up the girls and head inside for our nightly ritual of baths, teeth brushing, bedtime stories, and lullabies. Arizona was a little whiny about missing a call with her mom tonight, but Dakota had explained to her last night that she wouldn’t be able to call until after the girls were in bed. Once the girls are tucked in and the house is quiet, I put in my earbuds and click my favorite playlist. A playlist that has very similar music to what I heard Owen listening to when I was at one of his job sites.
Pulling laundry from the dryer, I carry the basket into the living room and manage to fold the contents and finish packing the girls bags for my parents before I need to settle in for Dakota’s call.
I pick up my iPad to take into the kitchen where the chilled wine is and pour myself a glass just as the alert of Dakota’s call comes through. Smiling, I click on the icon and see my beautiful sister’s face skirt across the screen.
“Hey, girl,” she says while adjusting the screen a little.
“Hey, yourself. How’s it going?”
“It’s the same as it is every night, Min. Can we have one of our old talks tonight? I am tired of talking about all of this,” she says, waving her arm over her head.
“Absolutely. First, the girls send their love and Mom said don’t forget they’ll be there tomorrow. Make sure you call them there and not here.”
“I remember. Geez, I’m in rehab not memory loss camp.”
I don’t respond and Dakota’s response is an eye roll. She’s the master eye roller. I, on the other hand, am not. Never have been. I used to practice in the mirror when we were kids. But, I can roll my tongue like a taco and she can’t. Small victories.
“It’s a joke, Min. Relax. Geez, you all are so dang sensitive.”
“Yeah well, sorry I’m not up on all the rehab jokes, Dakota.”
“There ya go! Finally, mock this situation I’m in, make fun of me. Do something.”
“Fine, no rehab talk. Except,” I pause, waiting for her to roll her eyes again. And there it is. “Are there hot guys there? I mean, I know, no dating or hookups for like a year, but eye candy? Man candy? Ab candy? Gimme something.”
Smiling, Dakota pulls her feet up on the chair so her chin is resting on her knees.
“Nah, actually there isn’t. It’s like a couple of kids, which is totally sad, and then guys that are so not my type.”
“Oh well, I guess that’s for the best.”
“How about you? Dating?”
“When am I supposed to be doing that? Besides, where am I going to meet anyone? The market? Or, how about at the craft store? I bet there’s a hot guy just waiting for me next to the hot glue and glitter.”
“Sarcasm is not attractive on you. Don’t do that anymore.”
We both laugh because we know telling me to drop the sarcasm is like asking me to not breathe. After a few minutes of small talk, Dakota clears her throat and looks serious for a minute. I assume we’re going to talk about the topics she declared off limits earlier. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to all those guys you met when you were online dating?”
“You mean the six weeks before I met Kent and only met two of the fourteen guys I was talking to? Which, by the way, makes me sound like a slutbag.”
“You were not then and are not now a slutbag. You were twenty-two and just finishing college. Playing the field is a thing. Plus, you only met two of them. The rest were … whatever they were.”
“Ridiculous is the word you are looking for,” I say before we both break out in hysterical laughter. Six weeks of online dating four years ago and I swear I have some sort of PTSD from it. Sure, not all the guys were creeps, but a few left a lot to be desired.
“I don’t know why but sometimes I’ll be sitting around here people watching and wonder if any of the guys walking the grounds are one of those guys. I mean, I didn’t online date before I met Jeff so I have to use your experiences for these thoughts.”
“You’re welcome? This is a random thought to have.”
“Not really. I have so much time here thinking is about all I do. But remember the one guy? The hot seed? I wonder if he found his ‘vessel,’” she says with air quotes.
“Oh no! Don’t bring that guy up! I’ll be right back,” I say, standing and walking to refill my wine glass before returning to my spot. “I still don’t know why he thought that was remotely sexy or okay.”
“Hey, who are we to judge someone else’s kink?”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Dakota. He said, and I quote, ‘Would you like it if I were to fill you with my hot seed while you are fertile?’ Fertile, Dakota! What the fuck kind of kink is that?”
Dakota starts laughing so hard she has tears running out of her eyes. I soon follow suit and after five minutes we’re both able to gather our wits. Even remembering that guy is enough to turn me off the possibility of online dating now. Besides, I’m too fresh out of a long-term relationship for dating. I’d just like a guy to come over, watch a movie, help have a few orgasms, and then leave. If he could put together a few bookshelves too that’d be a bonus.
“I think my favorite part of that entire conversation was how fucking hot he was,” she says between giggles. Bitch.
“Yeah, he was pretty hot. And then, when I asked him if that was his kink, he actually seemed confused that it wasn’t mine. I even went and looked at my profile after that to make sure there wasn’t something on there to lead him to that. Nothing. It fucking said I liked wine, tacos, and cupcakes. Not CUMcakes!” I bark out before another fit of giggles.
Shortly after the giggle fest at my prior dating history, we end the call and I close up the house for the night. Once again, I crawl into bed with my e-reader and search through my library until I find a new book that catches my eye. I settle into my pillows and let the fictitious world of rock stars take over my mind while pushing visions of construction workers from my thoughts.