Chandler: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (11 page)

“Your panties?” I might sound eager. I’m not a proud man.

“I’ll take off my shirt.”

“That will do.”

She looks around. There are other cars on the highway, and it’s broad daylight. She’s going to be seen by someone. I’m betting she’s about to chicken out.

But she surprises me when she whips off her tank and tosses it behind her, leaving her in nothing but a matching white bra and panties.

The exclamations of gratitude that are running through my mind aren’t even words. They’re more like sounds. Grunts. Random syllables. I’m so turned on right now, it’s not even funny.

“Don’t get pulled over, okay?”

“Um, all right.” I immediately ease my foot onto the brakes. “This game is going to get out of hand real soon.” If it’s not already. I adjust myself again, but it doesn’t help. At all.

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think I’m going to win! What do I get if I do?”

“A spanking.” Which is also what she’ll get if
I
win, but I don’t tell her that.

“Hey, I didn’t agree to touching.”

“You already opened that door when you rubbed your hand all over my chest. Now take your turn.”

“I did do that, didn’t I? Hmm. Let’s see.” She strokes her hand up and down the strap of her seatbelt while she thinks. “I love live theater. But do I prefer musicals? Or plays?”

I answer without hesitation. “Plays.”

“Take off the belt, buddy.”

“Hang on.” I hold up one finger to scold her. “First of all, you don’t get to choose what comes off.”

She pouts her full lips dramatically. “Come on. I should at least have a say. It’s my reward, after all. Besides, the belt is easy when you’re driving. I can even help you.” She reaches over and why am I even arguing?

“Well. Okay.” I let her work on my belt, let her brush my dick “accidentally”—spoiler: it’s not an accident. We both know that she’s fooling no one. “But, really? Musicals? I thought you’d be all into that serious boring shit. You know, Agatha Christie. Shakespeare.
Downton Abbey
.”

“
Downton Abbey
is a television show. Not a play.”

I sit forward so she can pull the belt from its loops without snagging. “But it’s BBC and boring. Isn’t that what you Brits like? Boring things? Musicals seem so…
not
boring.” I’m teasing her. Hard.

“You’re a bit of an ignorant clod, aren’t you?
Brits like boring things
,” she scoffs. “Who makes misinformed generalizations like that?”

“I think we already know the answer to that question. And now I’ve been schooled. Go on, tell me about your love of musicals.”

Let me pause to say that I don’t mind musicals. I’ve seen all of one in my entire life—
Wicked
, for Mirabelle’s birthday a few years ago. It was fine. Entertaining. I could see more of the same for Genevieve’s sake. You know, for the sake of a really good roll in the sheets after.

She wraps my belt around her shoulders, wearing it like a trophy scarf, her hands gripping both ends. “I will not. I’m afraid that you’ll ruin one of my favorite things.”

“I won’t! I promise.”

She turns and narrows her eyes in my direction. “How about your next ‘this or that’ be
play
or
musical
and think carefully before you answer. I’m guessing you’ll say musical.”

I’m putty. Complete putty. “Musical. All the way. Musical.”

She beams and it’s like a fresh breeze cutting through downtown Manhattan. “Awesome. We should see
Hamilton
together some time. Tickets are sold out for the next year, but Hagan has a friend.”

“Seeing
Hamilton
together? You mean, like a date?”

“No. I mean like two people who work together—hopefully—that go out with a bunch of friends. It will not be a date.”

“Fine. Whatever you say.” Not that I care if it’s a date. But I am ready to take this game to the next level—speed round. “I love anchovies,” I say. “Or I love olives.”

“You must love anchovies, because I heard you ask if there were olives in your lasagna at dinner the other night, and people don’t ask unless they don’t want them.”

“Yeah. That’s right.” I love how she knows things about me.

Or I hate how much she pays attention.

I refuse to answer that. But why
does
she pay so much attention?

I refuse to care about that answer as well.

Anyway, it’s her turn. “I want children. Or I want to run the New York marathon.”

“You want kids. Not now, but someday.”

“Ding, ding, ding.”

I want kids too. Now I’m imagining tiny people with my eyes and her cheekbones, and dammit, am I imagining having kids with
her
?

That realization punches me in the gut, but then it moves outward, shooting warmth through my entire body. It feels…right.

Our eyes meet, and it’s like drinking champagne how sweet and light and bubbly I feel as I drown in the pools of her eyes.

And she doesn’t even have a clue what’s going on in my head.

Which is a good thing. Because nothing’s going on. “I’m allergic to penicillin. Or I’m allergic to dogs,” I say next, trying to get a grip. Trying not to feel like I’m drowning in quicksand.

