Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Forest
Between the air freshener and the ten extra sprays of cologne I put on this morning, as I’ve done over the past four days, my head pulses with an impending migraine. Autumn tests the limits of my patience every time she coughs, waving her hand in front of her face with a grimace.
When I’ve finally had enough, only three hours into the work day—it really doesn’t take her long to get under my skin—I snap, “I don’t stink. I’m wearing cologne.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” she says. Flecks of gold glitter in her hair like a halo from the sunshine streaming through the window. It’s annoying how pretty she is, especially when her personality is anything but. “Try not to use half the bottle next time, BigDawg. It’s giving me a headache.”
My face immediately burns with humiliation, and my molars are liable to crack from how hard I grind them together. “I told you. It’s ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Woods’ at work.”
“My apologies, sir.” Autumn stands and straightens her tight pencil skirt. She’s wearing another one of her colorful outfits, a bright beacon in the sea of dark, neutral suits at the office.
Swerving around her desk, she moves to the copy machine pushed into the corner to my right.
She’s kicked off her high heels, her toenails painted a summery white.
Tiny silver stars dangle from one of her delicate ankle bracelets that pair well with her two toe rings, one on each foot.
Are they permanently soldered on, like the kind one can get at the Renaissance Festival?
Or does she pick out new ones each day? How many does she have?
I bet she has many, given the impressive rotation of jewelry she wears to the office.
“You have a foot fetish or something?” she asks.
I jerk my head up. I hadn’t realized how far my attention had strayed from my work, horrified that she’s caught me looking at her bare feet. “No!”
“Hey, no judgment here,” she says, lifting her hands in the air. “Let your freak flag fly.”
I jerk the knot in my tie away from my neck, which is growing hotter. “I told you, I don’t.” Do I? I don’t think so.
“Uh huh. But just in case you do…” She leans back against the copy machine. “I charge seventy-five dollars for the first picture. Fifty-five for each pic after that. I’ll even throw in a video if you pay for my next pedicure.”
I gape at her. “You seriously sell feet pics?”
“God, you’re so easy fuck with, BigDawg,” she says with one of those melodic laughs, turning to gather the documents she had printed. I hate that I love hearing it so much, especially since it’s at my expense.
I crack my neck and reach into my laptop bag, setting the glass jar I’d brought with me on my desk. “That’ll be three dollars, shrimp.”
“Excuse me? Shrimp?”
I hum. “A little taste of your own medicine. See how much you like it.”
She purses her pretty pink lips. When I nudge the jar toward her, she asks, “What is that for?”
“It’s a swear jar. Anyone ever tell you that you curse too much?”
“Anyone ever tell you to go fuck—”
“One dollar for every curse word,” I say to cut her off.
“And another dollar every time you call me ‘BigDawg’.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, ignoring the middle button of her white blouse that has come undone.
“Now you owe me four dollars.” I’m nothing short of smug when I say, “Pay up, buttercup.”
I don’t like her slowly widening grin, and I groan internally. What is she up to now?
She takes her time at her desk, bending over to grab her purse to rifle through it.
I make a concerted effort to stare out the window instead of her perky backside, the slit at the back of her skirt giving me a sweet peek between her legs.
I clamp my lips shut so I don’t say something stupid and worthy of being fired, like, “Look who’s bending over for me now.
” Doesn’t stop me from thinking it. Would she even be able to take a man my size?
Fucking hell, Forest, get your act together and stop slobbering all over your much-too-young employee.
At this rate, with Autumn driving up my blood pressure like she does her father’s, I’m going to end up quitting by the end of the month, if not sooner.
“One…” she counts, pulling a dollar bill from the thin stack of cash in her hand, drawing my gaze back to her as she approaches my desk. “Two, three, four, and five.” She folds the cash and stuffs it in the jar.
“Why—”
“Consider that my payment in advance, BigDawg. Oops.” She frowns, then perks up.
“Wait. I think I have…” She reaches into a tiny pocket on the side of her skirt and produces a five-dollar bill.
“Yes!” She waves it in my face before shoving it into the jar with a wink.
