The life.

Those words hit hard, and I don’t know why.

Maybe because I’m still waiting for the same thing.

Over a week later, and the house has settled into a routine, thanks to our pizza and movie night.

Jordan is usually already up when I come downstairs in the morning, and I notice there’s a nicer sheen on tabletops and countertops that wasn’t there the evening before. The floors feel clean, the refrigerator is magically free of bad food and three-day-old leftovers, and the appliances shine.

Everything smells fragrant, too, and sometimes it’s because she made muffins or pancakes, and sometimes it’s because of the scented candles I no longer mind her burning in the house. She uses a French press for coffee, and I’ve stopped using my Keurig in favor of it.

Anything Cole left laying in the living room, like shoes or soda cans, the night before are suddenly gone, and I can’t remember the last time I had to unload the dishwasher.

And I don’t, for one moment, believe it’s thanks to my kid. He’s become pretty damn lazy, it seems, and I hadn’t realized how he’d changed.

The more he grew up, the less time he wanted to spend with me, and I see hints of how his mom was with me in how he treats Jordan now. He’s neglectful, and I find myself grinding my teeth to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.

I love my kid, but it’s hard to see why he deserves her.

He’s hardly ever home except to sleep, and when he is, Jordan’s at work until two in the morning. I was worried I’d walk in on them having sex on the couch or something when I offered to let them live here, but thank God, their schedules don’t mesh well so they’re hardly here at the same time. And if they are, I’m at work, and I don’t have to hear or see anything.

Still, though, she’s alone a lot. He won’t even stay home on her nights off, and I wonder why the hell she puts up with it. She seems capable and strong-willed. A girl who can handle herself. What brought them together? She doesn’t seem to have anyone but Cole and that sister of hers, in fact. No friends or other family members have dropped by here to see her that I can tell.

Either way, though, I’m enjoying having her around, even if I do wish Cole was home more. I break into a smile as soon as I walk through the door every afternoon, hearing her 80’s music carrying through the house and somehow making it feel even more like summer time in here. It’s nice not to come home to an empty house for a change, and I even find myself leaving work on time every day, because I actually enjoy being home now.

She and I have chatted more over the last several days, inquiring about how work was or how school is going for her, and the girl has an uncanny ability to get me to talk. She likes to run shit, and she’s good about teasing or making jokes to put me at ease.

I can do without her eggplant lasagna, that’s for sure, but if she weren’t here, Cole would be avoiding me even more than he is now, and I wouldn’t be holding my tongue with him as well as I am. I’m glad she’s here.

Holding the bag of laundry over my shoulder, I charge down the stairs, swing around the bannister, and walk into the laundry room.

After clearing my clothes out of the dryer, I moved the stuff from the washer and drop a new load in, starting both machines again. I catch sight of the dust on the front of my T-shirt from working in the garage this morning and pull it off, dropping it in the running water before closing the lid.

Stuffing the bag on top of the dry clothes, I pick up the basket and head back upstairs. In my room, I dump the clothes onto the bed and sift through the pile, looking for another shirt.

But I stop, grazing my fingers over a tiny piece of red fabric I don’t recognize. It lays nestled in a pair of my jeans, and I don’t have to think twice to know what it is.

I stand up straight, steeling my spine.

Shit.

Hooking my finger through the little band, I eye the see-through, red G-string hanging from my finger.

“What the hell?” I say under my breath, looking down at the laundry to double-check I have my clothes. “How did this get in my stuff?”

“Jord—!” I call out for her but stop, realizing how awkward it’s going to look if I have her underwear. I’m going to look like some creeper, getting caught with her panties. Jesus.

I drop the undergarment like it’s a hot pan.

They fall to the bed, and I rub the back of my neck, feeling the light sweat on my skin. My mind wanders.

It’s been a hell of a long time since any woman’s underwear was on my bed. Or in my bed.

And it certainly wasn’t a G-string, either. An image of my son’s innocent, little girlfriend wearing this flashes in my head, and I round my eye, rearing back a little. “Fuck. I’m gonna go to hell.”

I gather up all the laundry again, burying the garment in my clothes to hide it, so I can take the basket back downstairs. I’ll just toss the underwear on top of the dryer or something and let her find it.

Picking up the basket, though, I register the soft rumble of the lawnmower start up outside and set the laundry back down, walking to the window.

