Hammered Read online

  Anyway. My breasts? I cup them, lift them, let them fall, prop them up, let them sway, turn this way and that to examine them from different angles. If I’m fitting for comfort, I’m a D-cup, but if I want to prop these puppies up for maximum effect, I’d do a C, and I’d spill out of them. The number around is slowly increasing, again due to the effects of the divorce. They’re still pretty perky, though, I must say. I admire them in the mirror, playing with them. Smooth and perky, still in defiance of gravity despite the fact that I’m forty. They have some decent bounce to them, too.

  I run my hands down my waist to my hips, and then turn to the side to check out the rear view. A little more juice back there than there used to be. I used to have a tight little ass, and I kept it that way with regular workouts that tended to feature a lot of leg and butt focus. These days, there are a few dimples back there, and on my thighs…and I have some stretch marks. Put on some Spanx and a tight dress, though? I can still work it.

  Between my thighs? I’d have to say things have stayed nice and tight in that area. No kids, so…you know. I avoid that line of thought, though. I could use a trim, probably. I’ve been alone or effectively alone for nearly two years now, so the landscaping could use some updating, you could say. No one’s seeing that, so what reason is there to spend a lot of time on upkeep?

  Time to take care of that.

  I step into the shower and go through the motions of washing and conditioning my hair, washing my body, and then I shave my legs. And use my trimmer for the first time in…well, a while…to prune the shrubbery, so to speak. And by prune, I mean all but shave.

  Just because it’s time, though.

  It has nothing to do with the man downstairs.

  I have no reason to think he’d ever be getting a peek at my shrubbery, or any other part of me.

  None at all.

  He’s here to fix my window.

  That’s it.

  It can’t hurt to daydream, though, right? A girl has needs, after all. Even childless, forty-year-old divorcées—especially childless forty-year-old divorcées.

  Clean, shaved, and trimmed, I dry off and wrap a towel around my hair and another around my body, and dart back into my room. I hear noises in the kitchen, so I know Jesse is still where he’s supposed to be.

  Instead of getting dressed, though, I perch on the edge of my bed, unwrap my hair from the towel, and idly pat and squeeze it with the towel, letting my mind wander to the sexy hunk of man downstairs.

  What would he do if I went down there like this, in my towel? Would he look at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes? As if he couldn’t take his eyes off me? Would he be tempted to rip the towel off? Where would he look first? What would he touch first?

  A man like Jesse? I imagine him to be a tits guy. His big strong callused hands would go to my breasts first. Cup them, thumbs brushing over my nipples. He’d probably tease me with kisses, never quite putting his mouth where I want it, not until I was crazy with need.

  Which I am, right now.

  He’d make quick work of the towel. After paying long, lavish attention to my breasts, his attention would finally wander south. As do my fingers, thinking about him.

  God, I shouldn’t.

  But I can’t help it, and a girl has to get her relief where she can find it, right?

  It’s a matter of seconds before I’m wondering what he could do with his mouth besides tease me verbally, and while I imagine that, I find my trusty friend Miss Clitoral Stimulator and bring myself to release. I have to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep quiet, only remembering at the last second that the very man I’m thinking naughty thoughts about is downstairs, and that these floors and walls are thin.

  When I can breathe normally again, I wash and put away my friend. I run a brush through my damp hair, and put on a little lip gloss.

  But now I have a problem. If I were home by myself in this heat I would slip on my favorite summer lounging outfit: a tiny pair of bikini bottoms and my Bulls tank top that my tits don’t quite fit into. But that might be a bit much under the circumstances. I think for a moment and come up with something that will be cool, but a little less overt: my old thin red cotton shorts that are short but not too skanky, and the Bulls tank top, no bra.

  I hesitate at the door of my room, insecurities bubbling inside me.

  I should put on underwear.

  And makeup.

  And do my hair.

  Forget underwear—I should put on Spanx.

  I shouldn’t let this man I don’t know from Adam—this hot, sexy, funny man I’m super attracted to—see me like this.

