The orgasm should be a relief. It should quench my thirst. It should dampen my desire for him. But as I finish showering and pull on clothes, the throbbing between my legs still begs for attention, insistent despite my attempts to ignore it.
I tell myself to think like a mature adult and not a woman infatuated with a younger man. I go through the rest of my afternoon, ignoring thoughts of Luke. They don’t intrude as I spend the rest of the day hanging out with Olivia, cooking her dinner, doing her bedtime routine. The next day, I somehow manage to avoid Luke all day long. I tell myself that I need to focus on my daughter, focus on my business, focus on my friends. I don’t need my attention to be shifted to Luke Saint.
I tell myself I don’t need to have a fling. I tell myself that what happened between us won’t happen again.
I tell myself all of that, all of the reasons I shouldn’t want him the way that I do. But then every bit of reason, every ounce of sense I thought I possessed, goes out the window as soon as I hear the knock on the door.
Luke stands in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his t-shirt rumpled, holding two brown paper shopping bags. “Hush,” he says, interrupting me before I even begin to speak. “Don’t even pretend like you were about to cook anything decent for dinner, because we both know you weren’t.”
“You can’t just keep coming over here and taking over my kitchen,” I protest. But only mildly, because I remember the last meal Luke cooked and my stomach rumbles.
Luke brushes past me, bags in hand, and leans close to my ear to whisper softly. “Well, I do prefer your * being on the menu.”
Heat rushes to my face, but Luke is already passing me, ambling casually down the hall as if he didn’t just remind me that his mouth was between my legs only yesterday.
“Hey Olivia-girl,” he says, and she toddles after him, rounding the corner into the kitchen. He asks her if she likes salmon, talking to her like an adult, and she grins at him and nods, even though she has no clue what he’s talking about. Then he reaches into the bag, and takes out a toy car, squatting down to hand it to her. “Does she like cars? I don’t know what kids like.”
Olivia giggles and grabs it from his hand. “Car,” she says. “Car.”
“Olivia, what do you say to Mr. Saint?” I ask.
“Car! Car!” she yells, pushing it across the kitchen floor.
“Or, thank you,” I tell her, but she ignores me. “That’s nice of you, Luke.”
He shrugs. “Actually, it’s Mr. Saint to you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Luke
“Mr. Saint,” she says, laughing as she shakes her head. Her red hair spills past her shoulders in a mess of waves, and for a split second, I think about running my hands through that hair and kissing her right there.
Then I remember that Olivia is pushing a car around the kitchen floor, and I mentally scold myself for thinking about putting my lips on her right in front of her kid. Do parents kiss in front of kids? I don’t even know. Mine certainly didn’t. Of course, my childhood wasn’t exactly filled with warm memories.
Autumn’s laughter pierces through my thoughts, through the darkness that starts to envelop me whenever I think about my family. “Earth to Mr. Saint,” she says.
“What?” I realize I’m standing there with a box in my hand.
“Are you holding knives?” she asks.
I hand her the box. “Your knives are shit, Red,” I say. Then I glance over at Olivia. “Sh – crap. They’re crap. Sorry.”
“When she starts dropping f-bombs regularly, I’m going to know who to blame,” Autumn says. But Olivia is making her way across the kitchen, chasing the car that careens across the tile until it crashes into the wall opposite us.
“I’ve never had to worry about anyone mimicking me,” I note.
“Don’t you have younger brothers?” Autumn asks, and then her face colors. “I mean, I heard that – someone told me.”
If she were babbling nervously about any other subject, I’d almost find it endearing. But the fact that she knows about my family puts me on edge, and I turn around, unloading groceries from the bag to distract myself. “I have younger brothers,” I say, my voice harder than I intend it to be. “But I’m sure you looked into my family already.”
“I didn’t,” she says. “I mean. I did. A little bit.”
My stomach flips. A girl like Autumn isn’t the kind of girl who hooks up with a guy like me. Especially after she figures out what kind of white trash family I come from. “So,” I say, my voice deliberately even. “Did you find out all my dirt?”
“I wasn’t trying to find out dirt.”
“Right.” The word comes out more sarcastic than I intend, and I finish pulling things out of the grocery bag, wondering why the hell I’m even here. I’m standing here unloading groceries, as if I’m the kind of guy that cooks dinner for a chick when, in fact, I’ve never fucking done that, not even once.
In fact, I’m the guy who makes sure to never get the name of the chicks I bang, just because.