Page 43 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

I feel like a million bucks.

Then my phone rings, and I hear Georgia’s silky voice on the other side of the line. “How are you doing?” she asks after we greet each other.

“I’m great,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “What can I do for you?”

“I was looking at your services on your website, and I’m interested in the closet makeover. Would you be able to come over for a consultation sometime this week?”

My smile nearly splits my face in half. “Of course,” I say, and we set a time for the following Friday morning. I hang up and do a little jig in my home office. A new client! And with my new division of responsibilities, I’m able to slot her in far sooner than I would’ve if I’d been doing all the tasks I gave to Paula.

I review the inventory requests Paula sends through and check them against the partial notes I’d started to take. I should really double-check everything myself, because this is her first time doing it and I’m not sure she can complete the product orders to the same standard as I—

I stop the thought as soon as I realize what I’m doing. I’m letting the dark waters of perfectionism close over my head. I just delegated a task that Paula is more than capable of doing. She was thrilled to be given the responsibility. The last thing I need to do is undercut her confidence by redoing all the work she just sent through.

I don’t want to be the boss everyone hates. I don’t want to stifle my employees. I don’t want to live under the shadow of my failed marriage forever. I am not a failure, nor do I need to do everything myself in order to succeed.

Instead, I spot-check Paula’s numbers against the ones I’d started previously and approve her to make the orders.

My heart flutters as I send the email, because this is uncharted territory for me. I’m loosening the control I’ve had on my business for many, many years—but it will be worth it if it allows my employees and me to thrive.

Once I’ve sent the email, I push back from my computer and pad to the kitchen. I put on a pot of coffee and stare at the inside of my refrigerator while I try to figure out what I feel like eating. Mostly, I’m trying to calm down and remind myself that delegation is a good thing.

Worried thoughts race through my mind, and I realize that’s all my perfectionism has ever been: a charitable disguise for anxiety. I’m worried that I’m not good enough to run my own business. My brain tells me I failed as a wife, and I could fail at everything else. The only solution I’ve found to quiet those thoughts is to try to make every single little detail as perfect as it can be.

But spreading myself too thin while trying to be perfect is no solution at all. If anything, it’ll only perpetuate my anxiety whenever anything goes wrong. Like, for example, a van crashing into my neighbor’s tree.

Focusing on the contents of my fridge, I try to bring my thoughts back to lunch. The doorbell saves me from making a decision that may or may not involve too much cheese. I leave the coffeemaker gurgling on the counter and head for the front door.

Remy is waiting on the other side. He’s leaning on the doorjamb, glancing across my yard toward his magnolia tree, and he shifts to face me when I open the door.

My heart takes off at a gallop. The sunlight caresses his face as he watches me with dark, heated eyes.

“Hi,” I say.

“Can I come in?”

I nod stupidly and open the door wider. Remy takes up so much space. His shoulders blot out the sunlight as he crosses the threshold, and I have the feeling I just invited a dangerous beast into my home. I close the door and turn to face him.

He’s standing very, very close. His hands sweep up my hips and settle on my waist, the heat of them soaking through my shirt. Thumbs coasting over my ribs, he spins me around and gently presses me against the door.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, which sounds way more aggressive than I’d meant it to, but it’s all I can manage with him looking at me like that.

“Cashing in on this fling I’ve agreed to,” he says, and then he kisses me.

This morning, when I woke up, I thought I’d imagined the magic between us. I convinced myself that the chemistry was mostly in my head, and there was no way the sex had been that good. I rationalized my excitement away, telling myself that I’d simply not had enough sex in the past few years to make any kind of judgment call about what happened in the greenhouse.

It couldn’t possibly have been that good. The second time would cure me of any illusions, if I decided I wanted a second time with him.

But I was wrong. Remy lights my body up. He makes me feel like sparklers are going off in my veins, and his mere presence makes me so hot I’m feverish.

He flicks the button on my denim shorts and slides his hand inside. I gasp; he groans.

It takes about three milliseconds for me to crest, pinned against my front door with my mechanic’s hand down my underpants. He slides his hand out of my panties and brings his glistening fingers to his lips, licking off the evidence of my arousal with carnal thoughts written in his eyes.

I want him so much I’m sick with it.

“Strip,” he says, and he tugs at the hem of his own shirt. He tears it off while I’m still coming to terms with how much his command turned me on, and then I have to gape at his chest for a few moments.

“Audrey,” he says, command soaking through the rasp in his voice. His hand moves to his belt. “Take your clothes off.”

---