Chapter 7
SEVEN
Chloe
I run my hand through Jake’s wild sandy-brown curls, twirling the silky locks around my fingers.
“I wonder if Grandpa would take you to the barber before you guys take off tomorrow,” I say absently.
Jake’s hair has gotten out of control. It’s one hundred percent the color of his dad’s, but that curl is all mine.
“Nah, I think I want to grow it out,” he says, scooting down on the couch so his head is on my lap.
This is such a weird stage he’s in. Tap-dancing back and forth over the line of wanting to grow up but still being a little kid.
“You do, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I wind and unwind a curl and tell him, “Grandpa’s going to give you a hard time this weekend. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. That’s okay. Nonna will shush him and swat at his hand. She’s good at that,” Jake says. “You’re gonna meet us at Uncle Brent’s after dinner, right?” He rolls onto his back, so his big brown eyes, wide and sweet, are looking up at me.
The fights over not taking a shower and the ones over taking too long of a shower seem like they belong to someone else. And for a moment, his hormonal attitude forgotten, he looks like my baby boy.
“That’s the plan. I have some meetings I have to go to at school, but then I’ll drive up to meet you guys. Why don’t you hop into bed, sweets?” A big part of me hates to disturb this precious scene, but the side of me that has to get up early and drag this kiddo out of bed is far more practical.
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles. Crunching his little body up off my lap, he grimaces and pulls his elbows in tight. The noise that flies out of him belongs more to a man than a boy and sends him off to bed in a fit of giggles. Because let’s face it; farts are funny.
I check the locks and turn off the lights as I make my way up the stairs. I peer into Jake’s room, and in the few short minutes since he blasted off the couch, he’s already slack-faced and lightly snoring.
The dog watches from the guest bed across the hall as I pull Jake’s door most of the way closed. I wipe toothpaste from the counter in the hall bathroom, impressed that he at least did a quick brush without being told, and douse the light.
In my bedroom, I softly close the door, leaning my back against it, and sigh. For a short school week, this one has wiped me out. Presidents’ Day weekend is a welcome little break. Life has definitely been a lot simpler since moving to Virginia. There’s undeniably less upkeep on this house than there was on the farm in New York, but this solo-parenting thing is still not for the faint of heart.
It’s a crapshoot whether Jake will bounce out of bed since he doesn’t have to actually go to school or if he’ll go full-on teenager and want to sleep until noon. The probability of my preferred outcome is not one I’m willing to gamble on, so I pack my bag for the weekend at my brother’s house. That’s one less thing to worry about in the morning.
On that note, I turn the water on, letting the shower heat up while I grab an old t-shirt to sleep in. One that’s so worn the cotton is paper-thin and the unit logo from Dallas’s very first assignment is faded to just a ghost of an image.
I peel off my clothes, dropping them on the floor, and step into the steamy bliss. Warmth beats down on my shoulders, the showerhead pulsing water jets into the tight muscles across my back.
The heavy scent of lavender fills the enclosed space as I pour gel onto my shower pouf and let the suds wash over me. I’m not a huge fan of the scent, but one of the other teachers in my department mentioned that it helps her sleep, so I’m willing to try. As I stand under the water, rinsing the bubbles away, I pull the handheld spray from the wall and direct the water down my body.
My thoughts wander to broad shoulders and dirt-smudged thighs as the pulse hits my clit. The image of water sliding over hard-packed muscles, turning dark brown hair almost black, dances through my mind. Heat races through me, and I shudder from a stolen orgasm, hoping and praying that the combination will send me off to dreamland.
The pipes squeal when I turn off the water and reach for my towel. Realization hits me that Dallas wasn’t in my mind for the big finish; it was someone new. I dry off, pulling on panties and my shirt. Stuffing my bucket full of guilt down, I turn the bathroom fan on full blast to clear away the steam. Then, I brush my teeth and crawl into bed.
With the hum of the fan providing the perfect white noise, I will myself to relax, to let the soothing scent pull me under. Intentionally focusing on each body part—from my feet to my knees, hips, back, shoulders—I imagine melting into the mattress. I feel that delicious victory of sleep within reach.
The bathroom fan sputters and goes silent. Bronson drops to the floor and pads across the hall to Jake’s room. And just like that, every tiny and insignificant noise in the house, all the creaks and groans, amplifies, chasing away all hope of a full night of sleep. I drag myself from bed and flip off the switch for the useless fan, grab my tablet, and sink into an e-book. It might lull me to sleep, or it might keep me up all night for just one more chapter. Who knows?
