Well Hung (20 page)

T
he ladder rests
against the bright white wall in our home. Natalie balances carefully on the top rung, hanging a sign. I suppose I could do this for her, but she insisted, and the woman really does love getting her hands on the tools.

She’s good with all of them, but she’s particularly good with one of mine, if you get my drift.

Anyway,
here’s the
ladder
. See what I did there? I didn’t leave you hanging. I promised a dirty ladder story, and I’m going to deliver.

She’s on the ladder because she knows I like this view. Who am I kidding? I love this view. Perched on the edge of the couch in our living room, I savor the sight in front of me—my Natalie, in a little pink skirt that swishes around her thighs.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“It’s
hard
to tear myself away.”

She laughs then raises the hammer and taps, taps, taps until the new sign is up on the wall. We have a matching one in our office. It says Hammer & Hammer Carpentry & Construction. We changed the name. Yes,
we
. Because it’s
ours
. Everything is ours.

I’ve learned you need to give a little in a relationship. Or, I should say, give a lot. Natalie was willing to give up her livelihood for me. I couldn’t let her do that. Instead, I found another solution. She stayed, and we run the business together as husband and wife. I still do the building; I’m the carpenter, after all. But she’s the magic. She’s the glue. She’s made this business thrive. And it’s hers as much as it’s mine. We own it together. Sometimes, she slings on a tool belt and helps finish a job, but we’ve expanded finally, and we have employees who are reliable and show up for work.

Natalie manages it all. She makes it happen every day. “I’ve always loved this job. I never thought of myself as just an assistant,” she’d said when I pitched her on my proposal after our official Vegas wedding.

“You’ve always been so much more. You’ve made everything at
our
company better.”

“And I’ll keep doing that. But I’m still teaching my classes at night,” she’d said.

“I would expect nothing less from the woman who can kick my ass.”

Now, she turns around, facing me, one hand holding onto the top rung as she shows me the sign—our business, our marriage,
us
. “How does it look?”

“Like it was meant to be. I love everything about it, especially the way those two names go together.”

She has my heart, my body, my business, my home. Sharing the business with her barely scratches the surface of all she has given me—this unconditional love. Oh, and obviously Natalie lives with me now, which means Josie’s looking for a roommate, but that’s a story for another time.

For now, I’ve got my woman to tend to. I walk over to the ladder, climb a step, push up her skirt, and pull her panties to the side.

I kiss her and lick her and taste her until she’s moaning and groaning, and sighing sexily.

That’s my cue to keep her safe. “C’mon. Take my hand,” I say softly, and I guide her down the ladder, scoop her up, and set her on the couch, where she spreads her legs, and I devour her sweetness.

Look, ladders are fun for foreplay, but when you’re into risky sex, you’ve got to know which risks to take. Can’t have my wife falling off a ladder because I make her come so hard.

And that’s precisely what I do as she goes wild on the couch against my mouth. Then I make love to her.

Afterward, she smiles woozily at me and says, “Should we go get ready for our wedding?”

Yeah, we’re
those
people. We’re the ones who got married in Vegas, came home, and threw another wedding party for our friends and family. We like marrying each other.

A lot.

So we’re going to do it all again. Truth be told, we’ll probably renew our vows next year, and the next and the next.

A
few months
later

O
nce upon a time
there was a man, there was a woman, and there were some wild speed bumps on the road to their happily-ever-after.

But we navigated them all.

Along the way, I discovered that trust isn’t about proof. It isn’t about getting fooled, or not getting fooled. It’s a choice. One you make with your heart. Natalie has mine, and I had to learn that it was safe and sound in her care. Always.

Her heart is safe with me, too, even though she does like to beat me up in her videos.

Her self-defense series has become quite popular online. New students have found her through them and have started taking the classes she teaches a few nights a week. That makes her happy, and when she’s happy, I’m happy, too.

She might have to cut back soon, though. Things are changing around here. Her belly is a little rounder.

No, it wasn’t an
oops
baby. It didn’t happen one drunken night.
Please.
My wife is a planner. And we planned this. In fact, the bun might very well have gone into her oven on our
third
wedding night. The one right here in New York.

The two of us are the first of our friends to get knocked up, but that fits us. We seem to have two speeds—either stalled or moving at sixty miles an hour. We’re not stalled anymore, so in this case we broke all the limits, and in several months, we’ll be a family.

Right now, though, I’m heading out with Natalie to the farmers’ market. We’re not shopping for asparagus or arugula. We’ve always liked it risky, and today we’re going to take our chances.

We’ve got a date behind the banana stand.

A
bby

Attraction is a funny thing. It’s chemical, right? At first it’s all snap, crackle, pop—a cocktail of desire. And what an intoxicating mix it is. It’s a rush, it’s a thrill . . . it’s pure exhilaration uncorked. It makes you giddy. It makes you feel like you can run a marathon and still scale a building even after the twenty-sixth mile is complete.