“You seem to be the type who likes dogs, so I’m hoping for your sake it’s penicillin.” She doesn’t look at me when she adds, “For the record, I love dogs.”

“I love dogs too. And I’m not allergic.” From the outside, it could look like we are subtly planning a life together. Kids—
check
. Dog—
check
.

“I detest mayonnaise. Or I want to have sex without a condom.”

Good sex—
check
.

I can’t tell you how fast my head twists toward her. “Please say it’s the latter.”

Her skin gets redder, and her eyes widen to the size of small saucers. “I don’t know!” she gasps. “I really detest mayo, and I said the other off-the-cuff, but I am on the pill and when I think about it, think about going bare—it kind of makes me squirm in my seat, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m only sitting in my knickers.”

I don’t even bother adjusting anything down below—there’s no point. “I’d like to try that out,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “Or I’m not into that.”

“You’d definitely like to try it out.”

I put on my signal, peeking at traffic over my shoulder, then head to park the car at the side of the road. “I’m pulling over because we need gas,” I say. “Or I’m pulling over because I want to kiss you.”

She’s quick in her response. “Neither. You’re pulling over because you want a blowjob.” She’s already undoing her seatbelt. Already bending over in my direction.

The game seems to have worked—she’s practically naked, and I’d say she knows me pretty damn well.

“
I
have
hair on my arms and my legs,” Mina says as she fills her coloring sheet with red scribbles. “But that doesn’t make me a boy.”

Genevieve bites her lip, stifling a giggle.

“That’s right,” I say, adding purple hair to the princess Mina’s insisted I color. “Doesn’t make you a boy.”

When we’d arrived, the party was in full swing. I’d dropped our bags off in our room, changed into my suit, then instead of searching out my parents, I brought Genny to the designated children’s area to meet the other most important girl in my life—my niece.

Not that it really mattered if they liked each other or not. If I were really interested in Genny, it would, though. Mina and I are tight. A girl wants to be in my world, she has to get that Mina and I are a package deal. I couldn’t spend any real time with a woman who didn’t understand that.

But Genny and I are only here for Hudson. So whatever.

Still, I’m quite happy when the two of them hit it off instantly. Really happy.

Which is why I’m hanging out in a tent in our garden at Mabel Shores, crammed onto a kid-sized folding chair, coloring from a
Frozen
activity book at a kid-sized round craft table while grinning ear to ear. Behind us, my other niece, Arin, is digging dirt out of the ground with a plastic spoon and singing to herself, as she frequently does. A handful of other children run between the tables, throwing grass at each other. And the most beautiful woman in the world is smiling at my side.

I’m telling you—this might be heaven.

Mina pauses her coloring and looks inquisitively at my date. “Do you have hair on your arms and legs too?”

“I do. Though I take it off of my legs.”

“Why?”

Mina’s three.
Why
is her favorite word in her vocabulary.

Genevieve frowns. “That’s a good question. I guess I like the way it feels to have smooth skin.” She absentmindedly runs her hand up and down her shin.

Mina notices. “Can I feel?” She doesn’t wait for permission before reaching out her tiny hand to smooth it over Genny’s skin. “Ooh. Soft.”

It’s only been an hour since our side-of-the-road sexcapade, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to touch her. “Can I feel, too? Please?”

I’m met with a stern look, but how can she resist me?

“Go ahead,” she says with chagrin.

I stroke up her calf, delighting at the path of goose bumps that arise at my touch. “You were right, Mina. Super soft.”

She twirls a lock of dark hair around her finger and thinks for a minute. “Does it hurt to take your hair off?”

Genevieve shakes her head. “Not usually.”

I study my niece as she tilts her head, her small features furrowed. “You’ve given her a lot to think about,” I tell my date.

“I hope it’s not anything that gets me in trouble with her parents.”

Like me, I’m sure Genny’s imagining Mina sneaking into her mother’s bathroom and taking a razor to her own legs because a second later she says, “Taking your hair off your legs is only for grown-ups, though.”

I lean toward Genny and whisper, “I’m pretty sure Laynie’s had hers lasered off. No razor for the kids to get into.”

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

I shrug, watching as Mina returns to her coloring. “I guessed based on my own experience. I borrowed my father’s razor one morning when I was about six or seven. Wanted to be all manly like my dad.”

“What on earth did you shave? Do I want to know?”

“One side of my head.”

Genny lets out a boisterous laugh. “Oh, god. I bet you were adorable. And I bet you were also in a decent amount of trouble.”

