“He went hiking,” Jacob says.
“Oh.” Something prickles along my nerves. Dominic’s never been very outdoorsy, but hey, we’re both getting to know ourselves outside our relationship, so maybe he’s trying out new hobbies. I should let him know I took up yoga.
“He went hiking with Karim,” Karter says.
My heart stutters. “With who?”
“Dr. Karim.” Jacob shrugs and lies back down.
Karter grins at me. “His name is Karim, and I’m Karter. That’s pretty funny isn’t it? If he and Papa get married, we’re going to get our names mixed up all the time.” He flops next to his brother, giggling.
Except I’m not sure what’s so funny. Who is this person? A friend? A boyfriend? Never trust a seven-year-old with critical details, and I don’t want to upset them by pushing. They aren’t responsible for who Dominic meets or introduces them to.
But is he dating? Is it serious? It sounds like the boys have met this person, so it damn well better be serious.
I nearly call him, demanding answers, but my role is the uncaring workaholic ex-husband, not the hysterical one. That’s Dominic. He’s always good for making a scene. But I should have some say in how my kids meet future prospective partners, but the truth is, I don’t. Because they aren’t only my kids, and I have no control over Dominic’s choices or his love life anymore.
We’ve been split up for a year, divorced for six months. He wanted a partner who was there more, who worked less, so I can’t really be surprised if he doesn’t want to be single.
Do I want to be single?
I glance at the kids before I pull my phone out.
Brady is the first person I’ve so much as touched since my marriage ended. I know there are ways to meet men, but my knowledge is pretty academic. I met Dominic before smartphones became widespread, when online dating was the sketchy thing you didn’t talk about, and before swiping left and right were part of our vocabulary.
I feel old.
But it doesn’t have to be that complicated. No need to wade into the swamp of apps and hookups. Because there’s a voicemail on my phone that sounded like it could be something.
I can’t call while the kids are here, but I can text.
Hey, sorry I missed you last night. If you’re not doing anything later...
11
Brady
As far as booty calls go, this one has to be the most meticulously planned one I’ve ever been a part of. Of course, it’s Nash, so I’m not surprised. Also, I haven’t been this nervous to have a guy to my place in the whole time I’ve had a place to have guys over to. Again, that it’s Nash probably plays into my anxiety.
And because I have a whole other day to stress about it. I’d already been pretty busy beating myself up for misreading the signs—and maybe getting caught up in my dad’s good intentions—when Nash didn’t answer my voicemail. And when he finally does and he says he wants to come over, my heart skips then does a whole tap dance, because he can’t come by until Sunday. So I get a bonus twenty-four hours to worry that this could all go off the rails at any moment.
For once, the football phone is quiet. Where are the client crises that will keep me distracted when I need them? By lunchtime on Sunday, I’m scrubbing the grout in my shower—like Nash is going to care about my fucking grout.
I try meditation. Hell, I even consider jerking off, but I tell myself to have a little self-respect and hold it together.
When the knock comes on my front door, I nearly jump out of my skin. Inviting him over was a terrible idea. I should have dodged and weaved the way I’ve been doing until the tension between us reached another breaking point. Except God only knows where we’d be next time. We were lucky his office can’t be seen into when the door is closed. Next time, we might be in the yoga studio or randomly run into each other on a streetcar and collide in a spontaneous eruption of sexual need on Queen Street.
I’m being dramatic. Also, he’s knocked again. With a little too much force, I throw it open and breathlessly say, “Hi!”
His eyes glitter as he says, “I was starting to think you gave me the wrong address.”
I blink as I finally calm down enough to take him in, only the sight of him gets my heart racing again.
Oh my ever-loving flying spaghetti monster. Whereas I have made an effort to dress up a bit for Nash’s arrival—which is to say I got out of my usual Sunday afternoon sweats and put on a pair of jeans skinny enough to be club-worthy if clubbing were still a thing I had time for—he has actually dressed down—which is to say he’s out of his button-downs, cufflinks, and khakis and into a pair of slim-fitting shorts and a soft-looking black T-shirt that clings to his chest in just the way an obliging T-shirt should.
Holy shit, is this guy actually here to fuck me? Or to be fucked? I can’t even—but he’s smiling expectantly at me, his face tanned and his eyes crinkling a little in the corners. The silver shines in his dark hair, and for one last second nervousness rattles around in my chest before it’s overwhelmed by a tsunami of relief and lust that has me burying my hands in his still-so-obliging shirt and hauling him through the door.
He laughs softly, a rumble in the back of his throat that vibrates over his lips as they press against mine. Nash runs his hands down my sides, more gently than the way I’m crushing his shirt in my fists, but doesn’t resist as I pull us around until we’re back to where we always seem to be these days and I can cover his body with mine while I make the wall do all the hard work.
