Page 32 of The Haunting Plot

My eyes drift down to his middle and the slight stretch marks around his belly button. He shifts uncomfortably, holding his shirt in front of his stomach. “You don’t have to say it. I don’t have the washboard abs like the men in your books.”

“My books?” Does he know I write romance books?

“Yeah, I saw you had some on your shelf in your office.”

I rack my brain for what books he could be referring to. I’m careful not to display any of my books since not even my friends know that I write romance, and I don’t want them finding them when they come over for playdates. In fact, I’ve done such a good job throwing them off my trail that they think I hate romance books, so I don’t even have any out. He must be making assumptions about whatever he saw on my shelf. I want to get mad about that, but he’s not entirely wrong.

Sawyer clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring at his belly while my thoughts drifted. Unsure of what else to say since I’m not about to share that thought spiral, I blurt out, “I like your stomach.”

“You do?” I don’t miss the surprise in his voice.

“Yeah. There’s something innately masculine about a man who likes to eat, who’s confident in his skin and mature enough to know that life is about balance. Ripped abs are nice to look at, but most of those guys are way too concerned about macros and impressing each other. And if they’re worried about all that, there’s usually not a lot of space left in their brain to think about your needs.”

He runs a hand up and down his stomach, and my eyes track the movement. “So this does it for you, huh?”

I shrug. “I mean, I don’t find it unappealing.”

“I can’t stop thinking about your perfect fucking nipples,” Sawyer says without missing a beat.

My throat goes dry. It feels like various parts of my body malfunction when I’m near him. Why is he having this effect on me?

He takes a step toward me, his eyes flicking down to my chest. The air in the room is heavy as I struggle to inhale. His hand clenches at his side. Is he going to touch me? Do I want him to? He leans in, placing a hand on the wall behind me, his big naked chest inches away from me, still glistening with sweat. His voice is husky when he speaks. “Do you have any deli meat or crackers hidden in your bra today? It’s nearly lunch, and I’m hungry.”

“I’m not hiding a fucking Lunchable in my bra, you nitwit.”

“How would I know that? You had crackers in there yesterday.” His impossibly blue eyes lock with mine as a smile teases his lips. “And I think I prefer moron to nitwit if we’re talking pet names.”

A puff of breath escapes me as I scramble out from under him, not feeling the least bit sorry for what I have planned. “Bring that glass with you when you come down for lunch.”

“Are we having cheese and crackers?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

I turn down the hall, calling over my shoulder, “You wish.”

I swear I hear him mutter, “I really fucking do.”

CHAPTER 10

SAWYER

Ienjoy getting under Raven’s skin. Only a few tasks into this project, and I’m already dreading the day it’s over. I’m desperate for more time with her. To prove to her and myself that I can be what she needs. Plus, the pencil wizard is the coolest fucking kid, and I really want to impress him. And his mom.

Maybe I’m a masochist, but I would endure anything Raven wanted to put me through. I spent ten years married to a woman who did nothing but criticize my every move. Nothing was ever good enough. At first I went above and beyond to show her my worth, but once I realized I was never going to please Jocelyn, I stopped trying. I worked long hours in a high-stress job, and when I came home, all I wanted to do was relax, something that is nearly impossible with kids, especially when one of those kids has ADHD and never stops moving.

It’s not like I expected my ex-wife to do all the cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing—I contributed in all of those departments. But Jocelyn was insistent on everything being fifty-fifty at all times, and there were days when my brain or body couldn’t give one more thing. If she cooked, I had to immediately do the dishes. Sometimes I wanted to sit down and digest my meal, and I’d get to the dishes eventually. That wasn’t good enough for Jocelyn. If I didn’t do everything her way on her time frame, I was a bad husband. And after years of her telling me how awful a husband I was, I started to believe it.

What was wrong with me that I couldn’t just do the things she wanted me to do?

We had different ideas of what marriage should look like. I wanted a partner. Someone who would carry me when I couldn’t go on and someone I could support when they needed it. Some days the burden might be split evenly, but other days one person may carry more than the other. It would even out in the end. But Jocelyn wanted it even every single day. We tried to make it work, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t give her what she wanted. And that failure haunts me every day.

I poured myself into being the best father I could be, which only seemed to piss off Jocelyn more. Our co-parenting relationship has been tenuous for all six years of its existence. It doesn’t help that we share the kids every other day during the week and every other weekend. Some weeks I get the kids for three days, others four, and I can never seem to keep up with the schedule, so I’ve had to make myself a dozen reminders on my calendar. I’d suggested we do every other week, but that didn’t mesh with Jocelyn’s work schedule. And this renovation is gonna be tricky since I’ll need to bring the kids with me in order to stay on Raven’s timeline. Luckily, our kids are already friends.

Once I finish ripping out the drywall, I measure the opening for the doorframes. I’ve really got to focus on the task before me, but my mind tends to drift down rabbit holes.

Fuck, it’s hot up here. I throw back the last of my lemonade and realize I need to pee, but I’ve turned the water off to the upstairs bathrooms. I head down the stairs to the half bath near Raven’s office.

All that liquid is running through me as I shuffle, trying to tug my pants and boxers down, but the sweat is making it difficult. Why do I always wait till it’s an emergency to pee?

As soon as my ass hits the seat, I know I’m fucked. My balls land on something solid, and before I can stop it, pee streams out of my dick. I can’t make sense of what’s happening. Did I forget to lift the lid? I look down and can clearly see the water beneath me.