Chapter Three
Quinn
Too Hot to Handle
“What’s a kingdom?”
Rose’s sleepy voice interrupts my narration of The Frog Prince. So many questions! I know four-year-olds are naturally inquisitive, but Rose seems to take curiosity to a level beyond her years, even when half-asleep. She seemed almost analytic, wanting to know “why” and “what” and not satisfied with trite answers. In a way, she reminds me of me. Perhaps being a doctor’s daughter spurred my thirst for knowledge, and I liked being around others who felt the same. I already knew I liked being around Rose.
“It’s a place where kings and queens rule,” I say, knowing I’m probably just setting myself up for more questions, but curious to know what her next one will be.
“What’s rule?” she asks, her lidded eyes on the verge of closing.
“Mmm, it means to be the boss. Like your daddy is the boss at his work.”
“Where is my daddy?”
“He’ll be back soon,” I say, though I’d expected him back already. “Let’s finish the story, and I’ll bet he’ll be here by then, okay?”
“O-kay…” she says with a yawn. “I like you, Kin.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Kids were so open and honest, unlike adults. If everyone were so straightforward, the world wouldn’t need psychologists. I’d have to pursue another profession.
“I like you too, Rose,” I say, my voice catching. The frog from the story seems to have leaped from the page into my throat. I clear it and keep reading.
“And the frog, free of the spell that had been cast upon him, turned into a handsome prince. He was the most beautiful man the princess had ever seen, and she was sorry that she had been so mean to him. The prince had loved the princess all along, watching her from afar in his home in the pond. He bent down on one knee before her and asked the princess to marry him. She said yes, and her father the King gave his blessing. They were married the next day, and they lived happily ever after. The end.”
I sigh at the cliché storybook ending. Totally unrealistic, but who doesn’t love a fairytale ending? I glance over and see that Rose has finally fallen asleep. I remember my mom reading princess stories to me when I was little too, and a ribbon of sadness whips through me at the thought of her—gone from my life.
It seems that Rose’s mother has gone away too, although I don’t know where or why. Her daddy seems to be her whole world. I look over at her little body curled up on the bed, a stuffed toy clutched to her chest. I hope I’ll have kids someday just like her. And I won’t be an absentee mom, either. I’ll love them with all my heart and soul and be there whenever they need me, like my own dad has done. Like Logan has done for Rose.
I smile and close the book. It’s been nearly two hours since Logan left, and after the first hour, I could see Rose turning grumpy and needing a nap. I’ve been around kids enough to know those signs, and the heat outside only made it worse, so I asked her to show me her room and find a book for me to read to her. Luckily the moving boxes were well-marked, and we quickly found a large hardcover collection of Grimm’s and other fairy tales.
It seems even hotter than yesterday, and it’s just two p.m. Things won’t be cooling off any until well after suppertime, and now I know why the siesta was invented. Who could even think straight in this heat? For a minute, I consider taking a nap myself, to escape the soaring temperature, but that wouldn’t be very responsible of me. And responsibility was something I took very seriously. Especially when trying to impress the new neighbor with my trustworthiness.
Secretly, I hope I’ve impressed him with more than that. I thought he was good-looking when I saw him from my bedroom window, but up close and personal he was nothing short of gorgeous with his acres of hardened, sculpted body and a brilliant, sexy smile gracing his classically handsome face. I figure all that construction work must have contributed to those bulging muscles that are bronzed to perfection. And when he winked at me, I felt a hot blush burn through me that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.
I open the window in Rose’s room a little wider, hoping for some breeze from the shaded backyard. I peer down to the lawn below and notice a couple of old folding chairs that must have been left behind by the last owners. They look a little rickety, but perhaps they’re still seaworthy, and I can catch a few minutes in the shade. The window is right above them, so I’ll hear Rose if she wakes up.
