Athica Lane: The Carpino Series (5 page)

I look at my watch and realize I’m hours late picking up the kids from Sophia’s sister.  Thinking about Paige Carpino for some reason makes me shake my head, pisses me off and makes me hard all at the same time.

She surprised the shit out of me Monday when she swung the door open and it was the same woman who walked into me last week and ended up wearing my drink.  And I can’t help but remember just how well she wore it.  I know I was in a bad mood that day dealing with my accountant over business from The Shed, but I can’t say I felt bad about ruining her shirt.  She gave me an eyeful, and even though she’s about as big as a minute, the eyeful she gave me was fucking perfect. 

But her throwing attitude with me the last couple days proves just what a pain in the ass she probably really is.  And hell if the sight of her, topped with her attitude, doesn’t have a bizarre effect on me.  An effect I can’t decide if I like or not.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget her pissed-off, wearing my drink with her shirt plastered to her body giving me every clue what she has to offer.  Her being a wiseass over text with me today calling me “Just Cam” pissed me off too, but hell if it didn’t make me smile at the same time. 

Don’t get me started on her hair, and fuck me, when she smiles at my kids she’s downright gorgeous.  I have the itching desire to bury my hand in her head of long dark wavy hair to feel if it’s as heavy as it looks.  All those curves with that tiny waist, the hair, topped with her fiery attitude?  I can’t get her out of my head.

There’s something wrong with me.  I guess it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman.  My hand isn’t gonna cut it much longer.  But it’s impossible to meet a woman who isn’t a bar tramp or skank when I have my kids all but four days a month.  And if I have another single-mom cougar hit on me during a parent teacher conference, sporting event, or hell, even at The Shed, I’ll come undone.  I don’t shit where I live and the last things I need are parents or clients running their mouths about me or my business.  I’ve seen it happen to others.  It’s not worth the lay, no matter how tempting.

Shit, I can’t even have a one night stand three states away with an old fling.  I tried that months ago when I was home with the kids to visit and have paid the price ever since.  I dated Carrie in high school and she’s divorced, too.  We hooked up after an event at my parents’ house and now she won’t leave me alone, calls and texts all the fucking time.  I answered in the beginning and after telling her I don’t have the time for a relationship, she kept at it.  Now I’m ignoring her completely, but the woman just doesn’t get it. 

Nothing is fucking simple.

I pull my Expedition up my drive, thinking I need to clean out the garage and bring the rest of the equipment to The Shed so I don’t have to park outside anymore.  I make my way through the shit, wondering when I can carve out time to do that as I hit the house.  But I’m forced to still myself as soon as I open the door to the laundry room. 

I still because I can’t help from breathing deeper through my nose.  I tip my head to the side and frown.  It smells different. 

I move through the dirty laundry that I hate more than anything, but stop again as I get to the door of the kitchen.  That’s when the smell assaults me.

It’s bleach.  But with lemons.  Sort of antiseptic.  But not like a hospital.  I think I even smell vinegar.  Maybe even oranges.  Definitely citrus. 

I step through the door and can’t believe my eyes. 

It’s clean.

And not clean like I clean it before my family comes to visit because I have no choice but to clean it.

It’s fucking
clean
.

I stand here and take in my huge ass kitchen that never looks any different than it did before I left the house this morning.  I don’t think it’s looked like this since the remodel was done and the last contractor walked out my front door.  The floors are clean, the counters are cleared, the sink is empty and I can tell from here, it’s been scoured.  There are two piles neatly stacked on the island, one looks to be miscellaneous papers and the other unopened mail that’s been collecting for a week. 

“Meow,” I hear and look down.

“Hey Duke,” I say.

He sits and swishes his tail up, back and forth as he looks at the kitchen too, probably as surprised as I am.

“Did she clean my kitchen?” I ask Little Duke.

“Meow,” he answers.

“Shit,” I sigh and throw my duffle on the polished marble island.  The musical notes on my fancy dishwasher rings through the silent house, alerting me the cycle is finished.  She even started more dishes.  What in the hell do I do with all this?

