Page 9 of Midlife Crisis

“Hank, have you met the woman in charge of everything today? Midge, this is Hank. Hank, Midge.” Without extending a hand, I wrap my arms around myself. I don’t dare touch him without thinking about those thick hands massaging my shoulders, then slipping to my hips and tugging me back against him.

“We’ve met,” I mutter, lowering my eyes from his gaze. Ivy’s head spins to me, her mouth opening in question, but I interject. “The cake.”

“Forget it.” She waves.

“But I feel awful. I’ll just find a bakery around here and—”

“I know of one.” The smoker gaggle brings my attention back to Hank.

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a bakery about five blocks from here although this isn’t the best neighborhood to wander around alone.” His brow raises, and he peers at Ivy.

“Don’t start,” she snaps, lifting a hand. I’ve heard all about how her husband didn’t approve of the location, but Ivy was adamant the place remained where it was originally founded. Speaking of her husband, Gage Everly walks toward us, and I blush. He’s incredibly good looking in an I-shouldn’t-stare-but-can’t-help-myself sort of way, especially since I’m definitely ten-plus years older than him. His chocolate-colored hair hangs to his chin, blending with thicker scruff at his jaw. His deep eyes suck you in, but he’s not even looking at me. Focused on his wife, he’s about to lay one on her, and I’m holding my breath because I know what’s coming. I’ve only seen kisses like theirs in the movies. It’s like a train wreck. I know I shouldn’t look, but I can’t look away.

The kiss happens, but within seconds, a sharp cough to my left reminds us there is more than me as an audience.

“Gage,” Hank gruffly speaks.

“Hank?” Gage looks from the larger man to his wife and back. “Hank Paige.” There’s respect in his voice along with disbelief. “Man, you look good. Really good.” The comment implies at one time he didn’t appear so healthy, which strikes me as odd while the two men clap hands and lean in for a bro-hug. If I thought Gage was attractive, Hank redefines attraction for me. He’s not only my age, but there’s a playfulness about him. He seems rough but sort of reckless, and I’m drawn to him. Typically, I’m not into tattooed men with silver scruff, but on Hank—I want to trace those designs and gently scratch his chin. The thought I had upon first meeting him returns. I want to rub up against him.

As the two men shake hands, I admire the flex of Hank’s forearm and the strength under his inked skin. I want to feel those hands on me again, and my eyes travel up the etched pattern to find him looking back at me.

“Midge?” I blink. Shit. Did he say something to me? Should I know what he said? “The cake, little lady.”

“Right,” I squeak. “Cake.” I want to eat him. I shake my head. I’m a mess.

“Come with me, so you can pick what you want. I’ll drive.”

I nod, a needy moth to a bright flame. “Wait!” I turn to Ivy as my practical side slams on the brakes. “The boys.”

“Liam’s fine. He’s found Petty who can watch him.” Gage chuckles, and I know why. Jon Petty is the drummer for Collison, Gage’s band, and he’s the least likely to be responsible for a rock let alone a child. Liam’s only twelve and has more sense.

“Maybe I should just—”

“Midge. He’s fine. I’ll find him. Just go.” Ivy’s smile assures me. She’s met my boys on a few occasions over the past six weeks, and my Liam has a serious crush on her. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she encourages it. I grin at the thought.

“Okay. I’ll just get my purse.”

“You don’t need it. I’ve got this,” Hank interjects. “Consider it my contribution to the day.” He places a hand on the small of my back and guides me to a large SUV. We walk without a word as all I can concentrate on is the warmth of his hand on me. Like a true gentleman, he opens the door for me and helps me into the vehicle.

As we ride in uncomfortable silence, my mind races through a checklist, confirming I haven’t forgotten anything else. I’m mentally scrolling the list so I don’t think about how turned on I am to be in a confined space again with Hank or how awkward I feel because of it. I’m also hoping he’s forgotten about my call into the crisis center.

“So, you have boys?” he asks, rolling his free hand over his wrist, moving a collection of bands. His arm rests lazily over the edge of the steering wheel as he maneuvers us down side streets.

“Yes. Three.” His head swings toward me.

“You have three kids?” Serious gray eyes roam my body. I’m uncertain of the implication, so I continue.

“Elston is seventeen. Ronin, my son in the high school band, is fifteen, and Liam is ten.” I pause, recalling I’d spewed this information to him when I thought he was a crisis center operator. Cripes. My fingers twitch to cover my face. Please don’t let him remember anything.

“Not married,” he confirms, eyes shifting to my empty left hand. I used to wear the ring. It brought me a strange comfort even when the marriage was over, but about a year ago, the weight of the ring bore heavy. Maybe it was the impending marriage of my ex to his younger girlfriend.

“Nope.” My eyes drift to his hand, dangling over the steering wheel. As if he senses my perusal, he flexes his fingers. The fingers nervously stroking the beads on his wrist reach over and lift my left hand. Drawing it to his lips, he sucks at the empty space on my ring finger.

“Me neither,” he mutters against my skin. “Never been.” I shiver with the touch, the tone of his voice, and the overall gesture of his lips on me. I’m pathetic.

“What about children?” I ask.