  I rarely wore something like this around Nicholas, and I was married to the man for ten years.

  Anyway, that’s old news.

  This outfit was my little secret. Well, one of my little secrets. My other was that I read erotic romance and pretended I was the heroine, and daydreamed more frequently than I liked to admit about plot lines from those stories happening to me—a secret I’d indulged in even when married, because Nicholas had stopped even trying to fulfill me after the third year of our marriage, and had started cheating by the fourth or fifth year, I think.

  I shake myself. Why am I thinking about stupid asshole Nicholas? I’m done with the bastard. Let him have his silly secretary and her fake tits and annoying giggle. Let her have him—god knows I got little enough use out of him even when we were married.

  Downstairs is a sexy man who seems, despite all odds, to be interested in me. Attracted to me to at least some degree. Enough that he flirts with me and offers either thinly veiled or open insinuations and innuendos.

  A man who would be perfectly at home as the hero of one of my romance novels.

  So.

  Am I going to go down there dressed like this?

  Yep.

  You bet I am. And I’m going to pretend with all my heart that I’m not terrified out of my mind, that I’m not intensely self-conscious about the size and sag of my ass, of the fact that even though they’re relatively perky still, my tits are definitely showing signs of gravity—swaying a lot closer to my navel than they used to. I’m going to act like I traipse around in this outfit all the time, regardless of who’s around.

  I’m going to make myself some dinner, and watch Jesse work, and I’m going to flirt back with him, and pretend I have the courage to do more than flirt.

  That’s a joke. I definitely don’t have the courage to do more than flirt.

  But I can do that much at least, right?

  Chapter 4

  I swallow my nerves and summon my courage. My knees shake as I descend the stairs, and butterflies flutter wildly in my stomach. I pause on the bottom of the stairs, just before I turn the corner and become visible from the kitchen.

  “I’m crazy,” I whisper to myself. “This is crazy. I should go put real clothes on.”

  But I don’t.

  Why?

  Some urge, some instinct, some surge of daring. I don’t know. I don’t know what I hope to accomplish. If nothing else, perhaps I’ll feel brave. At worst, foolish.

  No, at worst he’ll take one look at me and show zero interest—actually, the worst would be for him to show disgust or disapproval, and then I’d be crushed.

  But this is nuts, though. I mean, the first time a man shows even the slightest hint of interest in me, I’m prancing around my house in front of him in a skimpy outfit, hoping for confirmation that a man can still find me even remotely attractive.

  I let out a shaky breath and enter the kitchen, raking my fingers through my loose, damp hair.

  Jesse is outside, doing something to the newly widened opening. There’s sawdust everywhere, a pungent, pleasant smell. Bits of wood and plaster and paint litter my sink, and the new opening seems enormous, stretching from cabinet to cabinet on either side of the sink, and from countertop to ceiling.

  Jesse looks up through the open window as I enter the kitchen, and freezes in the act of whatever it is he’s doing. His e
yes lock on me, and then rake slowly, deliberately downward, pausing at chest and hips, and then rake upward just as slowly—openly ogling me.

  “Have mercy,” he murmurs under his breath.

  The open, honest heat in his gaze arrests me as I pause in the doorway. The intensity in his voice freezes my muscles and heats my blood. He still hasn’t looked away, and the tool in his hand drops, forgotten, to the ground at his feet with a thump.

  “Uh…hi,” I mutter.

  He blinks, remembering he’s staring, and bends to grab his tool from the ground—and whacks his head on the wall on the way down. “Ow—shit!” He straightens, rubbing his head with one hand and clutching the tool with the other. “Hi. You, um. You changed.”

  “Yeah, I needed a shower, you know?” Awkward, awkward, Jesus, so awkward. “I hope that’s okay.” Why wouldn’t it be okay for me to shower and change in my own home? I’m acting like a twelve-year-old.

  “Okay?” He licks his lips, his eyes raking over me yet again. “Yeah, I don’t mind. At all.”

