down.”
“I’ll walk you to do the door.” I follow him and close it behind him, and my hand lingers on the doorknob.
He’s not a complete jerk. He was actually very nice tonight, and Carrie likes him.
Oh, dear God, Phoebe. You are not thinking about going out with this meathead, are you? No, I am not doing this.
I argue with myself for half a minute before I go to help Carrie with the dishes. She keeps smiling at me like she knows something. I tell myself it’s my imagination and she’s not in cahoots with him, trying to get me to go on a date. She wouldn’t betray me that way, my own flesh and blood.
Yeah, she keeps smiling at me. Maybe she’s just excited that her hero cooked her dinner. She’s a kid, after all. I refuse to believe she even knows what dating means.
Once we’re done, I give her a pat on the back and send her upstairs to do her homework and get ready for bed.
I am so tired. I collapse on the bed and lay there for a while, trying to stay awake in case she needs me for something. After she brushes her teeth, she pops her head in my room.
“Goodnight, Mom.”
“Night, honey.” I yawn.
Her light clicks off, and I rise, turn mine off, and flop on the bed in my clothes. Another day, another ten tickets. Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t run out of speeders yet. I swear I’ve tagged several people more than once, yet they go tearing through town as though it’s not here every time.
I’m starting to hate marking my life by the number of tickets I’ve written. Is this all there is?
In the dark, I slip off the bed and stand. I do need to change my--
Holy crap, he’s naked.
I feel dirty just for looking, but I end up peering through my drapes across the gap between our houses to were Alexander has just taken a shower and is walking around his bedroom nude except for a towel.
My God, it’s better than the poster. I think he’s bigger than when they took that photo, and he’s just as rock hard and sculpted, every visible inch of him perfect.
Solid muscles ripple under his bronzed skin as he moves, and he has more abs than a person really should, with a pronounced Adonis belt and wide back that makes him like a Greek statue. His chest is huge, his arms as thick as a normal man’s legs, and somehow he’s all proportional, strikingly handsome. If it weren’t for a bend in his nose where it’s been broken, he’d look like an underwear model, but scaled up to enormous height and mass.
Then he takes off his towel.
Oh my God, his ass, I can’t stop staring. He’s going to turn around any second. He has to. He turns, tossing the towel on the bed.
I snap my head away and close the drapes before I get a look at the full monty. No, Phoebe, you are not going to watch him through his window and drool over his dick. Seeing him naked is not going to make me accept his invitation to a dinner date.
Even if I did, I would not sleep with him. Period. I’m permanently single, all that matters is my daughter.
Why am I so damn horny? I swear I started walking toward my door, like I was going to his house, before I caught myself.
Swallowing hard to wet my dry throat, I step to the window and spread the curtains open just a little. Now he’s lying on the bed in lounge pants, still stripped to the waist.
Reading?
I blink a few times. The book is absurdly tiny in his hands, but the sight of him reading is a shock in and of itself. I never pictured a football player with his nose in a book.
Sort of like how no one pictures a short stack like you being a cop, huh, Phoebe?
He’s very inviting to look at. If he wasn’t such a jerk, it would be nice to lie next to him. Maybe tuck up in the crook of his arm and read a book of my own. I still haven’t finished that Vanessa Waltz novel I was trying to read. That would be nice.
Not with him, just generally.
I’m not thinking about lying next to him. I’m not thinking about sitting up and running my hands over his chest. I’m not thinking
“I’ll walk you to do the door.” I follow him and close it behind him, and my hand lingers on the doorknob.
He’s not a complete jerk. He was actually very nice tonight, and Carrie likes him.
Oh, dear God, Phoebe. You are not thinking about going out with this meathead, are you? No, I am not doing this.
I argue with myself for half a minute before I go to help Carrie with the dishes. She keeps smiling at me like she knows something. I tell myself it’s my imagination and she’s not in cahoots with him, trying to get me to go on a date. She wouldn’t betray me that way, my own flesh and blood.
Yeah, she keeps smiling at me. Maybe she’s just excited that her hero cooked her dinner. She’s a kid, after all. I refuse to believe she even knows what dating means.
Once we’re done, I give her a pat on the back and send her upstairs to do her homework and get ready for bed.
I am so tired. I collapse on the bed and lay there for a while, trying to stay awake in case she needs me for something. After she brushes her teeth, she pops her head in my room.
“Goodnight, Mom.”
“Night, honey.” I yawn.
Her light clicks off, and I rise, turn mine off, and flop on the bed in my clothes. Another day, another ten tickets. Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t run out of speeders yet. I swear I’ve tagged several people more than once, yet they go tearing through town as though it’s not here every time.
I’m starting to hate marking my life by the number of tickets I’ve written. Is this all there is?
In the dark, I slip off the bed and stand. I do need to change my--
Holy crap, he’s naked.
I feel dirty just for looking, but I end up peering through my drapes across the gap between our houses to were Alexander has just taken a shower and is walking around his bedroom nude except for a towel.
My God, it’s better than the poster. I think he’s bigger than when they took that photo, and he’s just as rock hard and sculpted, every visible inch of him perfect.
Solid muscles ripple under his bronzed skin as he moves, and he has more abs than a person really should, with a pronounced Adonis belt and wide back that makes him like a Greek statue. His chest is huge, his arms as thick as a normal man’s legs, and somehow he’s all proportional, strikingly handsome. If it weren’t for a bend in his nose where it’s been broken, he’d look like an underwear model, but scaled up to enormous height and mass.
Then he takes off his towel.
Oh my God, his ass, I can’t stop staring. He’s going to turn around any second. He has to. He turns, tossing the towel on the bed.
I snap my head away and close the drapes before I get a look at the full monty. No, Phoebe, you are not going to watch him through his window and drool over his dick. Seeing him naked is not going to make me accept his invitation to a dinner date.
Even if I did, I would not sleep with him. Period. I’m permanently single, all that matters is my daughter.
Why am I so damn horny? I swear I started walking toward my door, like I was going to his house, before I caught myself.
Swallowing hard to wet my dry throat, I step to the window and spread the curtains open just a little. Now he’s lying on the bed in lounge pants, still stripped to the waist.
Reading?
I blink a few times. The book is absurdly tiny in his hands, but the sight of him reading is a shock in and of itself. I never pictured a football player with his nose in a book.
Sort of like how no one pictures a short stack like you being a cop, huh, Phoebe?
He’s very inviting to look at. If he wasn’t such a jerk, it would be nice to lie next to him. Maybe tuck up in the crook of his arm and read a book of my own. I still haven’t finished that Vanessa Waltz novel I was trying to read. That would be nice.
Not with him, just generally.
I’m not thinking about lying next to him. I’m not thinking about sitting up and running my hands over his chest. I’m not thinking
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