Jordan is in the backyard, marching up and down the grass and pushing my green Craftsman lawnmower. What is she—

I lock my jaw, aggravation setting in. I told Cole to mow the goddamn grass. Helping with the yard work is his responsibility.

I watch as she bobs her head, and that’s when I notice the high-pitched whir of guitars and the beats of a drum. She must be listening to music.

I quirk a smile. What awful 80s hair band is she listening to today?

Sweat darkens her gray T-shirt at the middle of her back and even from here I can see her hair, some having fallen free from her ponytail, sticking to her neck. Her short, white shorts show off the muscles in her thighs and calves, flexing as she pushes the machine. Her skin glistens with sweat, and I zone in on the small of her back, seeing her damp skin shine in the sunlight.

Heat pools low in my stomach, and my smile falls as I watch her.

I’m frozen. I don’t want to look away.

But finally, I blink, averting my eyes and swallowing through the dryness in my mouth.

Doesn’t she have a project or something to be working on for her summer class? She mentioned that a few days ago. Cole can do the damn lawn.

Reaching down, I lift up the window and stick my head out, opening my mouth to call her out, but all of a sudden she releases the handles, whips her head back and forth, and breaks into air-guitar mode.

I stop and watch her, furrowing my brow but damn near breaking into a laugh, too.

“Pour some sugar on me!” the Bluetooth speaker screams. “Ooooh, in the name of love!”

She lip syncs, bending herself backwards, and then breaks into other moves, dancing and getting carried away in the song.

Gripping the handle again, she uses it for support as she throws her head side to side, flipping her hair and swaying her hips. The rubber band from her ponytail falls out and the locks whip around, the beautiful kink in the strands falling in her face and making her look absolutely beautiful. My lungs ache for air as desire rips through me, watching her move. God, if she’s yours, how do you not touch her twenty-four seven?

I stop the thought in its tracks, though, and start to pull my head back in, but I catch sight of Kyle Cramer next door, standing on his bedroom balcony.

He stares down at Jordan, watching her dance.

My fingers tighten around the window frame.

Asshole. His kids are probably in the house, and he’s leering like a fucking pervert.

I try not to think about how I’m practically doing the same thing, but I feel a protective urge to get a damn shotgun or something. This one’s not babysitting for you, dickhead.

The lawnmower suddenly dies, and I turn back to Jordan just in time to see her walk up to the edge of the pool, breathing heavily and wet with sweat. She pushes her hair out of her face, inhales a deep breath, and then takes a step, falling into the deep end of the pool and sinking beneath its surface, clothes and all.

I stop breathing.

It’s hot. It’s in the nineties today, and she needs to cool off. But I jerk my gaze back to Kyle as he inches his chin up, trying to get a better view. Jordan then pops back up the surface, floating on her back and resting there, her T-shirt molded to her body like a second skin. Hard, little points jut toward the sky from under her shirt, and I see a smile curl his fucking lips.

“Fucking hell,” I hiss under my breath. Swinging my head back into the bedroom, I slam the window closed.

Leaving the room, I charge down the hallway and jog down the stairs. Moving across the kitchen, I head through the laundry room and out the back door. Jordan is swimming for the edge of the pool again, getting out.

I dart my eyes up and see Kyle still watching as she climbs out, her clothes plastered to her body and water running down every inch of available skin.

His eyes flash to me, and I shoot him a middle finger. He just laughs and shakes his head, going back in his fucking house.

Jordan fists her hair, bringing it over her shoulder and ringing it out. My gaze falls down her legs, water dripping down her toned thighs and her shorts melted to her ass.

I steel myself, fixing on a stern expression. “Jordan,” I call.

She turns, seeing me, and hesitates only a moment before heading my way. She must have some idea that she’s not completely appropriate right now, because she folds her arms over her chest.

“I thought I told Cole to mow the lawn.” I try to hide the growl building in my chest.

She nods and picks up her ice water off the lawn table. “As long as it gets done, right?” And then she looks at me, inquiring, “Am I doing a bad job?”

“Of course, n—no,” I reply quickly, hating how easily she can make me feel like an ungrateful asshole. “It looks fine, but you’re already doing enough. More than enough. He handles the yard work. He can find the damn time.”

“It’s fine.” She brushes me off and sets her water down, turning back for the lawnmower. “I need the sun and exercise anyway.”

“I’ll finish it.” I stop her, walking ahead toward the mower.