  What to say to that? I have no idea. Flirting is so much harder than it sounds…than it should be…than I remember it being. Because at what point does it stop being flirting and start being overtly hitting on him, or him hitting on me? Do I want him to hit on me? Should I use my ol’ womanly wiles? Bend over just a little to allow a bit of cleavage to spill out? Or stretch to get something from a high shelf so my shorts ride up a certain way? Or should I just play it straight and see what happens?

  I have no idea what to do next.

  Do something. Say something.

  “That’s a big hole,” I blurt, and then immediately wince. “I mean. Um. You widened it a lot.”

  He smirks. “Yeah, well, it’s a big window, so you need a pretty sizable opening.” He winks at me. “Don’t worry, though, I always measure three times and cut once. It’ll fit like a glove and look like a million bucks.”

  “It looks great so far. There’s so much more light in the kitchen now.”

  Really? It looks great so far? It’s a hole in my wall. I growl under my breath at my own stupidity and start pulling out the fixings for dinner. I put some frozen ground beef in the fridge yesterday, thinking I’d make myself a fancy dinner tonight—I have some red and yellow peppers, and some minute rice which, for a single lady, counts as fancy, these days. I try to ignore Jesse as I brown the beef, but it’s not easy.

  I feel his eyes on me every single moment. My fridge faces the window, so when I go to retrieve the peppers from the crisper drawer, I have to bend over. It’s a nerve-racking experience. Do I keep my knees together? Should I just crouch? Crouching would be unnatural and awkward. Why did I put these in the bottom-most drawer? I have to bend way over to get them. What’s he doing back there? I don’t dare look—if I look, it’ll be obvious that I’m after his attention. I bet my butt is going to look huge when I bend over. God, this is dumb. Just get the peppers and be done with it, you silly woman.

  I’ve never been so self-conscious about doing something as simple and everyday as bending over to get something out of a fridge. But I can feel his gaze; I can feel him watching me. I guarantee he’s not missing a single jiggle or shake as I move around the kitchen preparing this meal. I just wish I knew what he’s thinking. Does he like women built like me? Or is he one of those guys who goes for the stick-thin, fitness model type? If that’s the case, I’m out of luck, because that’s never been me, even at my fittest. Even when I was in the gym three or four days a week lifting and running and doing yoga, I always carried a little extra around the bust, waist, and hips. That extra hit me my senior year of high school and never really left, no matter what I ate or how I worked out, and eventually I just accepted it along with the label “curvy girl.”

  I just wish I knew how Jesse likes his women.

  I lean over, open the drawer, and pull out the bag of peppers—and I feel the shorts riding up. I feel them sliding between the cheeks of my butt, and I feel the air on my backside, telling me there’s quite a lot of bare skin showing, and that it’s probably obvious what I’m not wearing under the shorts.

  I hear a soft groan from behind me, which shifts abruptly into a cough, and when I straighten, Jesse is red in the face.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse, his eyes darting everywhere except my face. “I’m—just—um. Sawdust. Choked on some sawdust.”

  There’s no sawdust in the air at all. Was that groan I heard before he started coughing one of appreciation and desire? A girl can dream.

  I start dicing the peppers, pausing to stir the meat every now and then, and keeping an eye on the rice as it boils. I’m halfway done with the peppers when Jesse comes back inside. He critically examines the opening, measures it, measures the window again, and then nods to himself.

  “Time to mount this bitch,” he says, half to himself, half to me.

  My eyes widen, and I almost cut my finger off as I shoot him a glance. “Excuse me?”

  He blinks, and then pales. “Ah—um. I—the window. I’m going to install the window now…is…what I meant.”

  “Oh.” I stand there at the counter, awkwardly holding the knife in one hand and a yellow pepper in the other. “I thought you were talking to me.”

  “I was.” he stammers, backtracking. “Um. I mean. I was talking to you, not about you. I’d never say—ah… I was referring to the window, not you. Time to mount the window. I shouldn’t have—um. I mean.” He slaps his forehead. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  I try to lighten the mood, go for a joke. “Well, I certainly hope that’s not how you talk to women.”

