Page 63 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
At home.
My heart does a weird melty flip. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I’ll see you in half an hour…at home.”
I’m pretty sure he hears it in my voice. “You okay?”
“I’m great. Really, really great.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Nate says something, and Ryder addresses me again. “Okay, gotta go. Mister laser tag expert here and I gotta go get supplies to build his piggy bank while we wait for the pizza. Say hi to the girls for me.”
I laugh. “How’d you know I was with them?”
“How else were you gonna get through this?” he says, laughing. “Okay, see you soon.”
We say our goodbyes, and then I hang up, toss my phone in my purse, and look around to see all the others staring at me with sappy looks on their faces.
“I think that has to be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Audra says. “And I’m generally immune to cuteness.”
I blush. “Oh shut up.”
“No, for real,” Audra says. “It was awesome. I really don’t see how you can have any doubts after that. Laser tag, and he’s building Nate a piggy bank? And he could hear in your voice that you were all gooey over him, which means he really, actually listens to you.”
“I wasn’t gooey.”
“You were pretty gooey,” Nova says.
Imogen laughs. “Goo-fest, babe. Own it.”
I sigh. “Fine. He just makes me all melty, and I can’t help it.”
Imogen hugs me. “Don’t try to help it. Own it, embrace it, and go with it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know how.”
“Lead with your heart, think with your pussy, and tell your brain to shut the fuck up,” Audra says.
Nova rolls her eyes. “Wow, Audra. Super eloquent advice.”
I’m laughing, though, because I was thinking something similar, just…not quite in those words—but then, that’s what Audra’s best at.
We pay the bill, chat for a few more minutes, and then I head out. And, on the way, I make a stop at the drug store for a giant package of condoms. Because Ryder is so getting laid as soon as I can figure out how to make it happen in such a way that Nate won’t know.
Chapter 12
Ryder doesn’t get laid that night, and neither do I. By the time dinner was done it was already after seven, and then Nate was begging Ryder to get started on the piggy bank project, so they went out into the garage to start that, which meant I was alone for cleanup, and then it was time for Nate to go to bed. We were just about to have a glass of wine when Ryder got a call from a client with an electrical emergency, so he had to go take care of that.
We text a few times later in the night, we’re both pretty exhausted and end up going to sleep in our own beds. So much for getting laid.
The next few days are all fairly quiet and, sadly, Ryder-free, except for texts between us. He’s slammed with work—the guys are starting a kitchen remodel and expansion, which means Ryder’s services are required pretty much nonstop as they rewire and extend the electrical.
I think about him constantly.
Like, literally.
I think about him in the morning as I’m getting ready for work and getting Nate on the bus…wishing he was here so we could say goodbye properly. I think about him at work, at lunch, on the drive home, in the tub, in bed, in my dreams.
He’s everywhere.
Except, there’s no time to see him.
I get a big surprise on Friday when I get a bouquet delivered to me at work. I’m ecstatic. It’s a burst of daisies and tulips—not my favorites, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. I bring them to my desk and call him.
“Hey there,” he says, the sound of power tools screeching and buzzing in the background. “How’s your day, babe?”
“It’s awesome,” I say, smiling to myself. “I got your flowers.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I hear the noises of the tools fade as a door thunks closed, and then another bout of silence. “I, uh…didn’t send you flowers, Laurel.”
“You didn’t? A bouquet of daisies and tulips?”
“Nope. I’m pretty certain you told me once that you’re a traditional girl, so if I was ever gonna send you flowers, roses would be fine.”
“I’m impressed you remember that,” I tell him; that was a throw-away pillow-talk comment made in the middle of the night sometime during the weekend we spent together.
He huffs a laugh. “Like I’d forget when you tell me the name of your favorite flower. So, no. I didn’t send you those.”
I groan. “Fuck.”
He’s surprised, as I’m not typically prone to language like that under normal circumstances. “What?”
I pluck the card out of the holder and open it: To my dearest, darling Laurel. Love never dies. I never gave up on us, and I never will. Always yours—Paul.
