Chapter 6 – Old Man Flat Butt

 

I walk up to Sophia and Lanny’s door, knocking twice.  I’m on time today because no one in my world decided to do anything stupid and get arrested, things are running smooth at The Shed and I decided to put off talking to fucking Bekki until Friday.  I plain didn’t feel like dealing with her today. 

But I can’t kid myself.  Trying to get Paige Carpino out of my head is useless and all day I’ve been wondering what I’ll get from her next.  Thinking of her while jacking off in the shower last night didn’t help rid my thoughts.  As frustrating as she is, she’s more than interesting.  And I haven’t been interested in anyone for a long time.

The door swings open and I look down to my daughter at the same time another smell assaults me.  It’s not lemon, bleach or vinegar.  It’s food and it smells great.

Cara’s jumping up and down squealing, “We made dinner!  And Paige took pictures of it with a big camera.  And then someone just came and got the food.  And they gave Paige money.  But we made extra and we get to eat it!”

“What?” I ask, bending down and tossing her up to catch her in my arms. 

She puts her small hands on my cheeks the way she always does when she wants my undivided attention, “Come and see!”

I step in the house and fling the door shut, “First I need a kiss.”

She kisses me as fast as she can and jumps out of my arms to run ahead.  I follow slower, smelling the food she must be talking about.  When I turn the corner to the kitchen, I see Paige with her back to me at the sink washing a million pots, pans and all kinds of other shit.  I can’t help but let my eyes drag down her body.  She’s wearing camouflage jeans that fit her like a second skin, from cupping her heart shaped ass to the tops of her ankles where she’s standing on bare feet.  She has it topped with a little pink T-shirt and her hair is up again, in a mess on the back of her head like last night. 

“Daddy’s here!” Cara announces before skipping out of the room and I swear Paige jumps in surprise. 

She barely turns from the sink with her wet, soapy hands and peeks over her shoulder to greet me with a small smile, “Hey.”

I lean my shoulder against the wall, “Hey darlin’.  You look like you’ve been sitting around eating bonbons again.”

Paige peeks one more time grinning and throws me a, “Kinda.”

Rinsing another pan, she lays it on a towel before flipping the water off.  As she turns, my eyes go directly to her tits because her little pink shirt reads “I Eat Glitter For Breakfast”. 

Hell if her ridiculous shirt doesn’t make me grin and I raise my eyebrows to ask, “Glitter?”

“What?” she frowns.

I drag my eyes down to her tits again, pleased to have a reason to and jut my chin at her shirt.  I look back up and I’m surprised she’s not flushing, but grinning this time.

“Oh.  Well, it is the breakfast of champions.  And maybe princess fairies.  But I’m one hundred percent pure champion.  You better watch out, Just Cam.”

“I’ll consider myself warned,” I grin.

“We made dinner, as you can see,” she says, changing the subject.  “I had an event tonight.  I usually deliver, but when they called to book at the last minute I told them no since I’m keeping Noah and Cayden.  When they insisted on paying more and offered to pick it up, I couldn’t resist.  Cara helped and we have plenty.  You all are more than welcome to stay.”

I can’t help myself—I tip my head and ask, “Are you asking me out, Paige?”

Her eyes get big and her brows furrow as she exclaims, “What?  No.  Of course not.  Stay, don’t stay.  I don’t care.  We have extra, I was just trying to be nice.”

I straighten away from the wall and walk to her, not able to wait another second to touch her.  When I come close, I look into her big brown eyes framed by her long lashes.  Now that I’m close, I notice they aren’t just brown.  Gold flecks surround the edges, making them deeper, like she’s inviting me in.  Needing to touch her somehow, I grab the hem of her shirt and twist it in my hand before grabbing her slim hip firmly, my thumb touching her skin. 

When she’s surprised by my touch, I say, “I’m kidding.  We’ll stay.  As long as you don’t eat glitter for dinner.”

“No,” she breathes, but doesn’t miss a beat.  “Glitter’s like oatmeal.   It’s only good for breakfast.”

“Then we’re staying,” I say giving her another squeeze and brush her skin with my thumb again before letting her go.  “What’s for dinner?”

She steps back, still surprised but not flushed this time.  She takes in a deep breath and says, “Beef Wellington, roasted balsamic salad, garlic new potatoes and sautéed Portobello mushrooms.  I made a Baileys cheesecake for dessert, but obviously my client bought the whole thing.  I mean, who wants just half a cheesecake?  Especially with Baileys Irish Cream.  Not to toot my own horn, but it’s great and I didn’t have time to bake two.  Same with the onion soufflé appetizer, but we should have plenty of food.”

