“Next time I drop her off, make sure you’re here on time.”
Next month it’s my responsibility to drop her off and pick her up at his house per our divorce agreement, but I don’t waste any breath telling him that because it won’t do any good.
Barry has always only thought of himself and will always only think of himself.
The noisefrom an electric toothbrush stops and the bathroom door opens, directly followed by a tall, ridiculously gorgeous man walking out with his hair dripping wet. Drops of water glisten in the light and as they drop to the floor, only a few are stopped when they hit the towel he has wrapped around his waist. Even though I’m positive I’m awake, I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a dream. Who thought me, Josie Summerton, would ever experience this sight in the flesh?
Nate smiles, shaking his head twice like he doesn’t know why am staring at him — silly man — and then walks back into the bathroom to finish his morning routine. I’d volunteer to rub him down and dry him off, but I need to get myself together too.
It’s a Monday morning and I should return to work today, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of anyone at the office and my doctor’s note covers me a few more days. So I’m stuck here spending time with Emma.
It’s a rough life. Not.
I wish I could stay home all the time with her. At least for these few formative years before she goes off to school, but I need the money and a girl has to do what a girl has to do.
“I need to go home and get more clothes today,” Nate says from the bathroom.
“I’ve never been to your house. I should go with you.” My tactic is not subtle at all, but nothing between Nate and me has been normal.
He stops in his tracks, and for a second I worry he’ll say no. But then he smirks. “A few more days and I’ll take you home to meet my parents.”
Nate drops the towel in front of me and the only thing that gets me through him dressing is that he has to go into the office today. They have a meeting he must be on time for.
We cannot have sex.
We most definitely cannot have sex.
Actually, I have no idea if Ridge’s building is an actual office. I have serious trouble picturing Nate sitting behind a desk typing at a keyboard while pushing a thinly framed pair of glasses up higher on his nose and tucking his pen into a pocket protector. It’s very unlikely any of that goes on when he goes into work. Plus he doesn’t even wear glasses. He didn’t tell me what work he had to do today, only that Ridge called a meeting, and he needed to be there.
It’s so weird to be spending time planning my day with a guy again. I mean we broke out calendars last night and wrote joint appointments for the next month. Nate had a lot of work commitments in his that he has throughout the week where mine is spend time with Emma, feed Emma, play with Emma, put Emma to bed, work. It’s the gesture that counts. I’ve never aligned calendars before. It’s weird.
And wonderful.
It makes me think this is what normal relationships are like. Two people talking and sharing their lives and time together.
I didn’t even realize what I’d been missing out on in my past with Barry.
When Nate leaves the bathroom for the third time, he’s clothed and my libido sighs in defeat. She never gives up full hope.
He plants a quick but respectful kiss on my cheek. “I hate that I’m leaving you all day today. If Ridge didn’t make it mandatory, I would stay home.”
“Nate, don’t be ridiculous. My ankle is fine. See?” I say twisting my ankle in all different circles. Sometimes I think the guilt over the fact he caused the injury makes him a little extra crazy about it.
“I called Winnie to come and check on you.”
I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t even flinch. “Nate, I don’t need a babysitter.”
“She’s not here to babysit you. She’ll stop by to check in and see if you need anything. Plus I have my cell phone.”
With annoyance, I roll out of bed, not happy about starting the day but willing to do what I need to do if it will ease his nerves.
“I feel fine, really. Look, I could dance a jig.” I never took dance lessons in school, so I have no idea what a jig is. I try faking a tap dance on my bedroom carpet, but my ankle comes down weirdly on a step and I cringe.
“Yeah,” Nate says, shaking his head and putting his hand against my elbow. “Don’t do that.”
“What? I could’ve been an Irish dancer.” If he plans to make comments about my dancing, I have to stick up for myself.
He laughs. “I’ll contact the Riverdance guys for you. Set up an audition.”