“I just bought myself five more.” She spins, flips her hair back over her shoulder, and sits primly at her desk, staring at me like a demented doll with those unsettling eyes of hers.
“Your eyes are so damn creepy when you do that.”
Her lashes flutter momentarily, and she darts her eyes away, hunching her shoulders slightly.
“Fuck.” Leaning on a hip, I pull my wallet from the back pocket of my slacks.
With a sigh, I pluck two of the crisp dollar bills I figured I’d need for just this occasion, and I stuff them into the jar.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fischer. I shouldn’t have said that.
” Not only was it unprofessional, but I clearly struck a nerve.
Why I should feel sorry after the hell she’s put me through, I don’t know, but I do.
“Sorry enough to let me off the hook for babysitting?” she asks, bending back to her task at her computer.
“I’m not that sorry.”
“You will be,” she mutters.
That, I have no doubt.
Whew, was I right. Swinging open the front door an hour after getting home on Friday night, I have the overwhelming urge to slam it right in Autumn’s face.
If it weren’t for my boss and his wife standing on either side of Autumn, I probably would.
True to Mr. Fischer’s words, his wife, Miranda, had knocked on my door and introduced herself a few days ago.
I have a feeling that, if the kids hadn’t pulled me away, she could have kept the conversation going for hours, much friendlier and warmer than her daughter.
“Forest,” says Sherman, as I’ve been given leave to call him outside of work, his expression stony.
Autumn squints when she presents me with a ceramic dish. “I brought pie. Made it from scratch, just for you. I hope you like blueberry.”
“Oh wow,” I say, taking the warm dish from her hands, careful not to let our fingers brush as her dad looks on murderously and her mother sucks in her cheeks.
I really hadn’t expected Autumn to show up with anything other than a glare and an insult.
I take a sniff and tell her, delighted and surprised, “Blueberry is my favorite.”
“Goddammit,” Sherman grumbles in a low voice, pressing his hand to his chest. He turns his accusatory gaze on his wife. “She got this from you.”
Miranda skips to her husband’s side and clutches his arm. “Deep breaths. Did you remember to take your pill today?”
“Yes. It’s not working,” Sherman says, cutting his narrowed eyes to me. “I’ll be back to pick Autumn up at ten-thirty sharp.”
I swallow and nod before letting the little vixen inside my house.
With Autumn wearing a sundress the likes of which she had on at the grocery store, but with a much shorter hem and a neckline that shows off quite a bit of her large breasts, it’s no mystery why Sherman looks like he wants to wring my neck.
Miranda has to physically pull him away.
“You got what from your mom?” I ask Autumn when she swerves past me and the empty formal dining room into the disorganized living room on the right.
With her mother’s eyes being gray and her darker hair braided into a single twist, Autumn more closely resembles Sherman.
Fortunately for Autumn, and unfortunately for me, I mean that in the best way.
“My…baking skills.” Autumn tips her head when she hears commotion from deeper in the house, and drops her purse on the brown leather sectional. Hopefully, she left the bear spray at home.
“And that’s a problem, why?”
“Has my dad told you how he met my mom?”
“No.” My boss and I aren’t exactly friends, especially with how icy he has become toward me with each passing day. Lord only knows how much Autumn has complained about me on their drive home from work.
“You should ask him sometime,” she says, swinging around when we hear Josephine exit her bedroom, only to hide herself behind me.
“Josephine,” I say, balancing the dish on one hand so I can twist to put my arm around her shoulders and draw her out to greet our guest. “You remember Autumn.”
“Hi,” Josephine says quietly.
“She’s here to help watch the boys while we get a few more things unpacked.” I infuse my voice with more enthusiasm. “How about we finish your room first? I’ll order pizza, and we can have pie for dessert.”
That has Josephine perking up, and she takes the pie dish, carrying it into the large U-shaped kitchen past the living room.
Autumn, however, wears a face of dread, her gaze cast down, and that makes me perk up. “Come on, shrimp. I’ll show you to the boys’ room.”
Her shoulders slump as she sullenly follows me down the hallway.
