Page 21 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

“Oh,” Audrey answers. “I see.” She puts on a brave smile. “I’m Audrey.”

“Danny, be nice,” I say, putting a hand on my kid’s shoulder. “Now come on, we’ll be late. We have to go.”

He doesn’t move when I nudge him, still staring at Audrey. “Did you bake that pecan pie?”

Audrey nods again. “Yes.”

“It was really good,” Danny says, then scampers to my truck without waiting for an answer, knapsack banging against his back.

Audrey tries to hide her smile, but I see it. I nod to her and follow my nephew to the vehicle. When I get back from dropping him off at his friend Jace’s house, Audrey is no longer working in the front yard.

The twinge of disappointment I feel is ridiculous, so I brush it off and head for the front door. It’s good she isn’t outside. It’s good our interactions have been minimal. I don’t have the time or inclination to let a woman into my life, seductive voice or no.

Still, a not-so-small part of me is looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.

The next morning, I find myself squeezing a wrench with a white-knuckled grip as I glare at a stubborn, rusted bolt. My shirt is soaked through, and my mood is plummeting faster than the thermometer is rising. Of all the days for the air conditioning to break, today has to be the worst. It’s Monday, the first day that Audrey is supposed to work in my office.

After another struggle with the bolt, I manage to snap it off and get the AC unit’s cover open to try to fix the stupid thing. Panting hard, I glare at the internal components like I can make the air conditioner work by sheer force of will.

That’s when Audrey rides up to the garage on a bicycle.

I frown as she parks her bike just inside the garage, leaning it against a clear patch of wall near the big front doors. I should have loaned her a car. Why didn’t I think of that on Friday when she was here?

No—I shouldn’t have. I don’t owe her anything, least of all a vehicle. I’m already giving her an amazing deal on these repairs when I know she should just get rid of the van entirely. I should have just told her to get a new vehicle and washed my hands of the situation completely.

That would have been the smart thing to do, but apparently I’m not a smart man.

From across the garage, Audrey gives me a cute little wave, which I answer with a nod. She’s wearing black yoga pants along with a black tee that’s tied in a knot at her lower back, highlighting the curve of her waist and hips. Her hair is gathered up in a ponytail at the crown of her head, and she has gigantic sunglasses perched on her nose, which she pushes up to the top of her head.

“Hi!” Audrey calls, cutting across the oil-stained concrete floor toward me. She whistles, fanning herself. “Whoa! It’s hot in here!”

“AC conked out this morning.”

“Oh no!” She’s carrying a backpack and a reusable grocery store bag full of what look like cleaning supplies which she’d stored in the front basket of her bicycle. “Have you been working in this heat all morning?”

“Haven’t done any work all morning, because I’ve been trying to fix this stupid AC unit,” I grumble. I grab a rag from my back pocket and wipe the ever-present grease from my hands. “If you want to start tomorrow, I’ll probably have the unit fixed by then,” I offer.

“No way.” She shakes her head emphatically. “I’m not taking any more favors from you. You’ve done enough. All I’ve done is hit your tree.”

“And give me a pie.”

“The pie was an apology.”

“A pretty good one,” I admit.

“Your nephew seemed to think so.” She smiles. “He’s a riot.”

I’ve had so many people question whether I’m able to take care of my nephew by myself over the past three years that any mention of my nephew makes protectiveness flash through me, instinctive and unwelcome. If I were a cat, the hair along my spine would stick straight up. My priority for three years has been taking care of my kid, and I’ve pushed anyone and everyone away in order to achieve that.

But Audrey is just being nice, so I force myself to relax. “He’s a great kid. I’m lucky to have him.”

I can see the questions dangling on the end of Audrey’s tongue, but she must see something in my face that makes her turn toward the office. “So,” she says brightly, “should I get started?”

SEVEN

AUDREY

Sweat drips down my spine, my sides, between my boobs, and into every crevice on my body. I wipe my forehead with a damp forearm and lean against the window frame, trying to get a bit of the breeze to wash over me. Unfortunately, the breeze is hot. It feels like a blow-dryer blasting into my face, and I’m pretty sure it makes me sweatier.

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