As a single mom in a small town, there's only one thing I want. Another baby. When all the roads to getting what I want lead to dead ends, I turn to one of my best friends for help.
In my mind, Trent Castillo is the perfect baby daddy. He has good g...
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Since the break-in, Trent's been at the shop even longer hours than normal. Although he hasn't said much to me, I've overheard conversations with security companies about cameras and sensors, and I can almost sense a thread of worry sewing itself underneath Trent's tough exterior. I've always said he's the softest tough guy I've ever met, but he's been doing an impeccable job of putting up an impenetrable mental and emotional barrier between us the last couple of days.
Any other week, it might not bother me that he's pulling back, distancing himself a little. In some ways, it's a relief because we were becoming so close, and a tiny sign at the back of my brain has been flashing a bright yellow caution regarding my emotional attachment to him.
But the calendar doesn't lie, and with the way Trent's been behaving, I think there is a real chance today will go unnoticed.
So, when I drop Amir off at jiujitsu, I decide to pay Trent a visit at the shop. The front door is fixed, and when I open it, a doorbell goes off throughout the shop. That's new.
"Hello?" Trent calls from the garage area.
"It's just me," I say.
He comes out of the shop, cleaning his hands, and my heart kicks at his rugged, disheveled beauty. Every time he fixes something at the house—big or small—it's like my libido gets switched on. Change a lightbulb. Damp panties. Stop a toilet from running constantly. Clenched thighs. Fix Amir's favorite toy so it works like new again. One grazed fingertip short of an orgasm.
Seeing him come out of the shop, noticing the way his gaze drags along my body, as though the sight of me does the same thing to him, gives me a boost of confidence. The distance that he's stuck between us made me wonder whether I'd have the conviction to do what needs to be done.
"Everything okay?" he asks. "Amir at jujitsu?"
"He is," I say. "Can I talk to you in your office for a minute?"
Trent throws the cloth he was using toward a wash bin and leads the way to the back. Once we're in the office, I close the door, and I push in the lock.
He sits in his chair, rocking back and watching me.
On the wall is a bank of screens, and each camera seems to be pointed at a different part of the shop—the bays, the front desk, the parking lot. There's even one that seems to be recording in here, and I glance behind me to see one perched high in the corner.
"Isn't that overkill?" I ask.
"Whoever broke in tried to get into my laptop," he says. "Until the police know who did it, I've got eyes everywhere."
"How long does it keep the recording?"
"Each recording is saved for a month."
"Can anyone else see the footage?" I ask, a hint of nerves hitting me. What I had planned didn't account for this.