“This is Josephine’s room,” I say, pointing to the first door on the right, then to the second and third.
“The hall bathroom, and that’s the boys’ nursery.
” I tip my head to the left. “Across is my room.” My face heats when Autumn’s thin brow ticks up, and our eyes meet briefly. I don’t know why I told her that.
“Oh boy,” she says, blowing out an audible breath when I lead her into the nursery, where Sebastian is jumping on his bed like a trampoline while Benjamin screeches happily, watching his older brother from his crib.
I lift Benjamin up high and give him a sniff. “He just woke up from a late nap, and it smells like he needs his diaper changed.” I pass the baby to her, hoping it’s just her luck that Benjamin blew out his diaper. “Have fun.”
Autumn holds her breath like she’s going to be sick.
If Megan hadn’t given Autumn a glowing recommendation as a babysitter, I’d never in a million years actually leave her with my kids.
But I know this show she’s putting on is only to guilt-trip me into feeling bad or letting her go home early. Which I don’t and won’t.
As much as I already love the boys—because I do—it’s wonderful to have time alone with just Josephine again, like old times.
It seems she’s of the same mind, energized to have my sole attention as we set up the Bluetooth speaker in her room to play her favorite pop star’s newest album.
We sing loudly as we dig through her boxes, set up her shelves, and organize her art supplies on her new desk.
Yeah, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about Autumn.
We’ve just finished lining up Josephine’s army of Squishmallows on the corner of her bed when the doorbell rings, my phone chiming from my doorbell camera with the notification that someone is at my door.
“Dinner’s here!” I call out as I carry the pizza boxes that were just delivered.
I set them on the eat-in kitchen table with a padded bench seat built into the back wall.
Josephine grabs a stack of paper plates and napkins to set the table while I prepare a bottle for Benjamin.
“Finally. I’m starved,” Autumn says, turning the corner with Benjamin on her hip and holding Sebastian’s hand.
Both boys are wearing fresh pajamas, Sebastian’s wispy strands damp and combed neatly to the side.
He’s even smiling…until he sees me and wraps his arms around Autumn’s right leg, her feet bare.
I’m absolutely struck dumb, frozen just after lifting a slice of pizza from the box. The cheese and tomato sauce slide off the crust and land on the table with a splat.
Autumn’s top lip curls. “Stop looking at me like that.”
I swallow. “Like what?”
“Like you want to put a baby in me.”
“Jesus Christ, Autumn.” This infuriating woman has a filthy mouth and balls bigger than mine. “Who says things like that?” Immediately, I cut my gaze to Josephine, who, thank all that’s holy, isn’t paying us any mind. “And I’m not looking at you like…not like that.”
“Yes, you are,” she says with a huff, helping Sebastian onto the bench. “It’s the same look my brothers-in-law give my sisters. So stop it.”
I drop the sad pizza slice on a plate and snag a napkin to clean the table. “You’re being ridiculous. And crude. And completely—”
“Right on the money?”
“No! And you can’t say stuff like that, especially in front of the kids,” I tell her, flicking wide eyes back to Josephine.
Autumn doesn’t catch my look of panic as she plates a slice for Sebastian and helps tuck a napkin into his collar.
“Seriously,” I say when she still hasn’t responded.
After grabbing Benjamin’s bottle, she takes the chair at one end of the table so she’s close to Sebastian, propping Benjamin on her lap.
“You’re not even my type,” I blurt while cutting Sebastian’s pizza into smaller pieces, and I’m immediately mortified.
We’d passed each other a few times in the hallway, but it’s not until now, I realize, that Autumn finally nails me with direct eye contact, making me shiver.
She stretches her legs out onto the chair beside me, opposite the bench, and crosses her delicate ankles.
My mouth turns dry when her toes wiggle in my periphery. Why can’t I stop looking at her feet?
A cat-like smile slides onto her face. “Whatever you say, BigDawg.”
“Type of what?” Josephine asks, having seated herself next to Sebastian.
Her voice snaps me out of my stupor. “Huh?”
“You said Autumn is not your type.” Through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza, she asks, “Type of what?”