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It’s that simple.
I’m not thinking clearly because when I think clearly, I don’t do stupid ass things like showing up at my partner’s house when I know he’s on a rare and desperately needed weekend out of town with his wife. I certainly don’t show up bringing tools borrowed a week ago and ‘just happen to see them’ when I park my car in the garage.
The power drill and the belt sander are just an excuse.
He won’t see them until Monday so why I am I at his house now at six o’clock on Friday? What possible reason is there for me to do that when I drop Hank and Marjorie off at the airport at four, and know I’m the one who will be picking them up on Sunday night? Really, if I need to get the tools back to him, it makes a lot more sense to just have them in my car when I bring him home after his weekend.
But that isn’t going to give me a chance to see his daughter.
Maybe I need to reevaluate that thought. Delivering the drill and sander when I pick him up won’t give me the chance tobe alonewith the girl I have no business being alone with. How can I even try and pretending I’m not heading over here just to see my best friend’s daughter and not in an innocent dad’s-best-friend kind of way? There’s no excuse for how my mind is working and there’s no excuse for this behavior. There’s just no excuse at all, and I feel disgusted with myself.
But not disgusted with myself enough to turn around when I get to Hank’s street and not disgusted enough to keep from pulling into the driveway. At least I have the presence of mind to carry the drill and the sander when I go up to the front door and ring the doorbell. I know the supposed purpose of my visit is silly fiction, but I like that I can at least pretend the fiction is something real, can at least act like there’s something to it.
Ringing the doorbell I wait, my heart hammering in my chest as I know I shouldn’t be here. Thoughts of turning around and going don’t enter my mind, which is more troubling than if they had.
Tapping my foot I prepare to ring the bell again, but it’s not necessary. The thick slab swings open and there she is…wearing shorts.
I suck in a breath of air and immediately my pants tent. Her shorts are Daisy Duke’s and I can only see the very bottom of the hem because she’s also wearing an oversized tee-shirt. She looks sexy and innocent, and it really gives me pause because how in the world am I supposed to pretend I’m here for any other reason than to see her looking sexy and innocent?
She looks at me and I see her face transform from placid quiet to surprised joy but almost immediately, it changes to a scowl. “Are you here to prove you’re a man?” she asks.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I mean, are you here to prove you can spank a grown woman?”
I know she’s trying to anger me, which makes the way my cheeks heat up, my eyes narrow, and my heart beats rapidly piss me off. “My experience so far is only spanking children,” I reply.
I feel far too satisfied with how she looks stunned, like she’s been slapped. “Well then, why the hell are you here?” she asks. Jesus, she’s beautiful when she’s angry.
“I’m returning your father’s tools,” I say. Then, I step past her and into the house, “Excuse me.”
As I walk toward the kitchen, which has a door to the garage, she says, “Excuse you? Excuse you for just walking into my house without an invitation, you mean?”
I stop and turn around. “This house belongs to my best friend, not his spoiled and entitled daughter.” Again, she looks like she’s been smacked, and this time, her expression isn’t just beautiful. It’s frightening. The withering stare she gives me makes me happy I’m between her and the kitchen knives.
She takes a breath and says calmly, “You can leave the tools on the table. I’ll put them away.”
“I’ll put them back where I found them,” I reply. Her eyes almost seem panicked at my response. I have no idea why.
I turn and walk through the kitchen but before I pass the refrigerator, her hand is on my arm. “Grant, please. Wait.” I turn and look at her. There’s no anger at all now. There’s fear, though. Nervousness, perhaps.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. I can’t make my voice as gentle as I want to when I ask.
“I… I’m sorry for getting mad. I’m sorry for saying you… I know you weren’t trying to prove you were a man.”
I can’t tell if she’s sincere. I hate that I can’t tell. I give her the benefit of the doubt, though, and I nod. “You’re young,” I say softly, “And young people make mistakes.” I can see a bit of anger in her eyes at the words, but she doesn’t say anything until I turn around and add, “Let me get these tools back and we’ll forget about what happened.”
Then, she says, “Wait!” and grabs my shoulder. I turn around and before I can react, her mouth is on mine, one of her hands still on my shoulder and one hand on my cheek. Her tongue slips tentatively past my lips and the moment is almost like some kind of electric shock.
And brief.
She pulls back suddenly and stares at me. Her face almost shows horror at her behavior. I have no idea what she sees in my face, but I imagine she sees something similar because I’m most certainly horrified at letting her kiss me and regretting that it ended so quickly.
Neither of us speak.
We just stare at each other.
Finally, I say, “You’re playing with fire, little girl, and that’s a good way to get burned.”