“My father didn’t think it was a big deal, but my mother was furious. She didn’t let me go to school until she could get me into a salon to get it all buzzed off.”

“Then you got a holiday.”

“I think she meant to take me in later, but she got a little hammered at lunch and we ended up going to the movies instead while she sobered up.” I stretch my leg out under the table—a relief after having both my knees up to my chest—and turn my purple crayon in for a blue one.

Genevieve grabs the yellow and leans over to help me color. “Your mother likes to—” She mimes throwing back a drink.

I respect both how she’s brave enough to inquire and how she isn’t making a big deal about it. “She used to. Been clean for over five years now.” We’d actually had an intervention for her, but it was my sister, Mirabelle, who’d been the driving force behind my mother’s decision to go to rehab. Mirabelle had been pregnant with the first grandchild, and she’d declared that my mother wouldn’t be allowed around her baby if she didn’t sober up.

“Oh. That’s fabulous.”

“Well, except we’d all always assumed that my mother was mean because she was an alcoholic. Turns out she’s just kind of mean normally.”

“Who’s mean, Uncle Chandler?”

Whoops. I somehow forgot there were small ears listening. Now I’m the one who’s going to get in trouble with her parents, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “I was just saying some not very nice things about Grandma Sophia.”

Mina’s eyes widen in understanding. “Oh. Grandma Sophia
is
mean.”

“See? Even Mina thinks so.”

“You’re terrible.” Genny swats my thigh playfully, and I have to concentrate to keep my dick in line.

Arin, Mirabelle’s daughter, picks up on our conversation and adds it to her song. “
She’s so mean
,” she sings. “
So mean. So mean, mean, mean
.”

I chuckle to myself. Arin lives her life in a musical. It’s freaking awesome.

Kira, another one of the kids, sets a child’s teacup and saucer down in front of me. “Here’s your tea, my good man,” she says in a dialect that I suspect is supposed to be British. She sets another in front of Genny. “Here’s your tea, my lady.”

Genny grins in delight. “You’re ever so thoughtful. Do we have biscuits to go with it?”

“It’s pretend.” The seven-year-old’s tone says she doesn’t think Genevieve is very smart. “There’s not really tea in there. It’s just imaginary.”

Genny takes a pretend sip. “And it’s very delicious. I’m imagining there are biscuits to dunk in mine.” She mimes dipping something in her cup before bringing it to her mouth.

“Genevieve is from England, Kira,” I explain. “That’s a real compliment she just gave you. She has real tea and biscuits all the time, so she’d know delicious or not.”

Kira beams. “Is that why you talk so funny?”

“It is. I live way across the ocean in an area of London called Brixton.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Kira says, half curious, half skeptical that the place exists. “Do you miss it?”

“I do sometimes. But I’ll probably go back there pretty soon.”

“You will?” I try to sound nonchalant. It’s just a question. I don’t really care about the answer.

Though my pulse seems to slow when she says, “If the merger doesn’t go through with Pierce Industries, yes. I will. I’d love to stay here, but I kind of need a job.”

“Oh, right.” Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me that her presence in the States might be temporary.

I look away so she doesn’t notice it bothers me. Because it doesn’t.

“
A
nd now you
know why I have to run so much. All those biscuits with my tea make me fat.” Genny pats her slim stomach, and I have to fight not to comment that there is not an ounce of fat on her—I know.

“
It makes you fa-at. Makes you big and fat
,” Arin sings behind us.

We both turn to watch her. Now she’s moved on from digging to burying blades of grass.

“Yes, Arin’s a strange one,” I say. The five-year-old is also the happiest, sweetest child I’ve ever met.

Genevieve looks at her adoringly, the way I imagine I look at
her
. “She’s precious.”

Arin’s volume sharpens as her refrain changes.
“She’s dead in the trees. She’s not alive anymore, she’s dead.”

“Well,” Genny says, rethinking her last statement. “And morbid.”

“
Precious Morbid
. That should be her band name.”

She laughs and then glances around at the children who have gathered in the play area. “Are you related to all these little people, then?”

I scan their faces. “Not all of them. I don’t think. I don’t know a lot of them.” I begin pointing out and identifying the ones I do know. “Mina is Hudson’s oldest, of course. Arin is my sister’s daughter.”

“And she just has the one?”

“She has a son too. Tyler. He’s taking his nap. But I think they’re done with kids now. Mira had a hard pregnancy, and she works a lot at her boutique and her husband is a doctor. So I think they have their hands full.”

“I’d say.”