I move to the fridge and when I open it, I’m stopped in my tracks for a third time.  She even cleaned out my fridge.  The old food and takeout leftovers are gone, it’s even organized.  I reach in, grabbing two beer bottles that are perfectly lined in three rows on the top shelf.  Even the fucking labels are facing the same way. 

I turn back toward the garage and head out to see my kids.  And to find the cleaning fairy.

I’m tired. 

It took me forever, but it’s official.  Cam Montgomery has one kick-ass kitchen and once it was clean, I might’ve had a mini-orgasm just thinking about cooking on his huge gas range and baking in his double ovens.  Completely mini-orgasm worthy.

Now I’m wiped from my day.  Finishing blog articles, shopping, prepping for my catering event, keeping up with four kids and resuscitating a kitchen back to life can take it out of you.  I didn’t have the energy to whip up dinner.  We ordered pizzas for delivery. 

As hot as it’s gotten during the days, we’re early enough into summer for the evenings to cool down nicely.  I sent the kids outside with the dogs, Ariel included since she came back with us.  I didn’t have the heart to leave her with John Wayne.  I’m reclined in a patio chair with my legs propped on the table.  I feel gross and probably look the same from my heroic cleaning escapade.  I’ve got my ear buds in, listening to music on my phone while doing my duty—making sure the kids live to see another day. 

But I jump when I feel something ice cold against the back of my neck.  My hair is piled high on the back of my head in a mess of a pony-tail from my cleaning extravaganza.  I drop my legs and turn quickly to see the brick wall standing over me, close at my back.  He’s half grinning through his lush goatee and offering me a beer bottle.  I don’t know whether it’s his proximity or the drop of condensation dripping down my neck, but I shiver. 

I narrow my eyes while pulling the buds from my ears and ask, “Are you going to pour that on me?”

His half grin turns into a full blown smile and his eyes drop to my body where I feel them on me again.  I know he must remember the wet t-shirt incident when he drones, “Not today.”

He hands me a beer, not even asking if I want one.  I sit back, tip the bottle to my lips and take a drink before asking, “Are you on a diet?”

This time he frowns as he claims a close patio chair, “Why would I be on a diet?”

“Because you’re drinking light, watered down beer.  I thought maybe your workouts weren’t cutting it and you’re watching your calories or something,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“What do you drink?” he asks back.

“Mostly craft beers, but I like Sam Adams, Blue Moon, Sierra Nevada, stuff like that.  But in the fall, only pumpkin beer.”

“Pumpkin beer?”

“Yep,” I answer.  “Pumpkin beer is the best.  But light beer?  Never.”

“Point taken,” he tips his head as he puts his bottle to his lips.  He looks to the backyard at the kids playing when he adds, “You’ve had a busy day.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.  “I’ve been sitting here most of the day, relaxing and eating bonbons.  Cappuccino bonbons.  They’re the best.  In case you’re taking notes along with the beer.”

“Darlin’,” he starts.  “If you’ve been sitting here livin’ the easy life, maybe you can tell me who broke into my house and cleaned my kitchen?”

Now that he’s not barking at me or being frustrated and pissed, I hear a hint of a drawl to his voice when he called me “darlin’” for the second time.  It’s not an in your face drawl, but I’m pretty sure it’s there. 

“That was Cara,” I inform him.  “We went to let Ariel out and she decided she couldn’t live another day in your disaster of a kitchen.”

“Cara cleaned my kitchen,” he states.

“Yeah,” I say, taking another drink of my watered down beer.  “She was going to start on your laundry, but she was exhausted.”

He shakes his head and looks back out to the yard without responding. 

However, just like all things me, I can’t help myself, “You have a really nice kitchen.  Was it that way when you bought your house?”

“Nope,” he says to the yard.

“So you renovated it?” I go on.

“Nope,” he repeats.

I frown, “What do you mean?”

He looks over and after taking another swig, answers simply with four words, “My mother.  She meddles.”

I repeat, “What do you mean?”