“I gotta say, I’m bummed about the cheesecake, but the rest makes up for it.  But I have to know, people pay you to make them dinner?” I ask, needing to find out more about her.

She shrugs her shoulders while turning away from me and moves to the food, “I’m a caterer.  I started a few months ago.  It’s going well, but now I’m a blogger, too.  That just sort of happened.  The blogging is turning out to be more profitable than the catering, not that the catering isn’t.  It’s fine, but the blogging is pure profit, just a lot of work.  Tonight I had a dinner party for ten, nothing too hard.”

Having no idea blogging is profitable, I ask, “You blog about your catering?”

“Sort of,” she explains.  “It started out that way.  But most people who follow blogs do it because they want to make their life easier or learn how to do things themselves.  My blog focuses on easy recipes, entertaining, healthy stuff that still tastes good, products I like and want to recommend.  Really, it’s anything I want to blog about.  I sell advertising—that’s how I make money.  But the more followers I have, the more I make so my blog needs to stay fresh and original.  You want something to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having’s fine,” I say and move to lean my hips against the counter where I can watch her work.

“Beef Wellington calls for wine.  You like Merlot?”

I tip my lips, “Beer.”

“Gotcha,” she grins back.  She goes to the fridge and grabs a beer as she keeps talking, “I’ve met my goal a day early.”

“Goal?” I ask, taking my drink.

“Cara.  We’ve moved well beyond paragraphs.  She’s a chatterbox.  And for me to call someone a chatterbox is saying something.  She’s decided she likes to make salad, and not because she likes to eat salad.  She was emphatic that she does not like to eat salad.  But she enjoys throwing everything in a bowl and shaking it up.  She thought that was fun.  She also told me she doesn’t like her steak red, but really, it’s a shame to bake a tenderloin to well done, she’ll just have to deal with it tonight.  I don’t have the heart to massacre a Beef Wellington, it’s too good, she’ll have to eat it medium rare.  She also told me you’re a coach,” she says this last part like she’s accusing me of something.

“Yep,” I answer, taking a drink and trying to keep up with her.

Paige rolls her eyes, “Maybe Cara gets it from you.  Are you unable to speak paragraphs, too?”

I raise an eyebrow at the wiseass in front of me, “I’m the head football coach at Highland.  I coach other teams, too, through my business.”

She stops what she’s doing and turns in the middle of the kitchen to look at me, “You work at Highland?”

“Yep.”

She puts her hands on her hips and states, “I went to Highland.”

Fuck.

Could she be that young that she was there since I’ve been there?  Did I just jack off in the shower last night to a former student?  All of a sudden I’m pissed, at who I don’t know, but pissed all the same.

I frown, “How old are you?”

“Are you a teacher there?” she ignores my question.

“When did you graduate?” I bite out. 

“What do you teach?” she keeps on.

“Paige,” I demand an answer with my voice.

“Cam,” she mocks me. 

“Damn it, how old are you?”

She’s fucking frustrating, because she tips her head to the side and chides, “How old are you?”

I slam my beer bottle down to the counter at my side and drop my head trying to control my temper. 

“Home Economics?” I hear her say with a smile.

I look up and frown, but she’s fucking grinning. 

“No, you probably teach PE because you’re all muscly and a coach,” she goes on smiling big.  “I bet the girls giggle when you get to the health section and have to teach sex ed.”

“You’re a frustrating woman,” I say, shaking my head. 

“Shop?  Do you build birdhouses?”

“You just don’t quit, do you?”

“You’ve gotta keep up, Just Cam,” she crosses her arms and grins.

“Math,” I say to shut her up.

“Math?” she asks, surprised.  “So you’re a smarty pants?”

“How old are you, Paige?”

“It’s rude to ask a woman how old she is,” she keeps on.

“Not when she looks as young as you,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” she smirks.  Before turning her back on me to move to the food, she adds, “You didn’t have me in class or anything.  I would definitely remember you.” 

I’ve had enough.  Leaving my beer, I move in where she’s standing and lean my hands on either side of her on the counter, boxing her in.  She jerks in surprise, feeling me at her back and twists to look up. 

I lean down to the side of her face and look into her deep brown eyes, “Darlin’, you look like you could be young.  And when I say young, I mean young.  Now, I’m not gonna play dumb and act like there’s nothing in the air between us.  I feel it and the way you flush and squirm makes me think you feel it, too.”

“I don’t flush and squirm,” she frowns, lying to me.