I sneak out of the bedroom and walk to the back door through the kitchen, which is still full of crates and boxes. If Logan’s going to be much longer, perhaps I could make myself useful and unpack some of the dishes and silverware. I’m sure he’d appreciate the extra hands even though he said he didn’t need help. But we exchanged phone numbers before he left, so I’m sure he must be on his way back if he hasn’t called to say otherwise by now. He probably just stopped at a supermarket to pick up some essentials. I’m in no hurry anyway, so I kick off my flip flops and step onto the cool grass. It feels great between my toes.
I pick the sturdiest of the two chairs and sit down carefully, in case the seat canvas might rip. It doesn’t, and I lean back to enjoy the delicious respite from the glaring sun. I lift the mane of my blonde hair off my neck to let what little air movement there is waft across it. It’s quiet aside from the birds, insects and occasional street noises. I couldn’t bear wearing a confining bra this morning while baking the muffins, and I feel the sweat trickle down between my breasts again. I undo a few buttons on my blouse and loosen the material in hopes of catching the same small breeze.
It helps, but the outdoor space is still far from refreshing despite the shade of the house and trees. I see shrubs and plants all around that are in need of attention since the place has been vacant all summer. They’re dry and overgrown, and I notice my previous neighbors have left an old garden hose coiled up and still attached to the outside tap. Perhaps that’s another way I can help out this handsome single dad; water his yard for him. You don’t know he’s single, I catch myself. Smarten up and do your homework, grad school girl.
Nevertheless, I wonder what else I can do for him. He’s no horny college boy, though, looking for a quickie in the school locker room like most I’ve met. Would Logan Brenner like things slow and sweet? Or would he like it fast and hot, our bodies slithering against each other under the shower?
A cold shower would feel so good right now. I swallow uncomfortably, my throat dry. If my panties weren’t already melting from the heat, Logan’s long stare as I stood on the porch surely would have done so. I pictured us under a waterfall on some tropical island, naked and fondling each other. The buzz of arousal stirs in my crotch, but I can hardly do anything about it here in my neighbor’s yard.
On a whim I reach over and turn the valve on the outdoor tap; it’s rusty but finally gives with a metallic squeak and allows the water through. I wait until the stale, warm liquid flows cool, then grab a few sips right from the hose. My parents never discouraged me from doing that as a kid. “It all comes from the same pipe,” they’d say, but I suspect it had more to do with saving my mom endless trips to the kitchen to get me a drink.
The water drips down my chin and onto my chest. Even my scalp is sweating beneath my thick hair, and since I’ll probably dry in less than two minutes in this heat anyway, I turn the hose on myself. First I run it over my head until I feel rivulets coursing between the strands of hair and stream off the ends. I splash a bit onto my shoulders and collarbone. The blessed liquid traces through the valley between my tits and soaks my loosened shirt, but I don’t care. My science brain affirms that the evaporation will cool my skin.
My unbridled nipples peak to attention with the onslaught of cold water. This isn’t helping my sexual urges, but the relief from the heat is worth it. I hold the hose against my shoulder with one hand, while the other slips down over the wet material barely covering my breasts as they tighten and throb. I rub them with my palm, hoping to press them back into submission, but it’s no use. I’m a horny, wet mess. My free hand glides from my breast down to the crotch of my jean shorts and back again, and I imagine Logan’s hands all over me instead of my own.
Suddenly I hear the screen door slam behind me. I whirl an about-face, flicking the hose in a wild arc, its stream of water nearly hitting the figure standing on the back porch.
Logan.
He flinches on reflex to avoid being splashed, but his eyes stay fixed on me and darken like those of a trapped animal. Even as my insides are shriveling with embarrassment, textbook quotes flash in my brain about reading body language and facial expressions. I don’t need any research to understand Logan’s look. I’ve seen it too many times on the faces of my arrogant, Alpha-type male classmates, and it’s not fear.
It’s pure, undisguised lust, and it’s the last thing I intended. I wanted to impress him but not this way. Not behaving like a floozy in a car wash commercial, soaking wet and fondling my own half-exposed tits. God, what must he think of me now? I’ve made an impression alright, and it’s completely the wrong one. As I drop the hose and turn off the tap, I have a feeling I won’t be babysitting Rose Brenner again. Ever.