He sighs and rests his beer on the arm of his chair as he explains in more words, “She meddles.  Two years ago after I moved in, she came for a visit.  She shopped all week, which I didn’t think was strange because my mother can shop.  Three weeks later, she came back to visit again and when I got home from work, there was a dumpster sittin’ outside my house and my old kitchen was trashed inside it.  It was a fucking mess.  The ceiling was gone, the floors were ripped up and walls were torn down.  I went crazy.  She—being the mother she is—didn’t give a shit and told me the kitchen I had was so small you couldn’t cuss a cat in it without getting a mouthful of fur.  She said it was a house warming gift.  I told her I would have preferred an extension on the garage if she insisted on doin’ shit like that.  She said she doesn’t care about garages, but she does care about kitchens.  What was I supposed to do?”

I feel my brows rise, “Wait.  Let me get this straight.  You’re telling me you gave me shit last night about my parents’ giving me a car after I gave you shit about the sugar daddy incident and your mother remodeled your kitchen?”

He looks out of the corner of his eyes and grins, “I guess I did.”

“I can’t believe you,” I say.  “At least we’re even.  But that’s really meddlesome, and I thought my parents were meddlesome.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he mutters.

“Huh,” I take another swig of my beer, still shocked.  Mrs. Montgomery must be some woman, that’s for sure.  All of a sudden I realize he probably hasn’t had dinner since I know for a fact there’s hardly any food in his house. “We ordered pizza.  There’s some left, are you hungry?”

He looks over and with a little shake of his head, says, “Since I don’t know what’s left in my fridge, I’d appreciate it.”

I stand, rolling my eyes, “Yeah, Cara told me how scary your refrigerator was.  You’d better have some pizza.  I’m not sure if food poisoning can take down brick walls, but I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Brick walls?” he asks, looking up at me.

I give my head a little shake, “Never-mind.  Do you want another beer?  I have real beer.”

“Sock it to me,” he says, looking back to the kids playing.  Then he belts out, “Cara, Jordy!”

His kids look to the house and come running, Cara shrieking all the way.  I move to the kitchen, not knowing if I can take another dadmire moment with Cam and his kids.  I load up a plate with pizza, heaping four large pieces.  He is a big guy. 

By the time I make my way back out to the patio with his warmed pizza and two more beers, the kids have scattered. 

“Appreciate it,” he says. 

I’m settling in my chair again when I hear a car driving up.  I look over toward the side of the house where the driveway turns into the side load garage and see Brian.

Well damn.  I thought we agreed to touch base next week.

Cam looks at Brian getting out of his car and back to me, asking, “He here for you?”

I give him a small smile and answer carefully, “He’s a friend.”

Cam looks back to Brian and then down at his pizza, “I bet.”

I don’t have time to respond because Brian is approaching and he only has eyes for Cam.  Glaring eyes.  I’m not liking this.  There shouldn’t be anything weird about me sitting with Sophia’s neighbor and my friend stopping by for a visit.  Nothing weird at all. 

But the cool, early summer evening air has tensed.  I think it has everything to do with me perving on Sophia’s asshole neighbor—although he hasn’t been an asshole tonight—and my friend who I want to stay my friend but he’s proving he might not want to be friends anymore. He might want more. 

More
.

Arg!

“Hey, Brian.  I didn’t know you were coming by,” I say with a generic smile, hoping to get him to quit glaring at Cam.

Brian finally looks away from Cam and comes straight to me.  When he gets close, he does something he’s never done, and that’s touch me in a way only people who are together-together touch each other.  He runs his hand along my shoulder, lightly across my back and up the side of my neck.  His hand finally makes its way up and lifts my chin.  This strange out-of-character sign of affection surprises me to such an extent, I jerk my head and frown at him. 

He ignores my frown and starts, “Thought I’d stop by, take you and the boys for ice cream.”

It’s my turn to glare.  I give him a good one, while saying with attitude I know he can’t miss since he knows me well, “You should have called first.”

“Why?  Am I interrupting?” he asks with as much meaning.

I look over at Cam, but Cam is sitting back in his chair, staring straight at Brian. 

