Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Renthrow
It’s a bad idea for me to be around Cordelia Davenport. If she’s not grabbing my arm and trying to rope me into being her fake boyfriend, she’s crashing into my lap, accusing me of skinny shaming, and staring at me in a way that sends shockwaves straight to my heart.
It had felt completely natural to have that woman in my lap.
Perfect, even.
Like she was meant to sit there.
If Gordie hadn’t bellowed loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear and sent Cordelia shooting like a rocket out of my arms, I wouldn’t have remembered why it was a big deal that she was sitting on top of me.
And that’s very, very bad.
“Hi!” Gordie runs to Cordelia and tilts her head up to meet the mechanic’s eyes.
“H-hi.” Cordelia takes a furtive step back as if my daughter’s a feral animal about to bite her.
Gordie’s eyes dance with laughter. “I sit in Santa’s lap at Christmas. Did you think my dad was Santa?”
I’m nowhere close to being jolly Old Saint Nick, but Cordelia’s face is red enough to match the gift-giver’s oversized coat.
The fact that she’s so embarrassed makes her look cuter somehow and…
Nope.
This woman is not cute.
And she’s not pretty.
I mean, she is pretty.
Objectively, she’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that tries its hardest not to lean into the feminine and somehow ends up looking more sultry and appealing when all is said and done.
She’s in all-black today, which seems to be her typical fare.
But the black jeans are tight enough to leave no space for the Lord—as our school-dance chaperones used to say.
The black tank top exposes her elegant collarbone and dips low enough to prove that she’s a hundred percent woman under everything.
I don’t want to notice.
It’s annoying that I do.
There’s a reason I didn’t jump on the Cordelia Davenport fake-boyfriend train when it came racing down the track after the game yesterday. I don’t have many Prince Charming acts left in me, but what I do have is reserved for my daughter.
A daughter whom Cordelia looks ready to climb the table to get away from. And earlier…didn’t she get startled because of the naked baby running around?
I have no interest in dating again. But even if I did, it would not be with a woman who doesn’t like kids.
“Sorry to intrude,” Mom says, appearing behind Cordelia. She’s trying her best to hide a pleased smirk, but she can’t quite stick the landing. “I came by to tell you that the nanny you were supposed to meet canceled at the last minute.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Did she?”
“Yes,” Mom says, giving me the phoniest frown I’ve ever seen. “I tried to call you, but you weren’t picking up.”
I bet if I check my phone right now, there will be no missed calls from my mother.
“Well, I better go,” a tiny voice squeaks. Cordelia edges past my mother, giving Gordie a wide berth. “I have work to do.”
Mom panics. “But it’s still lunch. You have to eat, don’t you?”
“Not hungry,” Cordelia counters, making a run for it.
“But…I wanted to ask about your motorcycle!” Gordie calls.
The mechanic stops in her tracks so fast, smoke billows from her boots. “My motorcycle?”
Gordie points to the bike that we can all see through the glass window. “I borrowed some motorcycle books from the library, but I couldn’t find yours in there.”
Cordelia’s eyebrows rise with every word from my daughter’s mouth.
“I asked the librarian for help, but she didn’t even know what a CVO Glide was,” Gordie says, her nose scrunching the way it does when she can’t find the answer to a question.
Cordelia’s eyes bump to me in disbelief.
I lean back proudly. That’s right. That genius came from me.
The mechanic’s gaze flies to my mother in question.
Mom laughs. “Oh, this is nothing. You should hear her when she starts going on about rockets.”
Cordelia considers my daughter with a more serious look. “My bike’s a CVO Glide, but it’s not going to be in any of the books or even in the motorcycle magazines. It’s last year’s limited edition.”
Gordie’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“They only produced a few to celebrate their anniversary.” Cordelia pulls her phone out of her pocket, scrolls to a picture, and hesitantly offers it to Gordie. “There’s the serial number.”
“Cool!” my daughter raves.
Expensive, I think.
A lady who can get her hands on a limited edition Harley Davidson is not the kind of lady I can court, even if I wanted to.
Which I don’t.
It’s just one more reason on the dog pile of reasons why I should stay away from Cordelia Davenport.
“Gordie,” I get my daughter’s attention, “Miss Davenport needs to go back to work. She doesn’t have time to talk about—”
“I don’t mind,” Cordelia says, shocking the breath out of me. She takes a hesitant step toward my daughter. “The bike also came with this replica keychain.” Cordelia takes out her wallet and unclips a small motorcycle trinket.
“It’s so pretty!”
“If you like it…you can have it,” Cordelia offers. I notice her hand shaking as she extends the toy to Gordie.
“Really?” My daughter beams. “Thank you.”
Her shoulders hiked up to her ears relax a bit.
