Stud by Siskind, Kelly (2)

Two

 

Owen

I should have joined the priesthood. Maybe I’d have been better off with my brother’s genes, not that dating men came with any less drama. Still, my soon-to-be ex-wife could win a Tony for her theatrics. The melodrama made her a stellar attorney. It also made for a messy and long divorce.

With a grunt, I hefted a final wood plank to its new pile, readying the site for tomorrow’s build. Studs to be put in place, framing to be done. I welcomed the tug on my muscles, the deep ache in my shoulders and forearms. It was honest work. A hell of a lot better than hunching over a desk for hours. Investment bankers didn’t make things. They didn’t even buy things. For eight years, I brokered sales and deals, not caring who got screwed along the way. Starbucks had been my life’s blood, my chair an extension of my ass.

Now I could breathe.

Sawdust. Fresh-cut pine. Freedom drifting on the October breeze.

If my lawyer hadn’t dealt me another blow this morning, I might have actually smiled as I inhaled a lungful of air. Instead I huffed out my breath, clamping my molars tight.

With the new delivery of lumber cleared to the side, I wiped my brow and stretched my neck. A cold beer would be heaven right now. A pizza even better. I took a mental inventory of my sparse fridge and added a trip to the store to my route home. Pick up a slice and a case of Pliny the Elder. Kick up my feet on my back patio. Just me, the squirrels, my neighbor’s noisy Jack Russell, and a night with Victor Hugo. Forget about Tessa and her fucked-up accusations. The knots in my shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Do you handle the volunteers?”

I spun at the raspy voice, not expecting the blond bombshell in front of me. The curvy blond bombshell. Her massive purse and dangerous-looking heels weren’t my style, but she oozed old-Hollywood elegance with her shapely hips and soft features.

I pulled off my work gloves and slapped them against my thigh, sending a cloud of dust between us. “No.”

But the temptation of handling her teased my peripheral vision. That’s what happened when you went without for over a year. Not that offering one syllable would get me far with a woman.

The blond twirled a lock of golden hair around her finger. Something about the action pushed up her breasts. I shifted, unsure where to look. I wasn’t that guy. I tried to make sure women knew they were more than the sum of their parts. This woman’s parts each deserved their own sonnet, curvy as she was, but I was out of practice—all awkward silence and no finesse—and she reminded me too much of the women in D.C. Superficial. Self-centered.

The life I’d kicked to the curb.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I forced my attention to her eyes, and my heart switched gears. Blue.

Blue was all I could see. Blue for a country mile.

Her eyes shone like the sun streaming through turquoise beach glass, pushing long-buried memories to the surface. Startled, I grunted at her, like a Neanderthal, and went to turn.

“So,” she called, and I flipped back. “What’s it like working here? I was thinking of signing up. Doing a couple of shifts each week.”

I chuckled, picturing this pint-sized beauty dirtying her perfect nails. About as likely as my ex working less than an eighty-hour week.

Her luminous eyes narrowed. “For your information, I’ve done construction before. I’m not a total rookie.”

She straightened her posture, daring me to challenge her. The only other person left on site was Nick, making sure all was locked up for the night. He needed to get done and get home, drive his son to karate. I stayed, grudgingly.

“Right.” My tone came out nastier than intended. “You look ready to drywall the place.” Nastier again.

She pursed her bee-stung lips, the plump beauties rich and lush. “Don’t go getting all judgmental. I know the difference between fiberglass sheetrock and cement board.” A smug grin settled on her face, like she was proud of herself. She eyed the backfilled construction site, studied the pipes poking their heads out of the earth. “Are you at the saddle and cripple stage?”

I nearly laughed again, but I reined myself in. I wasn’t a contractor. I’d volunteered on Habitat builds since living in D.C. and paid my rent now with handyman jobs, but woodworking was my thing. I loved dragging my fingers against rough wood, knowing what was once a towering tree could be a rocking chair to calm a baby, a table for a family, a bed to help someone sleep.

What I did know about building a house, was people didn’t toss around words like saddle and cripple.

