“You’re not old.”
“Right,” he snorts. “I’m broken, wrinkled, and wise enough to know when you’re trying to change the subject.”
“There is no subject.”
“The subject is a social life. When’s the last time you went out? And don’t say the dojo. I mean spending time with people your own age. Denzel said his grandson’s on Tinder, dating up a storm.”
Oh hell. “I’m not going on Tinder, Pops.”
“Didn’t say you should. But letting yourself have a little fun isn’t wrong.”
“Drop it. You know where I stand.”
“I do at that.” He clucks his tongue. “On a fiery bed of penance that you’re burning up in. You’re thirty-four. You have a long life ahead of you.”
Don’t I know it. That’s what haunts me, but saying so will only add to his worry.
“What happened then—”
“Pops,” I warn, cutting off any talk aboutThat Night. With my appetite lost, I toss the rest of the apple on the grass. “If you won’t come in, I’ll go get you a hat.”
He shakes his head, muttering that I’m as stubborn as an ol’ mule. True. I didn’t get only my name from him.
I slide the patio door open. Aside from my enhancements to give Pops independence, the house is still decorated as my grandmother had left it. She died when I was nine. I looked forward to my summer visits here and her baking. Grams let me lick the beaters, still thick with buttery pound cake mix, while she listened to Otis Redding. She loved her some Otis. Whenever Pops plays “Dock of the Bay,” he gets that wistful look in his eyes.
There have been other women since Aline Dane, but no one he loved enough to marry or ever shareherhouse with. And yet, Pops never seemed lonely or stuck. He’d found a way to make peace with his loss. Maybe that’s easier to do when it’s not your fault.
I find his baseball cap hanging on the post of the kitchen chair where I always put it, only for him to ignore the subtle reminder. I grab a plastic cup off the dish rack and fill the tumbler with cold water.
Damn it, Pops. Why had he raised the subject of women?
I’d spent hours at the dojo trying to sweat those very thoughts out of my system. Just because I don’t have sex anymore doesn’t mean I’ve lost my desire.Whenever my body tries to override my resolve, I work out to the point of exhaustion or carve a piece of wood. With hundreds of carvings to show for it, I’ve learned how to control my urges.
Until recently. Until a certain auburn-haired woman with hazel eyes that can either turn green like summer leaves or soft brown like autumn started tempting me. Her brazen signals were as loud as an air raid siren. I’d heeded the warning and kept my distance. But then she touched my arm, a simple brush of her fingers that should have been nothing, and somehow set off everything I vowed to resist.
I don’t know what it is about Jordyn Sinclair that gets to me. She talks too damn much, and I don’t even like her. Still, her proposition had been the first in years that enticed me not to say no. Another time, I would have taken her up on her offer. I would have grabbed hold of all that sexual energy that was beating a rapid tempo against my own. I would have circled my fingers around the nape of her neck. I would have looked her right in those two-toned eyes while tongue-fucking her wet mouth and sinking deep into the hot clutch of her body. I’ve never wanted another woman as much as I found myself wanting her. I just didn’t trust her no-strings-attached promise.
I’d learned the hard way that sex is never free. Whether collected in flesh, emotion, or endless regret, there’s always a price to pay.
Being blunt, cruel even, was my only hope.Women like you aren’t my type. As soon as the words were out, those telling eyes glinted fuck-you green. Jordyn Sinclair wasn’t the kind of woman to take shit from any man. I half-expected her to toss the beer in my face and storm off. That I could have handled. What I hadn’t expected was the shift of her eyes into soft translucent brown, a window to her humiliation, possibly even hurt. I walked away from that look because I couldn’t afford to let it matter.
I bring Pops his hat and the glass of water. Before he can engage me in more of the conversation I don’t want to have, I disappear into the workshed. Whittling is one of the few things that stills my mind and lets my hands do the thinking.
That first slice of basswood begins the process. I chisel without planning or forethought. A cut here, a chip there, another and another, using the gouging tools for the details. And suddenly, it isn’t just a piece of wood anymore.
Pulling back, I stare at the shape of the eyes, the nose, the lips…
The sanctity of my workshed vanishes—evaporates without warning. And all I see and feel invading my space is Jordyn Sinclair.
“HE NEVER DOES ANYTHING THOUGHTFUL or romantic,” Dorian grumbles to her fellow junior designer—same guy, same complaint. I try to tune her out and stay focused on the 3D rendering due today, but the shrill voice of disappointment reaches my work pod across the open space. “Is it too much to expect a little gesture every once in a while? It doesn’t have to be much, but he didn’t even remember it was my birthday.”
Jeez, girl, get a clue. The guy’s a total a-hole.
“I bought my own flowers and made the reservations for Ruth’s Chris, thinking he’d feel like garbage and take the hint. Then when the check came, he said, ‘You good to get this, babe?’”
I shake my head and bite my tongue to keep my comments to myself. I have a habit of speaking my mind, even when uninvited. I don’t think that’s a bad thing, but not everyone appreciates it.
“I really love him, though,” she says, continuing down a road fraught with red flags and warning signs. “I just hope he changes.”