“You said you read about the first CVO Glide?” At my daughter’s enthusiastic nod, Cordelia adds, “My bike has a lot in common with the 1999 FXR2. If you look here at this picture, you’ll see how everything wraps tightly around the engine.
Unlike the Dino line that has more space… ”
My mother’s eyes glimmer as she looks at me over Gordie’s head.
I grit my teeth.
Mom whistles a tune. “Goodness me. I forgot I had an appointment. Viking, I’ll leave Gordie with you and run out real quick. I’ll be back before your lunch break ends.”
Mom leaves me alone with the ladies, confident in her matchmaking schemes.
I bet she’d be disappointed to learn that the only people who get close thanks to her little setup are Cordelia and Gordie. I spend the rest of lunch listening to them chat about bikes and pretty much forgetting that I exist.
It’s not until I get up to pay the bill that Cordelia startles. “Oh, I’ll get it.”
The mechanic goes for her wallet, and I stiffen, deeply offended. “Put your hand down, ma’am.”
“I insist.”
“I won’t ask again.”
“I should at least pay my share,” she says, glancing down at the fries she ordered somewhere between their discussion on the difference between internal and external combustion engines.
I pretend not to have heard and make my way to the counter.
Unfortunately, I hear the thud of soft, booted feet behind me.
I sigh. The woman is more stubborn than a defenseman with a grudge.
“How’s it going, Mr. Renthrow?” Shaina says from behind the counter, giving me a big smile. “I hope you’re not upset about what went down today. Your mom paid me fifty bucks to seat you two together.”
“It’s okay, Shaina. But a heads-up would have been nice.”
“You got it. I’ll switch my loyalties.” She rubs her fingers together. “For a price.”
I laugh. Shaina’s been my emergency babysitter on the days when Miss Truman was out of town, so we know each other well. I also know that she’s saving up for college and can be bought.
“What’s my bill?”
“That’ll be—”
“Charge it to this,” Cordelia says, striking out a black card without looking at me.
“Don’t you understand English?” I grumble as I extend my own card. It’s not black, but it’s got enough to pay for our meal and her fries.
“Today’s little ‘mix-up’ was probably orchestrated by my mother. It’s my fault you wasted your time today, so I should pay. It’s only fair.”
I turn to her, noting the way she stiffens when our eyes meet. “I have never and will never let a woman pay for a meal that’s shared with me.”
“Shared with—this wasn’t a date,” she bites out. As if I need that clarification.
My tone hardens. “I’m aware of that.”
“Then why can’t I pay?”
“This is my personal principle. I’m showing my daughter how a gentleman behaves, so she doesn’t expect any less in the future.”
“You? A gentleman?” One hand anchors to her hip. “Wouldn’t a gentleman help a lady in distress instead of coldly walking away from her?”
She’s intentionally picking a fight, but I’m tired of the back and forth. Since Miss Davenport has already determined that I’m not a gentleman, I decide to hammer in the point and snatch her credit card out of her grip.
“Hey!” Cordelia protests.
“Shaina.” I shake my card at her.
“Got it.” Shaina takes it and taps it on the scanner.
Cordelia’s eyes burn with anger. I can’t say I’m bothered by that.
“Here you go.” Shaina hands me my card back.
I smile at her, tip my card in a salute at Cordelia, and turn around, shooting out a sarcastic, “Don’t have to thank me, darlin’.”
Her bitter laughter rings behind me.
I smile a bit wider.
But, as I’m walking back to the table where Gordie is scribbling furiously on her tablet, I feel someone touching my bum. I whirl around, surprised to find the little spitfire stuffing cash in my back pocket.
I stare at her in shock.
She gives me a victorious smile. “I’m a Davenport, Mr. Renthrow. We don’t take kindly to owing debts.”
I stand still, a strange, unfamiliar heat unfurling from deep in my stomach and lashing through my veins.
If this isn’t the most bull-headed, dramatic, irritating slip of a woman…
Reaching between us, I hook my finger around the belt loop of her jeans and tug. She stumbles forward, landing flush against my chest. Bambi eyes, which were already a tad too big, now take up half her face.
“W-what are you doing?”
Heck if I know.
But let the record show that she started this.
I glance down at her back pocket, notice the way she’s filling out those jeans, and immediately decide against sliding the money there as she’d done to me.
Instead, I step back and curl my fingers over hers. The slide of my thumb against the center of her palm makes her shiver and sends a very unwelcome shot of adrenaline through my body.
I slip the money right into her hand and wrap my hands around hers, forcing her fingers closed.
Leaning in so close, I can smell the heady mixture of her perfume and engine oil. I whisper, “I’m a father, and when I say this is the example I’m setting for my baby girl, Miss Davenport”—my eyes dip to her lips before meeting her gaze again—“I mean it.”