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“That was the plan.”
Antonio nods. He’s worked here long enough to be privy to our family tensions. “Frida left a crock of chile verde in the fridge for you. Just heat it up on the stove when you’re ready.”
“Tell her thanks for me,” I say. Since my folks passed away, Frida’s taken it upon herself to mother me, and Sawyer when he deigns to grace us with his presence. She and Antonio have three grown kids of their own, and six grandchildren, all of whom live out of state. “See you in the morning.”
Antonio waves and shuts the door to the lobby. I put Frida’s chile verde on the stove, then head upstairs to my bedroom, stripping as I go. As I toss my clothes in the empty hamper, I make a mental note to throw Shirley and the girls a few extra bucks for handling my laundry this month. I pay the housekeeping staff under the table to take care of my private living space, since I’m usually too exhausted to do more than crash as soon as I walk through the door.
I pass the master bedroom on my way to the bathroom, catching a whiff of fresh linens and a scented candle. Something spicy and wintery, like cardamom or cloves.
I don’t sleep in the master bedroom. I keep it open for Sawyer, though he’s hardly ever here. Part of me is holding out hope that someday my son will realize the value of this place and come home. I’d like to see him married, the four additional bedrooms brimming with grandkids. I’d teach them everything I know about how to run this place, like my father taught me, till I’m ready to build my own cabin on the hill and retire.
I’m well aware that a five-bedroom house is excessive for a single man in his mid-forties, living alone. But as it stands, my son wants nothing to do with the family business.
I jump in the shower, letting the hot water soothe my aching shoulder muscles. I contemplate shaving my beard, then figure, to hell with it. It’s not like I’m gonna run into an attractive woman in my own kitchen. Fuck if I can recall the last time I hit up a bar or fired up a dating app. My official reasoning is that I’ve been too damn busy to date. But I know it’s about more than that.
When you’ve been off the horse so long, it’s hard to remember how to climb back on. That’s not to say I’ve forgotten how to pleasure a woman. Lay one down in front of me and I’ll have her moaning my name in minutes. It’s the rest of it, the getting out there and getting to know a person, that’s rusty.
My cock hardens as I run my soapy fist along the shaft. I give it a few strokes, thinking I’ll just tease my dick for a sec, but soon it’s so stiff and demanding that I can’t ignore it.
I rest my arm against the tile, and my forehead on my arm, as I close my eyes and imagine a woman’s soft palm stroking me. Pretty soon, her hand becomes her mouth, warm and inviting. Then, as I get closer, her mouth becomes her pussy.
Goddamn, it’s been too long since I drove my cock into a tight, wet cunt. Too long since I’ve felt those muscles clench around me as she comes. I jerk myself faster, harder, until I’m coming on the tile, shooting out ropes with every throb.
I take a second to catch my breath and then step under the spray to rinse. I’m in the middle of toweling off when I hear a car door slam. Downstairs, the front door squeals open, confirming my suspicion that it must be Sawyer and not a guest. I wrap the towel around my lower half and pad downstairs to the living room.
The front door stands open, letting in the chill from outside. I spot an unfamiliar blue backpack and a pair of green boots on the oversized welcome mat.
Movement in my peripheral vision draws my gaze across the open-concept living room to the kitchen, where a young, fair-haired woman lifts the lid off the pot on the stove.
I approach her slowly, hoping she’s just a presumptuous guest, and not some crazy person looking to occupy my house. She inhales the steam wafting up from the pot.
“This smells amazing,” she says. “What is it?”
“Chile verde,” I tell her.
She jumps at the sound of my voice, nearly dropping the lid. Her eyes going wide.
“Oh...” she stammers. “I thought you were—”
“Hey, Dad,” Sawyer says, traipsing through my front door with snow on his boots and bags of groceries in his arms. “Jesus, put some fucking pants on, will you? We’ve got company.”
“I’d have appreciated a heads up that you were bringing a girl home.”
The blonde in my kitchen glances between my son and me, her gaze lingering on my bare torso. She’s got to be half my age. Way too young to be interested in a man fast approaching fifty. Even if I am in the best shape of my life.
“That would’ve spoiled the surprise,” Sawyer says, setting the bags on the counter. He knows I hate surprises. “Noelle’s not just any girl, Dad. She’s family.”
I take a closer look at the blonde—Noelle. She’s damn pretty, no denying that. But what’s this about her being family?
“You knock her up?” I ask him.
She balks. “Excuse me?”
Sawyer laughs heartily, tossing two heads of cabbage into the fridge. He shuts the refrigerator door, then leans against it.
“Colton Bell,” he says, “I’d like you to meet my new stepsister, Noelle Hargrove.”
All of a sudden, the pieces snap into place.