“We’re saddling,” I said, playing with her. “I assume you have your own tools?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

The pretty little liar was full of it. “Well, we have tools on site, but not always enough to go around. You’ll need a tape measure and hammer and framing square, and don’t forget the chalk-line clamp. You won’t always have a partner to work with.”

“Right. Chalk-line clamp. No problem.” But the corners of her pink lips turned down.

“Safety glasses are a must.”

The fear of God shone on her face. “I haven’t seen anyone in safety glasses.”

“We haven’t started cutting wood yet. Face shield and respiratory mask, too.” I had no idea why I was messing with her. Maybe because she was primped and polished and reminded me of my ex, a master manipulator who wove tall tales for a living. I doubted this woman deserved to be toyed with, but I’d been raked over the coals for months. My bullshit-meter had reached its limit.

“When you show up,” I said, “no cuffs on pants or unbuttoned shirts. No jewelry at all. Safety comes first. We have hardhats and gloves, and you have to wear sturdy shoes.” I shot a look at her mile-high heels.

Her reply: “You’re kind of bossy.”

Instead of the same evil stare I got when I’d laughed at her expense, her gaze dipped down my body, slow and languid, soaking me in. Something in me twitched to life, like a phantom limb reminding me hot blood once pumped through my veins. All my veins. My groin got heavy, heat flushing my thighs. Because she looked at me.

I let that notion marinate and did my best to keep my brain on target. “Just giving you the lay of the land. And if you plan on volunteering tomorrow, or any day, show up at 8:30 a.m. sharp. Nick will take you through the paces.”

“Will you be here?”

“Possibly.”

“Are you here every day?”

“Some.”

“Do you often answer questions with one word?”

“Depends.”

She tipped her head, those beach-glass eyes intent upon me. Suddenly, heading home for beers and pizza didn’t sound as appealing. I dug my boots deeper into the earth.

She swiped her tongue across her full bottom lip. “All right, tough guy. I’ll be here next week. Where you may or may not be, depending on if you do or do not decide to show up. I’ll wear ugly clothes and get my gear, and maybe we’ll see each other again.”

Every word dripped with flirtatiousness, and I contemplated telling her I was messing around. That she only needed the face shield when working with flying debris. The way I’d all but grunted at her so far, probably better to keep my mouth shut.

So we stood there—her waiting on me to speak, a skateboarder barreling down the road at our left. Me unsure why she was affecting me.

I missed being with a woman. Missed the slide of soft skin and wet mouths, and locking my girl in my arms for the night. But I’d sworn I’d do it right this time. Not rush in. Make sure I dated someone with depth and interests outside of making bank. Everything about this spitfire girl read narcissistic.

When our silence slipped into awkward, she fluttered her fingers in my face. “It’s been…interesting.”

I offered her a curt nod.

Chuckling to herself, she spun around, but her right heel wedged into the loose dirt. Those damn shoes were lethal. She sank an inch and teetered, but seemed to catch herself. Then her massive purse fell. The thick strap landed on her forearm, tipping the balance. She shot out her hand, struggling to stay upright.

I lunged for her, clasping her trim waist to hold her steady. And close. Too close. Not near enough for her to feel how I was thickening behind my zipper, but the air swelled. It dilated with feminine scents. Something sweet. Nice.

She smelled like chocolate.

My hands spanned her waist from behind, her curves above and below all woman. Hourglass, like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe. Jean Harlow. Mae West. Over the years, I’d watched every classic movie there was, wishing I could slip to a time when men danced and women sang and loyalty and love were valued over getting ahead. An old soul, my nana always said. Or a romantic. Or just plain trouble.

Now I had my hands on a dangerous beauty. I shouldn’t have been thinking about gripping her tighter or picturing my lips coasting over her jaw and down her neck. More began rising than my temperature. I noticed her foot then, the delicate sole having slipped out of her shoe, her toenails painted a soft pink.

Gripping my wrists for balance, she slid her shoe back on. “Thanks for the quick save.” She turned to face me, but I didn’t release her waist. “I’m Ainsley, by the way.”

