He waves a hand. “Oh, he wouldn’t care even if you’d said that to his face. He’d think it was funny.” Once in the kitchen, his demeanor shifts to business. “So, your window.”
“So, my window,” I echo. “You found something that will fit?”
He tips his head side to side. “Um, sort of?” He laughs self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, no, not really.”
I wrinkle my brows at him. “I’m confused. I thought you said you have a window.”
He nods. “Oh, I do. I have a window. I have the best, most amazing, most beautiful window ever, and it will take this kitchen to eleven out of ten.” He shrugs. “It just…doesn’t fit—yet. I’ll have to do some retrofitting.”
“Meaning?”
He holds up an index finger. “Let me go grab it and show you. Maybe it’ll make more sense then.”
He’s gone before I can respond, jogging out the front door to his truck, leaving my front door wide open. He wrestles a truly mammoth window out of the bed of his pickup and carries it inside to the kitchen, setting it on the sink to show me roughly what it will look like once it’s installed.
I gape at him, and then at the window. “That thing is enormous, Jesse.”
He grins at me. “Sure as hell is.”
“There’s no way something that big will fit in my tiny little space.”
His grin widens, and an eyebrow quirks up. “It will if you’re as good at fitting big things into little spaces as I am.”
My cheeks flame, my gut spins, and my thighs clench. “That’s—that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s not?”
“No!” I protest. “I was talking about the window.”
He just smirks at me, his expression teasing and lascivious at once. “So was I. What were you talking about?”
I suck in a deep breath and try to compose myself. “Nothing. Never mind.” I move closer to the window he’s holding in place for me. “Seriously, though. I don’t understand your plan. What kind of window is this?”
“It’s a casement window,” Jesse explains, pointing at a little rotating handle-and-knob near the base of the window. “Turn that clockwise.”
I rotate the knob clockwise and the entire window panel opens outward; I rotate counter-clockwise and the window closes again. “The whole thing opens?”
He grins at me. “Yep. This will let in a whole bunch of airflow. Plus, this window is seriously energy efficient.” He sets the window flat on the floor to one side and withdraws a tape measure from his tool belt.
He extends it a few feet and measures the frame of the window, and then lays that measurement against the space over my sink between the cabinets. From what I can tell, the window will just barely fit. Maybe.
“It looks like it’ll be a close fit,” I say.
He nods. “There’ll be just enough room to put in the window and fit some molding around it. I’ll have to open the space up almost all the way though.” He eyes me. “It’ll be a pretty major upgrade. This window is top of the line.”
“I can’t afford top of the line, Jesse.”
He just winks and clicks his tongue. “Got you covered, sweetheart. James is doing a custom build in the neighborhood, a few streets over, and the folks we’re building it for wanted all these sweet casement windows throughout the whole house, right? Well, we measure and count and order them all, get them in, install most of them, and the wife is like, um hold up, I want this whole wall to open so our backyard is indoor-outdoor. Cool, right? Well, she’s already paid for the windows and doesn’t want them anymore. James told her we couldn’t refund her the price of the windows and she just waved it off. They’re loaded, and apparently don’t really care, so James told us to make use of them if we could. So, I snagged one. And since I’m not paying for it, neither are you. One top-of-the-line casement window for free. Win-win.”
“What if she changes her mind again?” I ask. “It would be a nightmare if you installed this and then she wanted it back.”
He waves a hand. “Nah. We’re already almost done building the new patio door area, and she loves it.”
“If you’re sure this is on the up-and-up, then that would be pretty exciting. I do love this window.”
He frowns at me for the first time. “Don’t let the tattoos fool you, Imogen. I take my job seriously, and I’d never do anything dishonest.”
“Oh god, no, Jesse—it’s not like that. I didn’t mean it like that.” I rest a hand on his forearm, on the inked skin. “I like your tattoos.”
He only stares at me for a long moment, scrutinizing. “People tend to be kinda judgy sometimes.”
“Like being a forty-year-old divorcée with no kids?”
He nods. “Yeah, maybe something like that.” He leaves the window on the floor and goes out into my living room. There are two windows in my living room, facing each other. He eyes me inquisitively. “Can I take a quick peek at your bedroom window?”
I blush, for some reason. “Um. Sure?” I lead him up the stairs to my room, and then promptly shove him backward out of the room. “Just—just give me a second. It’s—um…just—just hold on.”
He laughs. “What, you got something hidden in there?”
“Yeah, a mess.” I hold up a hand. “Just let me pick up a few things, okay?”
He laughs. “You do realize I’ve seen women’s underwear before, don’t you? I’m just going to look at your window real quick.”
I squeeze into my room. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve seen tons of underwear. You probably have a collection or something. But you haven’t seen mine, and I intend to keep it that way.”
His smirk makes my core heat. “I haven’t seen yours…yet.”
“Nor will you.”
“We’ll see.” His smirk is at once teasing and cocky, which does things to me.
I shut the door between us and scurry around my room picking up piles of dirty underwear, and scrubs, and jeans with one leg inside out, and T-shirts, and bras hanging off my bedposts and closet knobs, shoving it all into a laundry basket which I then shove into my closet, slamming the door shut. Finally, with my bedroom something close to neat and not embarrassing, I let Jesse in.
