He does as instructed, and we make quick work of the fitted sheet. Then I grab the flat one.
Ryder wrinkles his nose. “Don’t use that one.”
“Why?”
“Because it just gets all tangled up in your feet, and then it makes a chunk at the bottom. Then when you wake up in the middle of the night, it looks like someone is watching you.”
I laugh. “I’ll let Paige know if she doesn’t like it, she can take it off.”
“She can take it off.” My brain immediately goes to my office earlier today, where Paige had taken it all off. Or most of it, anyway.
The thought of her peach-shaped ass and how it bounced as she moved make my cock hard. The lines of that fucking lace stretched over her tanned skin—the fabric almost disappearing between the cheeks—is permanently imprinted in my head. Even the cellulite on the backs of her thighs somehow made her hotter and more real.
Dammit if I don’t need a cold shower.
“Dad?” Ryder asks, snapping my thoughts back to the guest room. “Are you okay? Your forehead is all sweaty.”
“Yeah, bud. I’m fine.”
I toss the flat sheet down and roughly situate it. Then I grab the blanket.
“You’re acting weird,” he says, curling his lip like Elvis.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m not.”
I make quick work of switching out the pillow cases. “Why are you even in here?” I tease.
“You told me to! I want to watch my show!”
I laugh and walk to the door, pulling him into my side along the way. “I’m just kidding ya.”
“Were you kidding about Paige too?”
I flip off the light. We stop in the hallway. I look down at my son with a concerned look.
“I wasn’t. She really is going to stay here for just a little while. Is that okay with you? If not, you can tell me,” I say.
He hops from one foot to the other like standing still might kill him. I have no idea where this kid gets his energy, but I wish I had some.
“It’s okay,” he says. “She’s sleeping in there, right?”
I nod.
“And she’s making me breakfast?” he asks.
“What? No,” I say, laughing. “Why would you think she’d be making you breakfast?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I like breakfast, and the girls on the shows I watch are the ones making breakfast.”
“You’re watching some messed-up cartoons if the guys never make breakfast. What are you watching? I need to block that.”
Ryder giggles. “I’m not telling you because I like them. But does this mean you’re the one that’s still making my breakfast because, if you are, stop burning my toast. It makes me throw up a little all morning.”
“Dude, I’m not burning your toast.”
“Yes, you are.”
I grin at him. “I’m not even toasting your toast. I’m warming up a piece of bread. I can’t toast your toast because you complain.”
“You toast it too much because it still makes me burp.”
I shake my head because I’m not sure what to say. How do you argue with a seven-year-old over toast making him burp?
Sighing, I wipe a piece of banana off the side of his face.
“Toast aside,” I say, getting serious again. “Paige isn’t here to make anyone food or to play games with you or pick up your toys. She’s our guest, and we’re going to remember that, okay?”
“So don’t ask her to play Minecraft?”
“No.”
“Or check my room—not for monsters,” he says, his eyes going wide. “For … spiders.”
I snort. “Right.”
“And no to breakfast.”
“No to breakfast.” I shake my head. “Just manage not to ask her for anything, okay?”
And I’ll manage not to slip inside her room and eat her like a dessert.
My balls tighten. I have to stop thinking like this.
“Okay.” He licks his lips. “You should take some medicine because you’re sweating again.”
Ugh. “You go … brush your teeth.”
“Dad!”
“And wash your face. You have banana goo all over your mouth.”
He stomps his foot. “Can I finish my show first?”
“Nope, but you can finish it after if you stop giving me lip and just go do what you’re told.”
His eyes meet mine like he’s going to press his luck. This is a new thing with him. He used to be so sweet and easygoing. Now he’s a borderline teenager with a taste for arguing that has me a little worried about the actual teenage years.
He stares me down and waits for me to flinch. Men bigger and meaner than you have tried and failed, kid.
Finally, he sighs. His shoulders slump in a dramatic performance worthy of an Oscar.
“Fine,” he says, stomping toward the bathroom.
“Good decision.”
I wait until I hear the water turn on before I head to the kitchen. Sure, he might be screwing with me. I could peek into the bathroom and see him standing in front of the sink while the water runs down the drain. Actually, that’s happened before. Lucky for him, I’m too preoccupied to be that solid of a parent tonight.