I nod next to the girl serving us tea. “Kira here is Norma’s daughter. Norma is our head finance officer at Pierce Industries. She has an older son she adopted too, Tariq.” I crane my neck to see if I can spot him. “I think he’s over there in the pool.”

Just then, a little boy in a miniature suit runs up to me, excitedly.

“And this is Jake. He’s my man, aren’t you, buddy?” We bump fists before he joins the other boys running circles around the tables.

I look up to see his mother waddling towards us in the distance carrying a toddler in a matching suit. “Be right back,” I say to Genny then run to give Gwen a helping hand.

“I should have known you’d be hanging in the children’s area,” she says to me as I take Theo from her arms. “Thank you. That helps. Now I’m back to only carrying one of my offspring.”

I chuckle as I survey her extremely large belly. “You look miserable.”

“I
am
miserable. Thank you.” She peers past me toward Genny, who’s now concentrating heavily on her phone, her forehead creased. “Uh, hello. Who’s that?”

“That’s Genevieve, my
date
.” I emphasize date because that’s what she is, not because I like the way it sounds when I say it.

Gwen eyes me suspiciously. “That’s interesting. You don’t usually bring girls to these things.”

“I don’t usually know anyone I’d care to bring.” I glance over toward Genny and see her pointing her cell toward my niece. My pulse speeds up. “That’s weird.”

Gwen follows my gaze. “What? That she’s snapping pics of Mina?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that, you know, odd? Why would she be taking pictures of some other person’s child?” The reasons I can think of make my stomach knot.

Gwen laughs and nudges me with her shoulder. “It means she likes you, you dolt. She likes your family and wants to make memories. She’s maybe even imagining she’s Mina’s aunt.”

The tension unwinds from my body. “Shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes, but really? It makes me feel all gooey inside.

“Chandler and Genevieve sitting in a tree.” Gwen taunts me with her chant. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

I shake my head then start walking toward the woman we’re discussing. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

So maybe it’s strange that I’m still such good friends with the person who broke my heart years ago. The truth is, it wasn’t always like this. It took a good part of a year for me to come to terms with always seeing her, watching her life with JC grow and flourish. Really accepting that I wasn’t the man she chose.

Eventually, I had to figure it out. Gwen’s best friends with Laynie, and our lives intertwine a great deal. It’s been a tough road—for me, anyway—but now our relationship is strong and warm. We’re practically family.

Genny scrambles to put her phone back in her purse then stands so I can give the two a formal introduction.“Two boys? That must be a handful.” She comes up beside me to take my hand, as though claiming me as hers. Which is not at all like her but really nice all the same.

“And another boy on the way.” Gwen pats her belly, acknowledging our linked fingers with a raised brow.

It makes me feel confident and cocky. And a bit sassy. “You know, the sex of your baby is determined by the husband. Maybe you should have picked a different sperm donor.”

I really don’t love Gwen anymore—not like that—but I still like to give her shit about the guy who won her heart. “Where is your significant other, anyway?”

“He’s finding me some watermelon. I need some, like, now.”

Genevieve nods as though she understands. “My stepmother is four months along, and the cravings she has are insane. Good luck to you with them.”

“Uncle Chandler,” Mina says, tugging on my slacks. “What’s a perm dona?”

I have to think through everything we’ve just said before I can figure out what term she’s asking about.

Then I figure it out. “It’s, uh, nothing, sweetie.”

Arin belts out the next verse of her song. “
Sperm donor! Spe-ermm
!”

Yeah. Whoops. Again. “Maybe it’s time for us to mingle with the grown-ups.”

“Probably a good idea.” Genny turns to my ex. “You have beautiful children, Gwen. So honored to have gotten to meet them and you.”

“You too!”

I look down at where we’re linked as we walk. “You’re holding my hand. That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“I was playing my part as a date. That’s all.” She pulls her hand from mine with annoyance. “She was an old girlfriend, wasn’t she?”

“Wha-? How did you know?”

“It was a guess. The way you bantered. There was history in your subtext.”

“I’m over her,” I assure her. “
Way
over her. Have been for years.”

She smirks. “Awfully defensive, aren’t you?”

I stop walking, grab her hand and tug her into my arms. “I wasn’t being defensive,” I whisper, my mouth at her ear. “I just wanted to make it clear that there is only one woman on my mind these days, and it isn’t her.”

Where the fuck did that come from? They’re words I should never have thought, let alone uttered out loud.

At least they seem to earn me points because Genny closes her eyes, as though she’s taking in my words, soaking in the moment.

“You’re good at this whole pretend date thing,” she murmurs.

“Oh, I’m just getting started.” And then I bend to kiss her. For show, of course. No other reason at all.