I move my face even closer to hers and lower my voice, “You know you do.  The air between us is tense, but fucking magnetic.  Don’t make me sit here tonight and feel like a dirty old man eating your dinner.  If you’re younger than you should be for me, I’ll be on my way.  Now how old are you, Paige?”

Still facing the counter with her back at my chest, she squirms and looks up to ask, “What’s too young for you?”

“Damn it, I’m not gonna ask again,” I say.

She turns in what little space I’ve given her and puts the heels of her hands to the counter inside mine.  Leaning her head back she says with a serious face, “I graduated from Highland eight years ago.  You do the math, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

“Twenty-five?  Twenty-six?” I ask stepping closer so we’re touching.  I feel her tits brush my chest, making me hard again because she just confirmed there’s no way we could have been there at the same time.

Taking in our closeness, she inhales and squirms again, going on, “Twenty-six.  My mom didn’t believe in being a young kindergartener.”

I drop one hand from the counter to grasp her hip, “Finally.  That was a miserable two minutes.  I don’t like feeling like a dirty old man, darlin’.”

“So you’re old?  Like, about to retire old?” she mocks me again.

“Thirty-two,” I tell her.

“I bet you’ll have an old man flat butt by next year,” she grins, giving me her wiseass again.

I let my fingers dig into her hip and shake my head for the umpteenth time since I dumped my drink on her last week.  I warn, “Dinner better be good.”

“Oh, dinner’ll kick your ass,” she promises with sass. 

I narrow my eyes and purse my lips.  Her big brown ones drop to my mouth but quickly shoot back to my eyes. 

I give her hip another squeeze and barely turn my head to yell, “Kids, dinner!” because if I don’t, I’ll take her mouth.  As much as I want to take her mouth, I want the time to taste her and enjoy it for the first time and not with the kids close by.    But her wiseass and sass is making me hard, I want to kiss it off her face.  She also makes me hard when she’s sweet.  I’m finding my body reacts to just about anything Paige Carpino gives me. 

I can’t help it—I step closer and press my body into her curvy one, bringing my other hand up to fist her hair.  Tipping her head back farther, I lean down and swipe her nose from top to tip with mine and say in a low voice, “Feed me, Paige.”

I hear and feel her take in a quick breath, exhaling it against my lips.   And now I know that not only does my body react to Paige being a wiseass, sassy and sweet, it also reacts when I finally catch her off guard.  Her eyes dip and her face turns soft, making me wonder if she’s wet for me. 

In a breathy voice she murmurs, “Yes, Cam.  I’ll feed you.”

Yeah, I bet she’s wet.

Fuck.

*****

“So The Shed’s not a shed?” I ask, holding the stem of my wine glass with my arm rested on my knee. 

We’re back outside watching the kids play on the swing set and I’m relaxed in a patio chair with my feet tucked underneath me.  Cam yanked his chair around so he’s facing me tonight and he’s sipping bourbon cut with ice, something he said he and Lanny do a lot so he knew just where to pour himself an after dinner drink.

This is after we ate dinner, Cam telling and showing me how much he liked it by eating two platefuls.  After we were done and the kids scattered he said, “I’ll give it to you, your cooking makes up for the wiseass and sass.”  But he said it with a sexy smile playing inside his goatee with his blue eyes pinned on me. 

Of course this made me fidget. 

I really need to get that under control.

“It’s a warehouse,” he explains.  “It was abandoned and when I was looking to expand my sports training and conditioning, it fit the bill.  And when I say the bill, I mean the bank account and small business loan.  It was a pit, but all I needed was floor space.  I had to put in locker rooms and an industrial furnace for the winter.  Other than that, I added turf and sports equipment.  I’ve got thirty yards of turf laid, six batting cages and two pitching mounds.  It sits on enough land that we can do conditioning outside in all but the dead of winter.  I’ve had it up and going two years now.  It’s doing okay.”

“You have two full time jobs?” I ask, thinking that’s a lot since he seems to have his kids most of the time.

“I’m not exactly rolling in it being a teacher.  Coaching for the school adds a little, but I needed something on the side,” he says.  “I have trainers and some retired professional players working for me.  They might’ve made it to the big show, but didn’t make it huge and like to teach.  I train a few select teams and players, other than that I manage it.” 

“Who exactly needs all this training?” I ask, wondering where the market for this is coming from in Omaha, Nebraska.

