Bachelor Daddy
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Prologue
Never think with the brain below your waist. It will get you into trouble every time.
—Michael Holiday, Man Can Definitely Live by Bread Alone
“As you can see, the master bedroom has a three-window alcove, perfect for a small group seating…or a chaise for your wife.”
Michael Holiday walked over to the alcove with its three windows set in a bay. He glanced at the Realtor. “No wife.”
The Realtor’s polite smile turned more intimate. She was in her late thirties and her invitation was clear. She’d like to get to know him better. Michael considered the options.
From her age and figure he guessed she was encumbered with children—probably grown ones—maybe even a husband, although she wore no wedding ring. He decided to pass. He never involved himself with a mother. Even one date meant complications well out of a man’s control. That was not for him.
But it did remind him tomorrow was Mother’s Day. He had ordered flowers for his mother, but he needed to call her, too. She was the one woman he never passed on. There would be hell to pay if he did.
“What’s the closet space like for this room?” he asked. “My girlfriend needs a big closet”
“Oh.” The Realtor turned businesslike again. The girlfriend ploy always worked. “It’s a walk-in, over here….”
Michael followed the woman into the closet, which was spacious enough for several wardrobes. He wondered what the hell he was doing, looking at a four-bedroom suburban colonial in Marshfield, New Jersey, rather than staying at his two-bedroom town house in center-city Philadelphia— or even moving to a singles community. He didn’t need the space. Despite what he’d said to the Realtor, he had no girlfriend and preferred it that way. The whole problem between men and women were two deceptively innocuous words: love and commitment. He had seen the pain they caused. He had been subjected to it more than once. Never again.
No, he needed a general life change, new blood for his syndicated newspaper columns on suburban life through the eyes of a single yuppie. And he needed a good tax write-off against his half-mil lion-dollar advance from his publisher. Gotham Publishing already had huge orders for his first book, Man Can Definitely Live by Bread Alone: Advice for the Single Male. Gotham even expected the book to hit the New York Times bestseller list, which meant more money and higher taxes. A large, expensive house would help the cause greatly. Michael was happy to pay the government its due, but not a penny more.
He had had this urge lately to put down deeper roots, too. The notion disturbed him on some level, yet he couldn’t ignore it no matter how he tried. Just because his cousin Peter, another long-time bachelor, had recently married didn’t mean Michael had the least urge to do the same. He needed the house for a lot more important reasons, hence the hunting in suburban New Jersey.
“Doing this on Mother’s Day weekend is not prophetic,” he muttered under his breath. He could add his golf swing to the nondomestic list. There was a great course just down the road from Marshfield.
“Pardon me?” the Realtor asked.
“Nothing.” He walked out of the closet and over to the alcove again, wondering what he’d do with it. A wife probably would put a chaise or group seating here. Maybe he would set up his skiing exerciser, to catch the morning light….
Gazing down on the backyard, he smiled at the jumble of shrubs and trees crying out in neglect. The house had been empty for. nearly a year. It needed work inside and out, challenging his old gardening skills, garnered working at a nursery during college summers.
A splotch of pink in the yard behind the house caught his attention. A woman lay on a mat, the sunlight making her slender body glow. What a body, Michael thought, looking at the pink leotard that clung like a second skin to full breasts, flat stomach and taut thighs. She had pulled her dark brown hair back into a ponytail or braid—he couldn’t really tell which and didn’t care; it just looked damn good. So did her profile, with its snub nose and determined chin. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, he decided.
And then she did the most extraordinary thing.
She bent her knees, leaving a good space between her legs. Michael’s breath hung in his throat Slowly, very slowly, she raised her hips until she had created a perfect incline of her body from shoulders to raised knees. As she held the position for a long count, he could see the outline of her stomach muscles, the beautifully tight derriere. Slowly, as slowly as before, the woman lowered her body to the ground.
She did the languorous movement again. And again. Michael wondered what it would be like to lie on top of the woman when she raised herself like that…to be inside her when she did.
His mouth went dry as his brain conjured the imagined sensation. Sweat broke on his forehead. A certain part of his anatomy rose up in perfect timing with her next repetition—and stayed up.
Michael swallowed and wiped the perspiration away with a shaky hand. God, perfection in the next backyard. And he would see it every day if he lived here. Southern New Jersey had many, many very fine days, too, weath-erwise. He bet she worked out outside on every damn one of them.
After a few more incredible hip lifts, the goddess finally stood. The body was everything it promised—lithe and strong. She turned her back to him, bent over and grabbed her ankles, the stretch giving him a view that rivaled any in the civilized world. Michael heard a faint moan and realized it came from his throat. He cleared it, embarrassed to have had such an adolescent reaction at the age of thirty-six.
Her hair hung over her face. Ponytail confirmed. The goddess continued her eye-popping stretch. Thoughts raced through Michael’s head. This woman was younger than he, a fact he usually liked. She exercised outside, clearly making her a sun worshipper. All in the next backyard. Had he missed anything?
His lower body pulsed urgently, confirming his deductions.
“I’ll take the house,” he said hoarsely. To his surprise, he found the Realtor already at his side. “I thought you might.”