And I really hate running.

Attraction can turn ordinarily sensible men and women into single-minded hunters, silly fools, and sometimes into lucky lovers.

When the feeling is mutual, most of the time everyone is happy and they go about their merry business. No one hears about these couplings, because little gets in the way. Good for them, and tra-la-la-dee-dah.

But sometimes, attraction is unrequited, and sometimes we don’t even admit it exists. I’m about to vehemently deny it, as the other nannies and babysitters scoot closer on the bleachers and whisper.

Simon walks onto the deck at the pool where his daughter takes swim lessons. The reaction is predictable as clockwork. The redheaded sitter of the unruly twin girls fluffs her hair; the brunette with the cat eye glasses crosses her tanned, toned legs that go on forever; and the petite Australian nanny with her ponytail of silky black hair just gasps.

All eyes follow the man as he strides past the deep end, looking too gorgeous to be real.

“How do you manage working for him?” Ponytail Aussie whispers to me in a hushed breath.

“He’s easy to work for,” I say, though I know that’s not what she’s asking.

The real question comes next, landing in the chlorinated air.

“Seriously,” the leggy one says. I’m jealous of her. I’ll admit it. I’m a short girl, and I would love to borrow her legs for a night. I’d swap them out for my boobs, and that’s a more than fair trade, because what I lack in height, I make up for in the girls. “How do you work with all that hotness?” she continues, prodding. “If you looked up ‘hot single dad’ in the dictionary, you’d find his picture.”

Yeah.

He is.

He’s the prize in the available dad sweepstakes.

Because . . .

Six foot three. Broad shoulders. Flat stomach. Trim waist. Square jawline. Hint of stubble. Dark blond hair. Light blue eyes. And a smile that makes you melt into a puddle of lust.

Oh, and get this. He’s also a sharp dressed man, and that’s my weakness. Charcoal slacks, shiny shoes, and those tailored shirts that fit deliciously. You know, the kind where the fabric just slides into the waistband of his pants, and you can’t help but think
how is it your belly does a perfect imitation of a washboard, and can I please conduct some firmness tests on it? For the sake of science, of course.

When handsomeness was handed out, Simon Travers landed more than a few extra helpings. The man snagged someone else’s share, too. And another’s and another’s.

But that’s not all he’s got going on, and I’m dying to tell the other women that there’s more to him than meets the eye. So much more.

He’s sweet, kind, smart, funny, and good. So damn good. And, for a bonus prize, add in that he’s an amazing father. That’s some sexy kryptonite right there.

Only, if I tried to explain all those other traits, they’d
know
. They’d sniff me out in the snap of the fingers. They’d see the attraction written on my face, hear it in my words.

I can’t let on how I feel about Simon, because I’ve spent the last seven months taking care of his adorable five-year-old daughter. And I’ve spent the last six months, three weeks, and four days keeping the cat of all that attraction tucked in a neat, sealed, airtight bag.

(
That’s a metaphor, obviously. No cats were harmed in the telling of this tale.)

And for the math wizards of the world, that means it took me three days on the clock to like the guy.

Fine, I’ll admit that’s hardly any time at all, but he’s just that likeable.

That also means I spend all my working days fighting this need to fling myself at him. It’s not as though he’s ever given me a sign that he’s interested, so call this crush unrequited. I’ve learned to live with it. I’ve come to accept it, the same way you accept having a spray of freckles across your nose, or curly hair that’ll never straighten. It’s a fact of my existence now, and like the freckles and the curls, I deal with it when I arrive at work, when I leave work, and when I meet him at various places in the city, including here.

In her dolphin-decorated one-piece, Simon’s daughter, Hayden, splashes around the shallow end of the pool with the other kids and the swim instructor. When she surfaces, she pushes her goggles up her face and spots her hero. The kid beams, her smile as wide as the sky as she shouts, “Daddy! Come see me dive!”

“On my way!” Turning the corner at the deep end, he walks past, waving as we watch the kids, and, let’s be honest, ogle him.

His eyes meet mine next. “Hey, Abby,” he says, with an easy grin.

My pulse speeds up, and I wave back. But I don’t blush. I don’t stammer. See? I live with this attraction, and I’ve mastered the art of self-control, revealing nothing as we hand-off the kid here at the pool today. “Hey there.”

He nods at his adoring fans. “Hello, ladies.”

That’s all it takes. Two words from the hottest guy around, and the hearts, they’re all aflutter as they wave back. He walks on by, crouching at the edge of the pool to say hi to his little girl and drop a quick kiss on her forehead.

Yup, his love for his girl makes him even hotter.

Leggy Lady leans in, pats my shoulder, and deadpans, “Nope. I’m not jealous of you whatsoever. Not one bit. Not at all.”

