When we get to the house, I insist that Hazel sit at the dining room table and start her homework, a habit I’m trying to re-instill. In so many ways, her year away with Melanie has rusticated her; she’s like an escaped animal who’s gone feral. I have to retrain her on all her old, good habits.
I sit across from her where my laptop is already open on the table, and take a moment to watch her. She’s completely unselfconscious, her head bent over her work thoughtfully as she scrawls notes on a page. She bites her bottom lip, two white teeth stabbing the swollen flesh of her full lip, and her hair-pulled back but coming loose-drapes over the sides of her face. Her mother’s brilliant red hair. A little Melanie, but one who’s sweet, and unjaded, and sincere.
When she finishes her work, I close my laptop, too. “Spaghetti for dinner?” I ask, and she nods happily. I’d almost forgotten what a pleasure it is to cook for her, how making dinner for her night after night had always been one of my great joys. She climbs the stairs to her bedroom to change and I wish I could ask her not to. Her school uniform reminds me so much of the little girl she still is inside. The white knee socks, in particular, I can’t take my eyes off of as she mounts the circular, metal stairs. They’re so perfectly innocent, virtuously masking her legs up to the knee, her bare thighs only hinted at below the rough, plaid skirt. I make a mental note to visit the school uniform website after dinner tonight, and purchase one or two new ones.
******
I’m in the kitchen setting the sauce on simmer when Hazel comes down looking perplexed.
“Did you get rid of my underwear?” she asks.
I cover the pan and set the wooden spoon on a plate, turning to face her. She’s changed into a t-shirt and leggings, her hair combed out and loose behind her, and she looks more like a typical teenager and less like a child than she does in her ponytail and knee socks.
“Yes. You need a lot of new things, Hazel. I’m going to order you a new school uniform tonight, too.”
She isn’t accusing, just confused. “But where are the old underwear?”
“I’ve put them away,” I answer, without saying where. “I don’t want you wearing your mother’s old underpants, and they’re too sexy for a girl your age anyway. You need new, clean underwear that belongs to you alone.”
“Dad!” she laughs. “I’m eighteen! Don’t you think these underpants are a little young, though?” She holds up a pair to show me, draped over her pointer finger. It’s white cotton spattered with tiny pink flowers, and a miniature pink bow at the front of the waistband. They’re cute.
“You’re seventeen,” I answer emphatically. “And no.” I frown, but I know she can see the amusement in my eyes. “Those are proper underpants. Anyway, is there someone looking at your panties who’s going to care?”
My comment hits the mark, making her blush. “No!” she protests. “Of course not. It’s not that. It’s just that girls are my age are wearing things from Victoria’s Secret, you know.”
“Well, not you. I’m not your mother, and I don’t want you wearing sexy panties to school. Now go put that away and wash your hands. Dinner will be ready in a minute.”
She leaves the kitchen with an exaggerated huff and I strain the spaghetti noodles, aware of a low heat swirling in my groin.
Hazel wanting to appear sexy isn’t new. She was hitching up her school skirt before Mel and I separated, and she’s had a precocious interest in boys for almost as long as I can remember. But I don’t think Hazel realizes that the stakes are different now. She’s not a gawky little girl trying to grow up anymore, she’s grown.
She’s got undeniable sex appeal, pure sin on legs. The kind of walking temptation men will do dangerous things for. Plump, kissable lips, full, bouncing breasts-every inch of her holds erotic promise. I can’t turn off the genes that made her such a teenage sexpot. All I can do is try to keep her safe, and guard her childish innocence.
Even if, for some reason, that’s what I find most dangerously tempting of all.
Chapter 10
Xavier
It’s nice to have Hazel in the house again, although it keeps catching me off guard. I’ve gotten used to living alone, especially in this new house, where there are no memories of Melanie and Hazel. Catching Hazel’s red head as she prepares a snack in the kitchen or sprawls out on the couch keeps giving me visions of Melanie. For half a second she’s my wife before I realize she’s my daughter. Grown up and filled out. Although she’ll always be my little girl, she’s become a woman in so many ways in the past year.
