Page 18 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
I dread the coming of the weekend, and I also can’t wait.
I dread it because Paul gets Nate every other weekend, and I worry incessantly—Paul’s extreme mood swings and unpredictability never resulted in any court action that would revoke visitation privileges. While Nate is at Paul’s apartment I don’t get much sleep for forty-eight hours, and I spend most of the time panicking, fraught with anxiety. Paul does love Nate; I can’t and won’t take that away from him. They have fun together, and Nate rarely comes back upset or off-kilter…no more than any nine-year-old in a fractured family, at least.
I think.
I’m also looking forward to this weekend, because I’ll get to see Ryder.
Thursday finally arrives and Nate and I have dinner and I hear all about a new friend he made at school. Once dinner is over, we clear up and Nate watches an hour of TV while I read, and then he’s off to bed.
It’s quiet.
Normally, this is one of my favorite parts of the day, when the house is quiet and I can do whatever I want. Which, usually, just means taking off my pants and bra, having a snack, and bingeing on Netflix in my room.
Lately, though, my mind has been wandering.
I get as far as taking off my pants and bra, and then some stupid, impetuous, horny little voice inside me starts whispering for me to send Ryder another risqué selfie. I ignored the voice all week and focused on other things: a docuseries I’ve been meaning to watch; emptying out the fridge, cleaning it, and throwing away moldy leftovers and expired condiments; sorting my clothes and organizing them by season and color, and getting rid of stuff I haven’t worn in at least a year; deep cleaning the baseboards; scrubbing around the base of the toilets because Nate’s aim is perpetually terrible.
Tonight, though, I can’t think of a single project to distract myself.
I could dust, and go underneath everything instead of around like I usually do. Or I could polish my collection of leather boots. Or…um…
I groan out loud, flopping backward onto my bed, phone clutched in my hand, telling myself NOT to text Ryder a picture of my boobs.
It’s stupid. It’s immature. It’s indecent.
But sexy and thrilling…
I’m a mother.
But not a nun…
It’d be giving something away when I should make him work for it…
Except it’s just a photograph…
He might share it with the guys, or post it online.
No way would Ryder do something like that…
My phone chirps just then.
Ryder: WYD?
Me: What does that mean?
Ryder: What you doing. I learned it from one of the apprentices at the job I’m contracting for.
Me: You don’t work for James?
Ryder: I do, yes. He’s my primary employer. But he doesn’t always have work for me, so I take jobs as an independent contractor to fill in the gaps.
Ryder: So. WYD?
Me: Fighting with myself.
Ryder: LOL. About what, and who’s winning?
Me: I probably shouldn’t tell you.
Ryder, with a smirking, mischievous, emoji: Oh, really? Well, in that case, you HAVE to tell me.
I groan again. Don’t.
Laurel…don’t. DO NOT.
Me: it was kinda fun sending you those pix the other night. I was…um…thinking about sending another one.
Ryder: I think that’s a fucking fantastic idea. Are you wearing the kitty jammies again?
I look down at myself—pink knee-high socks with sloths holding a beer stein, and the top I’d worn to work, sans bra; the top was a basic white silk button-down, and I had it unbuttoned quite a ways down.
I hold the phone above me, but the angle isn’t quite right—it takes some maneuvering so the photo shows my face, torso, and legs. I take the photo and do a little editing to get rid of the bruise on my thigh from where I’d banged my leg against the counter the other day, and then get ready to send it.
And then I have a better idea.
I take another photo, this one of just my legs with my funny pink drunk sloth socks and I send that one first.
Ryder: OMG! Those socks!
Ryder: Are you wearing any pants? Please tell me you’re not wearing any pants.
Me: Who wears pants at home alone after 10pm?
Ryder: Not me, that’s for damn sure.
He accompanied this with a photo of himself in his kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts. He’s in a goofy pose, one knee drawn up with a finger over his pursed lips, a saucy grin on his face—it’s a comical parody of a supposedly sexy pose you’d see on Instagram.
I laugh out loud.
Me: I’m pretty sure gym shorts count as pants.
Immediately, he sends another photo of himself in that same pose, except his shorts are around his ankles and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of tight gray boxer briefs that do nothing to hide the…um…scope…of his endowment.
Ryder: Better?
Me, with a wide-eyed in surprise emoji: Yeah…better is one word for it.