He goes to my window and measures it, and the space around it, and then glances at me. “So there were more windows she didn’t want and, as of this morning, none of the other guys had a use for them. As far as I know, they’re all still available. I could probably cut you a deal on the labor and install all of them for you.”
“If it’s three hundred minimum to install one window, that’d be more than I have to get done. And, as sad as it is, I don’t have that to spend right now.” I shrug. “I’d love a bunch of beautiful new casement windows, trust me, I really would. I just…things are tight at the moment.”
He nods. “Well, let me at least get this one in, see how long it will take. Maybe we can work something out.”
He turns to leave, and pauses at the tiny vanity I have up against the wall beside my bed—it’s an antique I rescued from a garage sale, a beautiful piece I’ve been meaning to strip and repaint. And there’s a bra hanging off the corner of the chair. Jesse hooks a fingertip under the strap and lifts the undergarment up. Embarrassingly, it’s a plain white utilitarian one, and not one of my fancy lacy lingerie numbers I sometimes wear when I need to feel secretly sexy.
“Missed one,” he says, with a hot, wicked grin.
I snatch it from him and toss it under my bed. “Don’t be a pervert.”
He just laughs. “It’s not like I sniffed it, Imogen. Relax. I’m teasing.”
I’m blushing again—I’m a forty-year-old woman, long past the blushing stage—or so I’d thought. “You tease a lot.”
“I like to have fun,” he says, exiting the room. “Does it bother you?”
“No, it doesn’t bother me,” I say. “I just…I don’t come from a teasing sort of background.”
“Well, you should try it sometime. It’s liberating.” He heads down the stairs.
“Point is, don’t take anything I say too seriously, unless it’s about my work.”
“So I should just ignore all the innuendos you keep throwing my way?” I ask, following him downstairs.
He pauses at the landing, his hand on the front door. “I mean, yeah, you could ignore them if you want.” He turns back to tower over me, standing just a little too close for innocence. “But where’s the fun in that?”
He’s out the door, then, leaving me smelling his scent in the air and feeling his lingering body heat and seeing his deep brown eyes burning with promise and intent.
Oh my.
This is definitely becoming a thing.
A dangerous, problematic thing I’m simply not ready for.
I shake away the strange, powerful stirrings I feel in my gut—and further south—as I head upstairs to change out of my scrubs.
Or at least I try to shake away the stirrings. I swear, I try. But, as I strip out of my scrubs and toss them into the laundry basket, I can almost feel his presence in my room. He leaves his clean, delicious, masculine scent everywhere he goes, and that scent has a way of burrowing into my awareness, into my gut—and into my whole being. I’m in trouble.
I hear the sound of a saw screeching, so I know he’s occupied in the kitchen; I traipse naked from my bedroom into the bathroom, which isn’t en suite. I crank the shower on and pull my hair out of the tight bun I wear at work, and then examine myself critically in the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door.
My hair is brown—almost auburn if the sun hits it just right, but usually a deep, rich, brunette—and loose like this it hangs past my shoulders in thick, shimmery waves. My eyes are green—the shade of grass in the summer sun. I’m five-seven, and tend to be on the curvy side. No reason to mention my weight, but let’s just say most of it sits on my bust and hips, and I’ll admit since the divorce I haven’t been as faithful about the gym as I used to be, so things aren’t as tight as I once prided myself on. I have naturally tan skin and since I have a ten-foot-high privacy fence around the backyard, I’ve been known to indulge in some nude sunbathing to darken the tan a little, but mostly because nude sunbathing feels indulgent and luxurious and a little naughty, and I need to feel that way. Especially after Nicholas stopped paying attention to me, and even more so now that I’m alone.
My breasts aren’t enormous, not like those saline-filled melons Nicholas’s secretary carries around on her chest—flaunting them with every movement and accentuating them with inappropriately low-cut tops, which is most of the reason Nicholas is such a popular figure with the kids at his school, primarily the boys…
Anyway. My breasts? I cup them, lift them, let them fall, prop them up, let them sway, turn this way and that to examine them from different angles. If I’m fitting for comfort, I’m a D-cup, but if I want to prop these puppies up for maximum effect, I’d do a C, and I’d spill out of them. The number around is slowly increasing, again due to the effects of the divorce. They’re still pretty perky, though, I must say. I admire them in the mirror, playing with them. Smooth and perky, still in defiance of gravity despite the fact that I’m forty. They have some decent bounce to them, too.
I run my hands down my waist to my hips, and then turn to the side to check out the rear view. A little more juice back there than there used to be. I used to have a tight little ass, and I kept it that way with regular workouts that tended to feature a lot of leg and butt focus. These days, there are a few dimples back there, and on my thighs…and I have some stretch marks. Put on some Spanx and a tight dress, though? I can still work it.
Between my thighs? I’d have to say things have stayed nice and tight in that area. No kids, so…you know. I avoid that line of thought, though. I could use a trim, probably. I’ve been alone or effectively alone for nearly two years now, so the landscaping could use some updating, you could say. No one’s seeing that, so what reason is there to spend a lot of time on upkeep?
