Page 60 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

He’s so focused on his task that he doesn’t realize how attractive he is. I don’t care about any of this stuff. Gardening isn’t sexy. It’s just…this big, burly, tattooed mechanic who can give me the most powerful orgasms of my life is a huge plant nerd who laments the overgrowth of mold on his little cubes of dirt.

I’m falling for this man. It hits me like a slap across the face.

I’m falling in love with Remy—not because we have chemistry. Not because of the sex. Not because he makes me want to explore physical intimacy in ways I’ve never experienced before.

No, I’m falling for him because he taught himself how to garden and he cares for his plants with a gentleness I never would’ve expected. And because he has that same patient, caring quality with Danny, a little boy he didn’t have to take in but did. I’m falling for him because he’s given me the tiniest speck of that kind of attention, and I want to give it back to him tenfold.

Life would be so good if we were together. For a moment, as I grip my mug and watch him work, I allow myself to believe that I deserve all this and more. I deserve a man who treats me like a queen, who has interests and passions of his own, who has an immense capacity to love and care for the people around him.

Then he shuts off the hose and puts it away, and I snap out of my drifting thoughts.

No matter what he said in the heat of the moment, it doesn’t change the facts: we agreed to one month. Not only that, but Remy told me, clear as day, that his nephew came first. He told me he didn’t do relationships because Danny had to be his priority.

And besides that, I have a business. I have a life. It takes every drop of my focus to attend to the millions of tasks I need to complete in order to keep my business afloat.

I agreed to this fling because I needed a break from real life—but that doesn’t mean real life went away. This fling is designed to have an end date, because that’s the only way things work out between us.

There’s no use fantasizing about things that can never be.

“Hungry?” Remy asks, opening the greenhouse door for me.

A waft of cool air washes over my skin. I nod, trying to hide the sadness creeping up my throat. “Yes,” I say. “I could use some food.”

His grin is sinful. “I wonder why that is,” he muses. “Did you do any vigorous activity last night?”

Laughing, I follow him inside. We have breakfast, and then we do some more vigorous activity.

Then, finally, it’s time for him to go pick up his nephew and for me to go home. When he kisses me goodbye, we cling to each other as if it’s the last time we’ll see each other. Then he pulls back and presses a chaste kiss to my forehead.

“I’ll call you later,” he promises, and then he leaves to return to the real world.

I close my front door, lean against it, and begin to cry.

Remy and Danny come over for dinner on Sunday. I hear all about Danny’s sleepover while I feed the two of them, and for an hour or two, I feel complete. Remy squeezes my hand before walking across to his place for the night.

It’s sick how much I miss him when he’s gone. I spent one single night with him, and now I feel like I won’t survive in my bed alone.

But ten minutes after they leave, my doorbell rings. I open it and am immediately crowded against the entryway wall. Remy kisses me hard, then leans his forehead against mine. “Sorry,” he says, breathless. “Just needed to kiss you.”

My heart pounds as I cling to him. “Uh-huh.”

“I have to go back.”

“Okay,” I say, and then we kiss some more.

When he leaves, I find myself smiling about nothing at all.

But Monday rolls around, and work sweeps me up in its whirlwind. A call from Terry’s wife, Caroline, surprises me. She has to reschedule our consultation because she has an appointment at our original agreed-upon time. On a whim, I agree to a consultation that very day to see about their kitchen reorganization.

I’m not sure exactly why I agree. I think it has to do with seeing Terry and feeling nothing for him. On top of that, I feel oddly jittery and nervous about Remy showing up for our usual noontime screw. As much as I want Remy’s company, it doesn’t feel so good to think about him coming over for a quickie when we have a free half hour at lunchtime. After the night we spent together, going back to a sexy fling makes me feel oddly nauseous.

I want more. Even though I don’t deserve it. Even though I can’t have it.

So, when Remy calls me to ask if I’m free, I tell him that I can’t meet up today. I have a client meeting.

“That’s too bad,” he says. “Let me know if you’re free this afternoon. I miss you.”

My heartstrings give a violent jerk. I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Sure,” I say, then I hang up and go meet my ex-husband’s new wife.

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