The blare of my alarm rips me from my dreams, and from the feel of things, I’m pretty sure I have the edge of my tablet imprinted on my cheek from where I fell asleep on it. In the distance, the fridge door rattles closed, and the sound of the TV drifts up the stairs. At least I won’t have to fight to get Jake out of bed.
Since I have a full day of meetings and seminars, I dress in skinny jeans and a light sweater. I grab Jake’s bag on my way downstairs. Coffee for me, kibble for Bronson, and without much fuss, we are out the door.
I pull into the parking lot of the high school, sliding into the spot next to my mom’s car. I’m pretty sure I get the better end of the deal when I trade Jake, his overnight bag and backpack for a bag of doughnuts and another coffee. I’m going to be counting on the caffeine and sugar to get me through the morning.
Team-building exercises follow department meetings, causing the day to drag on endlessly. I swear this is the longest Friday ever, and when the clock finally ticks down to three o’clock, it feels like years have passed. Seasons have come and gone. Continents have shifted.
I race home to pick up Bronson and throw my bag in the car, but as the garage door lifts, water spills down the driveway. A chunk of drywall hangs from the ceiling. Panic rips through me, and I hit Erin’s contact on my phone as I rush to pull boxes out of the path of the waterfall.
“Hey, Chloe. Can you hang a sec? I need to?—”
I hate how rude I sound, but I cut her off, yelling way louder than is necessary, “There’s water pouring through my garage ceiling.” I don’t know what to do.
“Shit. Okay, hang on. Let me see if Blake can get away.”
The line goes dead, and I know I’ve got to do something. I run into the house, and Bronson passes me, hightailing it right out the door. Obviously, he’s been dealing with this catastrophe for longer than he wanted to.
My phone vibrates with a call, and I swipe at the screen, hoping the unknown number is Erin’s husband with a quick and easy remedy.
“Chloe, it’s Miles. I’m on my way. Have you shut off the water?” The deep timbre of his voice drives me up the stairs toward my bathroom.
“The shower taps are off, but water is still running.” Tears sting my eyes. This is the last thing I need.
I barely register the sound of an engine rumbling to life over the whoosh of my renovation funds flushing down the drain with the endless flow of water.
“The main shutoff. It should be by the water heater. A red lever.”
I race back through the house and skid to a stop in front of the water heater. It takes very little effort, but the relief from the halted flow is almost immediate.
“Got it. It’s off,” I say between heaving breaths, not entirely sure if they’re from a little bit of running or a whole lot of panic. “Now, what do I do?”
This isn’t supposed to happen. I might have expected it in the old farmhouse when Dallas and I first bought it in New York but not here. Not in this newer house.
“Take a deep breath and grab yourself a beer. I’ll be there in ten, and then we’ll figure out what we need,” Miles says like this is nothing. Then again, it’s not really his problem.
Am I even going to be able to get a plumber to show up on a Friday afternoon? I pop the top off the last bottle of craft beer I brought with me in the move.
I make my way out to join the dog on the front step and wait for Miles. Bronson rests his head on my thigh, and I stroke his sleek fur, pushing his ears back. My mind races, bouncing from one thought to the next. I stare at the sunlight dancing through the leaves on the tree shadowing me, bright spots skipping across the grass.
Bronson lifts his head, attention focused down the street. He stands, ambles toward the driveway, and sits. Seconds later, Miles’s truck comes into view, causing Bronson to expectantly wag his tail.
Miles steps out of the truck, wearing trim-fit khakis and a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He pushes his aviators up to rest in his thick brown hair and bends down to greet the crazy-ass dog dancing at his feet.
“You got another one of those?” he asks, eyeing my beer bottle.
“Nope. This is the last,” I tell him. I push up to my feet and join him as he takes in the mess in the garage. Soggy cardboard and ruin fill half of the space. “Really wishing I had made time to put all that crap away,” I mumble, stopping next to Miles.
“No doubt.” He peers up through the busted ceiling, pulling down the hanging chunk of drywall. “What’s above here?”
“My bathroom.”
“Anything funky been happening in there?”
It’s an innocent enough question. Although I’m sure he’s referring to pipes and plumbing, my face still heats at the memory of my shower last night.
“Toilet running, pipes clanking?” he adds.
“Um, they squealed last night when I turned the water off after my shower, but I didn’t hear anything after that. Didn’t see any leaks this morning.”
At least, I don’t think I did. With my lack of sleep last night and chatting with Jake this morning about visiting his cousins, I was distracted.
I follow Miles up to my bathroom, watching as he looks around.
He opens the access panel in my closet that backs up to the shower. “Yep, busted.”
Again, I’m pretty sure he’s referring to the pipes, but my brain goes straight to guilty thoughts.