“Kids of all ages.  You’d be surprised at how many people think they’ve got the next Super Bowl quarterback or World Series pitcher.  People eat this shit up and spend hand-over-fist to have their kids trained.  I sponsor select club teams for most age divisions in football, baseball and softball.  I plan on moving into gym sports like basketball and volleyball later when I can build gym space.  Basically, I’m losing money if it sits empty.  We incorporated Boot Camps last summer and the moms went ape-shit over it.  It’s busiest in the summer when all the kids are out of school, I can keep it booked all day and most evenings,” he explains.

“That’s a lot with your kids,” I say.

“I’ve got people to run it for me in the evenings so I can be with the kids at night.  I have to put them in camp most days during the summer when they can’t hang with me at The Shed.  Jordy’s getting old enough to take part in everything, but Cara won’t go to camp unless her brother’s there.  For now I have to send them both.  Your sister’s saving my ass this summer by keeping them a couple hours before I get home.  I couldn’t ask for better neighbors, being a single dad,” he says before putting his lowball glass to his lips.

Huh.  That explains the sweaty gym clothes last week when he poured his Dr. Pepper all over me. 

“You work out?” he goes on.

“Me, work out?” I ask and think about how to answer this.  I know I’m a bundle of energy and have trouble sitting still sometimes, but I hate going to the gym.  It smells—even the nice ones.  “Well, I’m not lazy, but I don’t officially work out.”

“You should do a boot camp,” he declares.

“A boot camp?  I don’t think so,” I say with a little frown while shaking my head.

“It’ll be good for you,” he grins.  “No charge, since you’ve fed me two days in a row, not to mention the cookies and my kitchen.  We’ll call it even.”

“What?  No way.  You want to clean my bathroom or carry my bags on vacation, that would be a fair trade.  But you want to kick my ass in a boot camp because I fed you?  Not a way to thank a girl,” I reply sarcastically.

“I’ll get you signed up with a good trainer.  We have a new session starting next week,” he says as if I had just agreed to his offer, to which I’m pretty sure I sarcastically refused.

“I’m not doing a boot camp, Cam,” I bluntly turn him down.

“Sure you are.  After two weeks you’ll love it,” he ignores me again.

“You don’t know me.  I will never like anything called a boot camp,” I say.

“You will,” he grins.

I don’t have time to say no again because Cara comes running from the backyard.  Coming straight to me, she climbs into my lap.  I have to set my wine on the table not to spill or drop my glass.  

“What’s up?” I ask as she settles in my lap.

She takes her little hands and puts them to my jaw pulling my face close and asks, “What’re we doin’ tomorrow?”

I feel myself smile in her little hands and I look in her bright blue eyes that I’ve come to like more than I should.  I want to say it’s because they’re beautiful and bright on her, but I think—or know—it’s because they’re her dads. 

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” I ask back.

“I dunno,” she shrugs her shoulders.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” I start to explain.  “On Friday’s I usually go see a friend of mine.  I was going to go while you were in camp, but l think she’d like to meet you.  She’s got lots of grandkids and great-grandkids.  Her name is Miss Rosa.  You want to come with me tomorrow after camp?”

“Okay,” she agrees.

“If it’s okay with your dad,” I say and look over at Cam. 

Cam is sitting back in his chair, his head tipped to the side with his eyes narrowed on us.  He looks as if he’s in a faraway place and I wonder what’s wrong with him.

I frown, “She’s eighty-five and doesn’t drive much.  She’s nice, but we don’t have to go if you don’t want us to.”

He takes a second and after pulling in a big breath, he shakes his head, “No.  It’s fine.”

I don’t have time to ask him if he’s sure because all of sudden I hear a woman’s voice coming from across the yard, screaming, “Jordan!  Caroline!”

Cam turns away from me in his chair, muttering, “What the hell?” at the same time Cara tenses in my lap.

I see a sort of tall woman with light hair trying to make her way through the expanse from Cam’s house.  She looks a little unhappy, definitely unnerved.   

“Who’s that?” I ask, but Cam has slammed his glass on the table and turns to stand.

“Our mom,” Cara whispers and tucks into me tighter. 

“Huh,” I wonder what I should do as I watch Jordy and Cara’s mother make her way across the yard. 

If body language could talk, hers would be cussing up a storm.  I’m thinking it would be a humdinger, maybe even F4 tornados.  Or one of the worst hurricanes on the hurricane Richter scale.  Wait, I think that’s used for earthquakes.  I live in the Midwest, I only know the tornado kind of storms.

Hmm.  Maybe I should have dug for more info on Jordy and Cara’s mom instead of The Shed.  I’m thinking maybe a little background information would be useful right about now. 

Yes.  This is definitely a call in the National Guard slash State of Emergency kind of storm. 

Yikes.