Page 23 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
Nate hugs me back. “Love you. You be good,” he says, winking obviously and mischievously.
And then he scampers off, shouting for Paul’s enormous bullmastiff, Arnie. The first thing Paul did when we separated was to get the biggest dog he could find. Nate adores Arnie, and he’s always begging me for a dog of our own. So far, I’ve resisted. But after Nate’s latest revelations, Mom Guilt has me reconsidering.
I give Paul a short, small smile, and then head for my car.
“You look really good, by the way, Laurel,” Paul says.
I blink at him. “Um. Thanks.”
“I made pasta—there’s plenty extra. You could stay if you wanted.”
I sigh, desperately searching for a way out of this with minimal awkwardness. “Thanks, Paul, I…” I go for partial honesty. “I can’t. I have plans.”
“A date?”
I suppress a groan. “Paul, come on. I just…I have to go, okay?”
He gives me a look that’s somewhere between a smirk and a snarl. “You know, I think you look better now than you did when we were together.”
“I’m not sure how to respond to that, Paul.” I open my car door. “I have to go. I’ll see you Sunday at four, okay?”
He waves, and it’s a quintessential Paul gesture—not quite a dismissal, but not quite a regular goodbye either. Passive aggressive, hard to read, and irritatingly vague. If Paul has a middle ground between manic and depressive, this is it.
I’m a tangled mess of annoyance, frustration, and confusion as I head back home. Because time was tight after work today I had showered, changed, gotten dressed, and put on makeup before picking Nate up from basketball and taking him to Paul’s. Now I have to hustle home to pack for the weekend—and I only have five minutes before Ryder will arrive.
My overnight bag is on my bed, open, and I have a few potential outfits laid out. A skirt and a top, some pajamas—or rather, loungewear, since I don’t honestly anticipate wearing much by way of pajamas—some boots, some heels, another fancy dress, several sets of sexy lingerie, a pair of jeans, and a sweater. But now that I’m looking at my selections, I’m rethinking them. The skirt is a little short, and the top is a little deeply cut, and the loungewear is a pair of yoga pants that are essentially skin tight with a with a long sleeve T-shirt, not sexy but somehow still risqué. The dress is one of my favorite items to wear so I’m happy with that one, and the lingerie I know I look good in, but they’re sets I bought for myself on a sudden urge to splurge and make myself feel sexy, and I’ve never worn them in front of anyone, just under my work clothes as a kind of secret thrill. The jeans and sweater are fine, too.
Basically, it’s the sexy stuff I’m not sure about.
My doorbell rings, and I panic.
“SHIT!”
I stare down at my pile of clothing, waffling on whether to ask Ryder to wait a few more minutes, but then I realize if I do that, I’ll get stuck in a cycle of trying to decide what to bring and what not to bring, and so I end up stuffing the pile of clothing in my little hard-sided overnight bag, along with my toiletries bag and to-go makeup case. I zip it up, lug it to the front door, and then stop, sucking in a deep breath—hold it—and let it out slowly.
And then I open the door.
Ryder is leaning against the doorframe, looking devastatingly sexy. Black jeans with polished but worn black leather boots with red laces, a white button-down shirt, and a gray corduroy blazer with leather patches on the elbows. His hair is brushed casually off to the side, but it’s too thick and unruly to ever truly behave, and it looks like he’s been running his hands through it. His beard is neatly trimmed and groomed and brushed, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of silver, mirrored aviation sunglasses.
“God, you look hot,” I blurt.
His grin is pleased and amused. “Betcha didn’t think I could clean up this well, did you?”
I roll my eyes at him. “I wasn’t sure you owned anything besides ratty old blue jeans and electrical supply company hoodies and T-shirts.”
“Surprise!” He spins in a circle, arms outstretched, and then does a goofy little dance. “I have button-downs and blazers!”
I touch his elbow. “The elbow patches on the corduroy blazer? Major turn-on.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Are you being sarcastic?”
I laugh. “No! I’m being dead serious. I had no idea I even thought so until I saw it on you just now, but for some reason, the patches just do it for me.” I laugh again, self-consciously. “Who knew the professor look was such a turn-on?”
He shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be sure to wear blazers with patches more often, in that case.” His eyes rake over me, slowly, sliding from head to toe and back again. “Laurel, you look…”
