Page 50 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“You were not. You were staring at me every chance you got.”
“Like you haven’t been doing the same?” I counter.
He shrugs. “Sure. But you’re wearing a dress that basically screams to be ripped off. So I can’t be held responsible for staring at your tits, which are, to be fair, all but out there.”
“I didn’t realize it would be a problem for you.”
“Oh, it’s definitely not a problem.” His smooth voice is deep, feral purr.
Nearly everyone is sitting down, at this point, which provides me with an exit. “Time to eat.” I push past him, holding my breath so I don’t accidentally inhale his scent, closing my eyes so I’m not tempted to turn them up to his.
I feel him watching me as I make my way outside and take a place at the picnic table—on the very end, with Ella beside me, Ryder beside her, and Jesse and Imogen across from me; the only other open spot at the table is on the other side and at the other end…far, far from me.
The meal is…honestly, one of the most relaxed, convivial, and enjoyable of my life. The food is plentiful and delicious, the drinks flow freely—but not to excess, as everyone seems to be pacing themselves well, at least partially out of respect for our two youngest members. The conversation is easy, with friendly ribbing between the guys, and rolled eyes between the women, and constant chatter from the girls.
When the meal is finally over, James and Franco set to work building a bonfire in the fire pit at the back of the yard, near the downed tree and the pile of split wood, which is now much larger thanks to Franco. Within a few minutes, they have a roaring blaze flickering and dancing in the boulder-lined fire pit, and the rest of us are dragging deck chairs and loungers and kitchen stools across the yard. James plops down on the massive, gnarled, flat-topped stump of the downed tree, which seems to be his personal spot—the fire pit, indeed, appears to have been put in place specifically so he could sit on the stump and poke at the fire. Franco drags over a section of the tree, flips it on end, and sits on it next to James, and Ella crawls up onto his lap. Franco, without missing a beat, hauls her up and settles her in place; a familiar dance for them, it seems.
My heart is not melting. Nope, it sure isn’t. NOPE NOPE NOPE.
Nina drags a chair to sit by her dad, resting her head against his arm. Gradually, everyone finds a spot, and the fire grows brighter as the evening grows darker and the stars start to pop and prickle against the blackening velvet sky, and there’s a drowsy, contented wash of cross chatter.
Nina, apropos of nothing, hops up, runs back into the house and reappears after a moment, dragging two hardback guitar cases. They’re almost too big for her skinny frame to carry, but she manages to haul them across the yard to the fire pit. She plops one case at her dad’s feet, and the other at Jesse’s.
“I’m bored!” she announces. “Papa and Uncle Jesse should play some tunes!”
James rumbles wordlessly. “I haven’t touched that in years, sweetie.”
“Yes, you have,” Nina argues. “I heard you playing it in your room the other night. You were playing super quiet like you didn’t want me to hear, but I heard because I can’t sleep sometimes. You were playing that one song you like to play a lot.”
James sighs, nudging the case with the toe of his boot. “That’s different. Nobody wants to hear that.”
Nova, sitting next to him, bumps him with her shoulder. “I don’t know if I’d say that’s true.”
“It’s just an old sad song I play when I’m bored,” James says, staring at the guitar case.
“You mean when you’re sad because you miss Mama.” Nina says this quietly, gazing somewhat nervously at him from lowered lashes.
“Nina,” James growls, the rumble a clear and dire warning.
“What? It’s true! I’m not saying anything private! I just wanna hear you play again. It’s been so long and it’s a perfect night for it and you don’t have to play that song. Uncle Jesse can pick and you can play along like you guys used to.”
Jesse unclasps the guitar case, flips it open, and pulls out a beautiful acoustic guitar. He settles it on his lap with easy familiarity, plucks the strings one by one, and adjusts the tuning. “I’m game if you are, buddy,” he says to James.
James sighs again, a deep, gusting breath of resignation. “Fine. A couple songs. But if you pull this mess again, girly, you’re in trouble.”
Nina claps happily and plops down in her chair, settles her chin in her hands, and watches, eyes sparkling in the firelight, as James tunes his own guitar. Jesse is already noodling, strumming a chord here and there, plucking out little riffs, humming under his breath—finding the tune, I suppose. I glance at Imogen, curious.
