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“Fine. But I like pineapple on my pizza.”
Chapter Three
Helping a sort of friend out
Cassandra
Watching my bulky neighbor put together furniture for the entire day before taking a seat at my kitchen counter and enjoying a beer has me smiling the entire time. He is funny and sarcastic, giving me shit the whole time about nothing in particular.
I have caught him staring at my legs several times throughout the day and I have to say I am not hating it. It makes me feel desirable, which I haven’t felt in ages.
“The pizza should be here in a minute,” I say as he finishes half his beer in a couple of gulps. “I’m just going to put Tyler down, but there is money on the bookshelf. You know, the one you assembled with your fancy tools.”
“Damn right, I built that shelf,” he puffs out his chest in what I assume is fake self-importance and I laugh. Lucian doesn’t strike me as the type of man to toot his own horn. He seems much more humble.
After putting my son in his crib, I join Lucian in the kitchen where he already has one of the pizzas open and is putting two pieces on a plate that he hands to me.
“Thank you.”
It’s strange, sitting here eating dinner with a virtual stranger and feeling more content than I have in the past year. I don’t know this man but I do know that he is easy to be around. And that I am insanely attracted to him, not that I will be acting on any of the many dirty thoughts running through my mind.
“Tell me,” he says after finishing his first slice of pizza. “Where is Tyler’s father?”
“Why?” The word comes out more defensively than I intended.
He chuckles. “Relax Cassie. I just want to make sure some dude isn’t going to take a tire iron to my truck when he finds out I spent half the day assembling his woman’s furniture.”
I watch him carefully, looking for any indication that he is being dishonest. Not that I would be able to tell. I’m shit at picking up on people who are actively screwing me over if my history is anything to go by.
“He isn’t in the picture,” I say, trying to decide what exactly I want to say. “Darren and I have been divorced for a little over nine months.”
“Nine months?” he asks in shock. “How old is Tyler?”
“Three months tomorrow,” I say with a shrug, stuffing more pizza into my mouth, hoping he’ll let it go.
“What a prick.”
He looks angry. What a strange reaction. I think of all the friends I shared with my husband, people I loved like family, who simply pushed me aside when we got divorced. Everyone blamed me for the demise of my marriage. And yet, this man who has only seen me twice automatically takes my side.
“Why would you assume that he was at fault?” I ask, curious about his thought process.
“I can’t think of a single thing that would make a married woman want to be a single pregnant woman or a single mother for that matter.”
“What if I cheated?”
“Did you?”
“No!” I’m immediately defensive.
He shrugs. “I’m pretty good at reading people, so I already knew that.”
“Tell me then. What do you see?”
He studies me for a moment before answering. “I see a woman who is overwhelmed by the circumstances she has found herself in. I see someone who wants to laugh and live but doesn’t, out of fear of being hurt again. I see a mother who loves her child. I see a fighter, a survivor, a damn strong woman.”
I feel tears gather in my eyes. It’s been a long time since someone said anything nice to me.
“That’s a lot to see in only two encounters,” I joke, trying to break the tension.