Time to take care of that.
I step into the shower and go through the motions of washing and conditioning my hair, washing my body, and then I shave my legs. And use my trimmer for the first time in…well, a while…to prune the shrubbery, so to speak. And by prune, I mean all but shave.
Just because it’s time, though.
It has nothing to do with the man downstairs.
I have no reason to think he’d ever be getting a peek at my shrubbery, or any other part of me.
None at all.
He’s here to fix my window.
That’s it.
It can’t hurt to daydream, though, right? A girl has needs, after all. Even childless, forty-year-old divorcées—especially childless forty-year-old divorcées.
Clean, shaved, and trimmed, I dry off and wrap a towel around my hair and another around my body, and dart back into my room. I hear noises in the kitchen, so I know Jesse is still where he’s supposed to be.
Instead of getting dressed, though, I perch on the edge of my bed, unwrap my hair from the towel, and idly pat and squeeze it with the towel, letting my mind wander to the sexy hunk of man downstairs.
What would he do if I went down there like this, in my towel? Would he look at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes? As if he couldn’t take his eyes off me? Would he be tempted to rip the towel off? Where would he look first? What would he touch first?
A man like Jesse? I imagine him to be a tits guy. His big strong callused hands would go to my breasts first. Cup them, thumbs brushing over my nipples. He’d probably tease me with kisses, never quite putting his mouth where I want it, not until I was crazy with need.
Which I am, right now.
He’d make quick work of the towel. After paying long, lavish attention to my breasts, his attention would finally wander south. As do my fingers, thinking about him.
God, I shouldn’t.
But I can’t help it, and a girl has to get her relief where she can find it, right?
It’s a matter of seconds before I’m wondering what he could do with his mouth besides tease me verbally, and while I imagine that, I find my trusty friend Miss Clitoral Stimulator and bring myself to release. I have to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep quiet, only remembering at the last second that the very man I’m thinking naughty thoughts about is downstairs, and that these floors and walls are thin.
When I can breathe normally again, I wash and put away my friend. I run a brush through my damp hair, and put on a little lip gloss.
But now I have a problem. If I were home by myself in this heat I would slip on my favorite summer lounging outfit: a tiny pair of bikini bottoms and my Bulls tank top that my tits don’t quite fit into. But that might be a bit much under the circumstances. I think for a moment and come up with something that will be cool, but a little less overt: my old thin red cotton shorts that are short but not too skanky, and the Bulls tank top, no bra.
I hesitate at the door of my room, insecurities bubbling inside me.
I should put on underwear.
And makeup.
And do my hair.
Forget underwear—I should put on Spanx.
I shouldn’t let this man I don’t know from Adam—this hot, sexy, funny man I’m super attracted to—see me like this.
I rarely wore something like this around Nicholas, and I was married to the man for ten years.
Anyway, that’s old news.
This outfit was my little secret. Well, one of my little secrets. My other was that I read erotic romance and pretended I was the heroine, and daydreamed more frequently than I liked to admit about plot lines from those stories happening to me—a secret I’d indulged in even when married, because Nicholas had stopped even trying to fulfill me after the third year of our marriage, and had started cheating by the fourth or fifth year, I think.
I shake myself. Why am I thinking about stupid asshole Nicholas? I’m done with the bastard. Let him have his silly secretary and her fake tits and annoying giggle. Let her have him—god knows I got littl
e enough use out of him even when we were married.
Downstairs is a sexy man who seems, despite all odds, to be interested in me. Attracted to me to at least some degree. Enough that he flirts with me and offers either thinly veiled or open insinuations and innuendos.
A man who would be perfectly at home as the hero of one of my romance novels.
So.
Am I going to go down there dressed like this?
Yep.
You bet I am. And I’m going to pretend with all my heart that I’m not terrified out of my mind, that I’m not intensely self-conscious about the size and sag of my ass, of the fact that even though they’re relatively perky still, my tits are definitely showing signs of gravity—swaying a lot closer to my navel than they used to. I’m going to act like I traipse around in this outfit all the time, regardless of who’s around.
I’m going to make myself some dinner, and watch Jesse work, and I’m going to flirt back with him, and pretend I have the courage to do more than flirt.
That’s a joke. I definitely don’t have the courage to do more than flirt.
But I can do that much at least, right?
4
I swallow my nerves and summon my courage. My knees shake as I descend the stairs, and butterflies flutter wildly in my stomach. I pause on the bottom of the stairs, just before I turn the corner and become visible from the kitchen.
“I’m crazy,” I whisper to myself. “This is crazy. I should go put real clothes on.”
But I don’t.
Why?
Some urge, some instinct, some surge of daring. I don’t know. I don’t know what I hope to accomplish. If nothing else, perhaps I’ll feel brave. At worst, foolish.
No, at worst he’ll take one look at me and show zero interest—actually, the worst would be for him to show disgust or disapproval, and then I’d be crushed.
But this is nuts, though. I mean, the first time a man shows even the slightest hint of interest in me, I’m prancing around my house in front of him in a skimpy outfit, hoping for confirmation that a man can still find me even remotely attractive.