  “I never refer to women as bitches unless it’s in reference to my ex, and I sure as hell never use the term ‘mount’,” he says, indignant.

  “Well, that’s good to know. It’s not an attractive term.”

  He’s back on more solid footing. “No, it definitely lacks sexiness.” He’s silent a moment. “Unlike you.” He says this to me with his eyes on mine, his hands idly toying with the edge of the window.

  “Oh, yeah?” I say, a little disingenuously.

  “Yeah. The term ‘mount’ is decidedly unsexy.” He pauses again for emphasis. “Unlike you.”

  “Unlike me?” Is he calling me sexy?

  “Yeah. You don’t lack sexiness.”

  I decide it’s probably safest to put the knife down for now. “I—I don’t?” I sound even more shocked than I feel, and endeavor to sound…something like confident. “I mean. Neither do you, if we’re on the subject of sexiness.”

  Jesse runs a finger along the upper edge of the window frame. “I don’t think I’ll ever see a Bull’s tank top quite the same way, now that I’ve seen the way you wear one.”

  I glance down as if I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Oh, this old thing? It’s comfy, and I’ve had it forever, so I guess it has some sentimental value. It doesn’t quite fit anymore.”

  His gaze wanders from mine southward, to my cleavage, lingers there, and then travels back up to mine. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’d say it fits you just fine.”

  I grin, because I can’t help it. His words make me a little giddy with flattered excitement and anticipation. “It does cling in certain places, doesn’t it?”

  He hesitates over his reply. “Ah, yeah. Cling is a good way to put it.” He steals a glance at my hips. “Those shorts come with the tank top?”

  I twist away a little, straighten one leg behind me, and look back over my shoulder at my own butt. “Oh, these? Um…? No, I think I bought them as workout shorts when I was in college, back when I had both the courage and the body to wear them out of my own house.”

  “Well, I can’t speak to courage, but I’d say, for my part, that you definitely still have the body to wear those shorts wherever the hell you feel like.”

  I laugh, a genuine bark of humor. “That’s awful nice of you, Jesse, but I was raised to think shorts ought to at l
east cover all of my butt to be considered acceptable to wear out of the house.” I tap the undersides of my buttocks, which hang below the edge of the shorts. “As you can clearly see, I’ve outgrown that particular stipulation.”

  Once again, he doesn’t hide the blatant way his eyes roam my backside. “Well, it’s working in my favor, that’s for damn sure.” He clears his throat, turns to the window. “I—um. I’ll get this in and get out of your hair.”

  “Oh, you’re fine,” I say. “You’re not in my hair.”

  “Not yet I’m not,” he says, but it’s under his breath and I don’t think I was meant to hear it.

  I pretend I don’t hear it, and go back to cutting up the peppers. The meat is browned now, so I drain it, add the diced peppers, a packet of taco seasoning, and a little extra garlic and cayenne for a kick. A few minutes of tossing that over the heat and it’s done. The rice has been done for a while, so all I have to do now is put together a little salad. Some greens, some cucumbers, celery, tomatoes, baby carrots, some cheese, and it’ll be good to go.

  By now, Jesse has the window in and is crouched on the sink fastening it into the space with a screw gun. He has pieces of molding stacked on the counter nearby, and uses a nail gun to fasten molding around the edges, then takes some outside and does the same around the exterior.

  Done outside, he returns to the kitchen with a small shop vac, which he uses to suck up all the sawdust and mess, and makes quick work of cleaning up his tools and supplies, returning my kitchen to its original state, plus one new window. This done, he stands in the middle of the kitchen eyeing his handiwork.

  “What do you think, Imogen?” he asks, glancing at me. “How do you like your new window?”

  I turn the stove off, cover the pan with a lid, and stand beside him. The window is…huge. It lets in acres of daylight, making my little kitchen feel larger, airier, and just…lighter. He reaches forward and rotates the knob to open the window all the way, and immediately a gentle breeze floats through, catching the draft from the open back door and front door.