“What?  No,” I answer.  “You’re not interrupting.  Brian, this is Sophia and Lanny’s neighbor, Cam.  Cam, Brian.  I’m helping out with Cam’s kids every afternoon.  We’ve all had a long day so we ordered pizza.”

Brian barely gives Cam a lift of his head before looking back to me and insists, “I’ll take you for dessert.”

“Not tonight.  I’ve been cleaning and I’m tired.  I need a shower and the kids need to get to bed early.  You shouldn’t have come.  We were about to go in,” I say pointedly.

His finger comes back to my neck and circles a piece of unruly hair that’s fallen from my pony-tail.  He gives it a slight tug when he insists, “I’ll stay, you shower and we can settle in after the boys go to bed.”

I can’t help myself from swatting at his hand like you would a pesky fly when I snap, “I don’t think so.”

Brian can tell he’s pushed too much, further than he’s ever pushed before.  He sighs and tries, “Maybe later in the week.”

“Sorry,” I say.  I go with the first thing I can think of, “We might get together with my parents.  The days seem to fly by.”

“Fine,” he says frustrated, barely giving in.  “I’ll call you—make sure you’re locked in.”

“There’s no need. I’m capable of locking doors, Brian.  I’ll talk to you next week,” I say, doing my best to put him off.

He gives Cam one more glare before looking back to me and adds while brushing my cheek with his thumb, “Let me know if you need anything.”

I jerk again, pissed by his actions but not wanting to make a scene and simply say, “Bye.”

Cam and Brian both nod, unfriendly-like, never uttering a word to one another during Brian’s short visit.  I watch him move to his car then down at least a quarter of my beer.  I don’t want it to show how angry I am and try to control my temper. 

“You two together?” I hear from my side.

“No,” I huff, trying not to huff it, but huffing it all the same.

“You sure?” he asks.

I look at him and answer with a one syllable word but say it with two, “Yeah.”

Cam lifts one eyebrow and enlightens me, “He wants you.”

“You don’t know that,” I say with attitude, even though after tonight, I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s right.

“He wants you,” Cam repeats.

“He doesn’t,” I insist.

“You have a dick?” he asks.

This makes my mouth drop in complete shock.  He did not just say that to me.

“I can’t believe you,” I say, completely stunned by his bluntness.  “That does not warrant an answer.”

“Yeah, he wants you,” Cam drawls, for the third time.

“What makes you so sure of this fact,
Just Cam
?”

“Darlin’,” he starts and lowers his voice, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.  “I have a dick.”

I take in an audible breath.  I can’t help it, my eyes wander down his body and I feel my face warm with a blush.  No, not warm.  I feel as if my face is going to combust it’s so hot.  Shit.  I hate blushing more than anything.  It makes me feel stupid and girly.  Damn it.

I look back to the yard and even though I want to hold my beer to my face to cool myself off, I can’t without looking like an idiot.  Instead, I take another swig and wonder how I can bow out quickly from our time on the patio. 

“Paige,” I hear him say my name for the first time.  He calls it sort of soft, not with a drawl and not pissed.  Not even frustrated.  When I look over, he’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.  His beer is dangling from his fingers and his head is tipped to the side with a small smile playing inside his goatee, “I gotta say, darlin’, I like that.  I liked it last night, but I like it even better tonight.”

“What?” I barely hear my own voice, hating that I’m at a loss for words.  I mean, I am who I am.  I’m never at a loss for words.

He leans back in his chair without looking away from me, “You know what.”

“Oh,” I mumble and turn back toward the yard.  If I didn’t feel flushed, I think I might faint and I’ve never fainted.  I don’t even know what that would feel like.

I hear a beer bottle hit the table and look over to see Cam getting up.  He walks in front of me, putting one hand to the back of my chair, entirely invading my space by leaning in close. 

I feel his hand come up to firmly cup my chin and his thumb brushes my bottom lip when he says in a low voice, “You’d better take a shower since you’re worn out from all the cleaning.  Thanks for dinner, darlin’.  And I’m grateful for my clean kitchen.”