No woman should have a voice that sexy, as husky as a lounge singer in a smoky room.

“I’m Owen.” My voice was nothing but rocks and gravel. Needing a breather, I stepped back. “Until next time.”

“Next time,” she replied.

She navigated the uneven ground cautiously, still managing to sway her full hips as she went. I turned and slapped my gloves against my thigh again, anything to busy my hands, distract my mind. Ease the blood flow to my groin. Going home solo was a bad idea. I’d either stew over Tessa’s latest antics, or I’d stroke myself to the image of this pinup girl in all her natural glory.

I stopped at my truck and pulled out my phone. Half a ring later, my brother picked up. “Fine. I’ll blow you. Get over here.”

“Jesus, Emmett. Now I need to lobotomize myself.”

His barking laugh bit through the line. “Fuck, man. Sorry. Thought you were Travis.”

“Travis? What happened to Chris?”

“It ran its course.”

Which meant he hit his one-month limit. Normally, I’d make a crack about him chasing a new guy for the shared-clothing benefits, or give him hell for sleeping around, but my patience wore past thin hours ago. I needed to drink beers or go for a run or take a cold shower. “I was thinking of kicking a ball around. You game?”

The sound of a can cracking open answered me. Then, “Sure. Travis plays, too. I can probably hustle up a couple more. Jimmy around?”

I ground my toe into the dirt. “Doubt it, but I’ll check. Three on three would be good.”

“You have no idea,” he said.

Ladies and gentleman, my brother the manwhore.

“Meet you at the field in an hour,” I said. Exactly what I needed. To run the soccer field. Chase out the messiness of the day. Shake the lingering heat left in Ainsley’s wake.

We hung up, and I was greeted by a missed text from Jimmy.

In town for some meetings. Free for a beer?

Another lucky break. How about kicking it at the park?

Even better.

Reconnecting with Jimmy was one of the bonuses of moving back to San Francisco. As a teen, I’d been a recluse before him and our days playing soccer for the California Regional League. I still wasn’t sure how Nana had paid for my spot on the team. Whenever I’d ask, she’d wave a dismissive hand, and say, “Not your concern.”

Come middle school, mine and Emmett’s clothes all came from Goodwill. Our lunches and dinners had been a study in stretching the dime—peanut butter measured, bread thinly sliced. Still, we’d crowd around the TV at night and watch Fred Astaire glide across the screen. Nana and Emmett would swoon, and I’d let my mind spin with the actor’s effortless grace, imagining myself the fleet-footed Casanova, sweeping women off their feet. But I was a second-hand kid in second-hand clothes.

Instead of picking up girls, I’d read books and study and dance with Nana to Irving Berlin and Cole Porter. She schooled me in the ways of women.

You’re always wrong.

You’re always sorry.

You always sleep in the wet spot.

I split my gut laughing when she laid that last one on me. We did that a lot, at least—danced and laughed and forgot how far on the edge we lived. Made me feel fortunate, not shafted. Then came soccer and Jimmy and teammates slapping my back. I’d busted my ass for my scholarship, landed a beautiful wife, a great job, and thought I’d made it big.

Turns out big looks a lot like lonely nights lit by the pallid glow of a computer screen. Empty bottles of Scotch. Fights. Silent treatments.

Man, did I need that run.

Two hours later, my T-shirt was suctioned to my chest. Our group of six had morphed into ten. Some eager teens were working the field when we’d arrived and opted into our pick-up game, dribbling like pint-sized Pelés, fast as fuck. The action put a grin on my face. Especially when Travis executed a decoy run, and I sent a killer pass to Emmett, who smoked their goalkeeper.

The little shits still won, but Emmett gave Travis’s ass a victory slap for the goal.

Followed by a cup and squeeze.

He’d often pull that move on me, grabbing my ass when we had an audience. With different fathers, we didn’t look related, and Emmett loved exploiting the differences, hoping to embarrass me. Earned him a few blows to the ribs from me when we were younger. These days, I barely noticed it—an ass grab from my obnoxious brother was as normal as a hug.