I find myself noticing Hazel’s figure, or breathing in her scent when she’s near me. She smells like vanilla and coconut, like a sweet confection. With her pale white skin, crystal blue eyes and bright fiery hair, she looks like one, too. Something delicate and rich, like spun sugar.
My eyes wander to the fine bones of her wrists, or the long stretch of her neck, or the surprisingly full globes of her breasts, and I have to blink and look away, catching myself with shame.
She may look like Melanie, but she’s not Melanie. Where Melanie can be cruel, jaded, and selfish, Hazel is bright, energetic, and kind. There’s a lighter energy to the house with her in it, and I realize how much I missed her loud, sudden laugh, or the way it feels between us when we share a special moment. The way she looks at me like my approval is the only thing that matters to her in the world, the way we can smile at each other without saying a word and we each know it’s love.
By the time Friday rolls around, I know it will do me good to get out of the house and break this new awareness of Hazel that’s verging on a fixation. When we get home from school, I prepare Hazel’s dinner, shower and get dressed, and I’m almost out the door when she casually lets me know that Kye is coming over to watch a movie.
I freeze in place and turn around to face her, slowly. “Excuse me?”
She bats wide blue eyes at me, looking confused. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes it’s a problem,” I respond tersely. “You waited until the last minute to tell me this because you know it’s a problem.”
She blinks, a guilty look flashing over her face. “We’re just watching a movie. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Hazel.” I tilt my head at her. She can’t honestly think I believe that.
For a minute, I consider cancelling the date I have this evening. I just don’t trust this kid, Kye. As I debate my options, I stand there staring at Hazel, working my jaw as I think.
Hazel has her beautiful hair down, flowing in curls over her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing a tight white tank top that sets off the flawless porcelain of her skin and clings to the round curves of her breasts, which are full in proportion to her stick-thin frame. She’s gorgeous. At eighteen, I would have devoured her alive. There’s no chance Kye is going to keep his hands off of her.
My pulse flutters as I run my eyes down her neck and over her curves, and I’m ashamed to feel my own blood heat up.
I should go out. It will do me good. I can’t watch Hazel every minute, trying to protect her virginity. She’s practically an adult.
“I don’t want him coming over, and that’s final,” I say with authority, glaring down my nose at her. I hate that so many of our interactions have been this way since she got here-me the domineering father, her the bratty kid. But after a year with only Melanie to supervise her, she’s gotten more used to getting her way. It’s natural that we would struggle to re-establish healthy boundaries.
“Dad, c’mon,” she protests. Two angry red spots bloom on her cheeks.
“If I find out that kid has so much as stepped foot on this property,” I growl, “you’re grounded.” I march through the foyer and out the door before she can try another plea.
I’m tense as I arrive at the restaurant to meet Cynthia, the new Junior Architect at my firm, but my shoulders drop a little when I spot her at a table across the room, waving to me.
Cynthia is young, maybe thirty at the most, and extremely hot. I know it’s not wise to date someone from work, but agreeing to take Cynthia out for dinner ended up being the path of least resistance. She made her interest in me very clear only days after starting her new job. It hasn’t been unusual in my professional life for junior women to flirt with me, women with fantasies about fucking the boss, and I usually manage it professionally and courteously, but there’s something kind of naughty about Cynthia that intrigues me. Even as I approach the table, the way she watches me seductively, boldly holding my gaze with her feline, almond-shaped eyes, holds the promise of excitement. I find myself looking forward to this date more than I have looked forward to any date for a while now.
We start with martinis and apps. Cynthia drinks quickly, I notice, and barely touches the food. We talk about her career and education, and I learn that she’s twenty-six, born to immigrant parents, and did some modelling before her parents insisted she quit to focus on school.
“How about you?” she asks. “Marriage? Kids? Thwarted life dreams?”