I shake my head, trying to dismiss the idea. “The only thing to be jealous about is that I’m two months away from paying off my college loans,” I say with a wry smile.

She narrows her eyes. “Now I really hate you.”

As I steal a glance at Simon,
hate
is the farthest word from my mind. The four-letter word that’s now front and center is
work.

Tomorrow night, he’ll be working late. Which means I can snag a few minutes when he comes home just with him. I’ve learned to treasure those moments here and there when I get to talk to him, to know him, to learn more about him. The times when it’s only us.

That’s the funniest thing of all about attraction. It can be so torturous, but you can look forward to it so much. It’s an exquisite kind of torment.

It can drive you in everything, including how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow night.

S
imon

“
L
ooks
like squirrel is on the dinner menu,” Abby calls to me as I leave the bedroom, looping a wine-red tie around my neck.

“I mentioned he was an inventive chef, but I’m not sure he’s
that
inventive,” I tease as I round the corner into the kitchen. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I told you it’s a Brazilian restaurant I’m trying to back. Not a rodent one.”

She shakes her head, her honey-colored hair curling over her shoulders. It’s long and shimmery; sometimes she wears it in a French braid, sometimes in a twisty thing, sometimes in a ponytail, and sometimes down. Not that I’m paying close attention to her hair. I couldn’t tell you she wore it pinned up earlier today when she’d first arrived at my home, and all I could think about was her neck and how her skin might taste if I brushed my lips along the column of her throat. Or that she had it pulled back in a loose ponytail yesterday, making her look younger and even prettier. Or how the day before that, she ran a hand through her wild, wavy hair and I couldn’t help but wonder how those soft strands felt to touch.

No, I don’t notice every little detail. Not at all.

“I’m talking about the eagles. You already forgot about the eagles?” She points to the screen of her iPad as I join her at the kitchen counter, adjusting the silk knot of my tie.

“I could never forget the eagles,” I say, and it’s true. I’ve checked them out a couple of times during the last few days, though Abby’s done most of the eagle viewing. She’s a tiny bit obsessed with nature documentaries. I don’t mean obsessed in a bad way. They’re her thing, and so they’ve become Hayden’s thing, since Abby spends so much time with her, taking care of her when I work. Last week, Abby discovered a webcam the American Bald Eagle Association had focused on a pair of bald eagle mates in a nest high up in a poplar tree in the National Arboretum in Washington D.C. Two baby eagles hatched a few days ago, and Abby and Hayden have been logging in regularly, watching the mom as she sits on the tiny birds, as she grooms them, and as she feeds them.

“Mr. Eagle usually brings fish deliveries, but tonight he brought Mrs. Eagle a squirrel,” Abby says, her amber eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Must be a special night. Because you know the saying?”

“Which one is that?”

“Nothing says true love like a squirrel.”

“It’s the complete and absolute proof of his devotion,” she says with a laugh. “I took a screenshot to show Hayden in the morning.”

I train my eyes on the tablet to find a huge bald eagle feeding her two babies. My shoulder is next to Abby’s, a mere sliver of space between us. No, this is not the fulfillment of all my dreams about Abby, but I can’t deny that being this near to her is borderline arousing. Could be because it’s been a while. Could be because she smells like vanilla and sunshine. But it could also be because I’ve been wildly in lust with her for precisely seven months longer than I should.

It was kind of a first-day thing for me. Wish I could say otherwise, but that’s the truth. Insta-lust. Trouble is, it’s morphed into a helluva lot more than lust in all this time she’s spent in my home, with my family, with my kid.

Admiration. Fondness. The real deal.

It’s turned into exactly what I cannot have.

T
HE SEXY
ONE
releases in October!

I
’ve been told
I have quite a gift.

H
ey
, I don’t just mean in my pants. I’ve got a big brain too, and a huge heart of gold. And I like to use all my gifts to the fullest, the package included. Life is smooth sailing....

U
ntil I find
myself stuck between a rock and a sexy roommate, which makes for one very hard…place.

B
ecause scoring
an apartment in this city is harder than finding true love. So even if I have to shack up with my buddy’s smoking hot and incredibly amazing little sister, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

I
can resist Josie
. I’m disciplined, I’m focused, and I keep my hands to myself, even in the mere five-hundred square feet we share. Until the one night she insists on sliding under the covers with me. It’ll help her sleep after what happened that day, she says.

S
urprise
—neither one of us sleeps.

A
nd even though
we agree to return to roomies-without-benefits, I quickly realize I want more than someone to split the utilities with. Now all I want is to spend every night—and every day—with my gorgeous roommate.

D
id
I mention she’s also one of my best friends? That she’s brilliant, beautiful and a total firecracker? Guess that makes her the full package too.

W
hat’s
a man stuck in a hard place to do?

F
ULL PACKAGE
Prologue

L
et’s say
, for the sake of argument, that you’re considering living with a woman you want to screw.