“Hope you guys didn’t get hernias!” one of the punks we’d played called. He nearly killed himself laughing as he kicked onto his bike.

“Ice those arthritic knees,” razzed another.

Emmett saluted them. “Remember to change your diapers before bed.”

We made our way to our pile of sweatshirts and bags, mopping our foreheads as we walked. Emmett stretched his torso, then cuffed the back of Jimmy’s head. “Your feet were cement blocks out there.”

Jimmy shoved him off. “I’d ask you to pass me a Gatorade, but you’d probably miss.”

“Wouldn’t want to watch you drink, anyway. Bet you dribble worse than on the field.”

Jimmy snatched a Gatorade from the grass, wrenched off the top, and chucked the bit of plastic at Emmett’s face. “Go suck a bag of dicks.”

Travis shot his hand in the air. “Just one is fine.”

We all tossed our heads back at that, except it sent my mind to the pretty little thing at the build earlier—her lips, my dick, and a whole lot of sucking. Damn. Not thoughts I should entertain while in workout shorts.

A sting of guilt followed the fantasy, cooling the heat stirring my blood. She may have been the opposite of what I was looking for in a woman, but she hadn’t warranted my gruffness today. I shouldn’t have coaxed her into showing up to volunteer wearing safety goggles and a face shield, either. She’d get laughed off the build, and I’d wind up feeling like an ass. Already did, as it stood.

We chugged our electrolytes, the evening air cooling the sweat on my skin. Emmett and Travis took off, leaving Jimmy and me, asses planted on a bench. We watched two kids playing Frisbee.

“How goes the wine world?” I asked.

His elbows fell to his knees, a content smile spreading. “Great. Really fucking great. Being back in Napa is better than I expected. Not sure who I was kidding, thinking I could live without the winery.”

I knocked my knee against his. “And Rachel?”

“Really fucking great.” His smile became something else entirely. “That woman is…everything.”

Envy lassoed my heart, the squeeze uncomfortable. I believed in love at first sight. In happily ever after. I believed in touches that healed and kisses that could cut a man down. I also craved the steadiness I’d lacked as a kid. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what I wound up with.

Jimmy picked a divot of grass off his sneaker. “Any headway on the divorce?”

Could I end world hunger? “One step forward, ten or twenty back.”

He made a pained sound. “If I’d married my ex, I’d be where you are now. Drowning—trying to cut our ties and come up for air. Not sure how you do it.”

“No choice, really. Tessa is smart and vindictive. She only knows how to win, and the word divorce isn’t in her vocabulary. To her, it’s a loss. A deficit.”

“Sounds like a transaction, not a relationship.”

“Pretty much sums up our last few years.”

His penetrating stare had me counting blades of grass. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” he pushed. “Things dragging like this can’t make it easy to move on.”

He didn’t know the half of it. It wasn’t just that Tessa didn’t like to admit defeat. She never lost. Ever. Other lawyers called her the Sleeper, after those cichlid fish who played dead, then struck their unsuspecting victims. She was angry, hurt that I’d ended things. Now she was intent on ruining my name and sucking me dry in the process. Her accusations that I’d cheated on her were ludicrous, but you almost had to admire her tenacity.

Once her teeth were in you, shaking her was a bitch.

“I appreciate the offer. I always appreciate the offer. But we have an autocratic judge on the case. Insists we keep things quiet until the divorce is settled. Lawyer agrees. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, we’re done and over. The courtroom stuff is just semantics. I’ve moved on. I’m building a life. She’ll clue in eventually.”

Jimmy grunted, the two of us falling into the type of silence only old friends could abide. Hopefully I wouldn’t be broke by the time my divorce was settled. Hopefully I’d meet a woman who wanted to live her life, not count her billable hours. A partner who preferred dancing on the beach to driving in rush hour, walking barefoot in the grass to winning the rat race.

A flash of Ainsley’s polished toes and dainty feet filled that particular daydream until I schooled my thoughts, unsure why I’d crushed my Gatorade bottle. No point repeating the same mistakes.