Page 20 of Everywhere You Look

“Would it be okay with you if I did?” Dean asks, answering their question with a question. Both girls are silent for a beat.

“Yes, it would be good if you lived here all the time. You’re the best storyteller,” Mellie sighs.

“And your braids are better than Uncle Lukey’s,” Lemmie pipes in.

I snort, the urge to jump in and defend myself strong. But Lem is right, my braids always turn out sloppy. I haven’t quite gotten the hand of neatly tying together strands of the girl’s super soft hair, but my buddy is a total pro.

And don’t even get me started on Ollie. I still can’t figure out how Dean manages to get those clip in bows to stick in the one blonde curl that sticks up out of her head.

I watch as a flush works its way over Dean’s cheeks, and even down to the bit of chest I can see poking out of his black v-neck t-shirt. His bottom lip trembles, and if I were a betting man, I’d wager all my money that he is currently reciting his pass completion statistics in his head to keep himself from crying.

“Well, pollitas, that is good news for me. Because I love reading stories to you and I love braiding your hair. I love fishing with you and I love when you paint my nails. And when you do my makeup? Psshh. You girls make me feel like the most beautiful guy on the planet. So, yes, I think that as long as it makes you happy, I will stay here forever. Becauseyou two and Ollie? You girls make me happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life.”

And now I’m the one fighting back tears. Fuck, Dean is good at this. I wonder if being good with kids is something that just comes naturally from having good and loving parents? But then again, Gigi was an incredible mother to her daughters. Hell, she was practically a mother to me—and she didn’t have the role models to show for it. Most days I feel like I’m treading water just trying to keep Lemmie, Mellie, Ollie and myself alive.

I think some people, like Gigi and Dean, are just wired differently.

Seemingly content with Dean’s declaration of forever, Lem and Mel cuddle into each other and finally give in to sleep. They don’t stir when Dean rises from the bed, nor do they make a noise when I lean in to press gentle kisses to their foreheads and whisper the goodnight saying Gigi would sing to them before bed each night. The same one she used to whisper to me when we were kids.

“Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bug bites.”

We tiptoe out of the room, Dean quietly pulling the door until it’s only just cracked behind us. I quickly check my phone, opening up to the baby monitor app to find Ollie still sound asleep in hercrib on her stomach, her little baby butt sticking straight up in the air while she dreams.

With all three girls sleeping and accounted for, I gesture towards the stairs that lead to the kitchen. Dean falls in step next to me, and once we’re there, we seamlessly move around each other. Dean grabs a tub of cherry chocolate chip ice cream out of the freezer while I find an ice cream scoop and two clean mugs—because mugs are the best vessel for eating ice cream. They’re smaller than a bowl, which helps people like me with an insatiable sweet tooth and eyes bigger than my stomach keep their portion control in check. And the handle is perfect for keeping your hands from freezing while you eat. I’ll never understand why anyone would choose to eat ice cream from a bowl when mugs exist.

I also grab two spoons—teaspoons, because I know Dean prefers them over the bigger spoon options—and we settle in at the table. Dean scoops the ice cream and I squirt whipped cream over the top and then finish with a drizzle of Hershey’s syrup. We clink our mugs, and then dig into our sweet treat.

“So,” Dean says around a mouthful of his second spoonful, “I guess it’s official.”

“Yeah,” I nod, digging in my mug for a chunk of cherry. “I think you promising Lem and Mel forever kind of seals the deal.”

“Now we just have to promise the same to each other,” he says with a quiet laugh.

“No big deal,” I chuckle, and we each take a few more bites of ice cream. Dean brings his spoon to his mouth, leaving a small dollop of whipped cream on the corner of his lips. Instinctively, I reach out and brush the sugary cream away with my thumb. Dean’s breath hitches when my finger makes contact with his lip, and the quiet sound sends a small thrill rushing through me. Without thinking, I pull my thumb away and pop it between my lips, sucking the whipped cream off with a slow, wet pop.

Dean’s throat works, and when I look into his eyes, the usually shining grey and green irises have gone stormy.

Those eyes, those beautiful, shining, captivating eyes that I suddenly want to memorize every swirling color of zero in, right on my lips. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs, highlighting the light brown scruff of his five o’clock shadow, and the movement is mesmerizing. Like if I just leaned in a bit, I could feel the muscles of his throat working against my lips.

I’d be lying if I said I never noticed just how beautiful Dean is before. Honestly, it was the first thing I noticed all those years ago when he was nothing more than a guy on TV playing college ball across thecountry. His hair is a unique shade, similar to late autumn leaves or steeped oolong tea. Not quite blonde but not brunette, either. Like his genes couldn’t decide between the two and went with both instead. His jaw is so perfectly sharp and chiseled that it doesn’t matter if he’s clean shaven, has grown out his football season beard, or if he’s somewhere in between like today. Either way, it’s easy to tell that the damn thing was sculpted out of marble. He has a slight bump on his nose, one that I know he got from the one and only time he found himself in a fight. It was middle school, when some dumbass kids tried to give him shit for having two dads. Dean shut them up with his fists, proving that he has always been braver than I could ever aspire to be.

Dean is bigger than me, too, which is a rare thing for me to find in another man. We’re built similarly, both being bred for the gridiron, but Dean’s chest is a bit broader, his muscles slightly more filled out, and he’s six foot five to my six foot one. All of that combined with his kindness, sense of humor, and the fact that he is basically sunshine personified, and I should be a goner for him. But when we met, it was more important to me to have a friend who I clicked with and who could relate to the reality of being queer in the NFL, so I set my physical attraction aside. And now there are three children’s livelihoodsat stake, so keeping things with my fiancé platonic is even more crucial.

Fiancé.Damn.

That’s…heavy.

And yet, when Dean’s tongue peaks out and runs over his bottom lip, his eyes still dark and intent on my mouth, a bolt of lust shoots through me. My dick stirs in my pants, and the stark reminder that the man in front of me is someone who, in any other circumstance, I would like to take to my bed shakes me out of my trance. Because this isn’t any other circumstance. I can’t stare longingly at Dean’s throat, wondering how his stubble would feel against my lips. I can’t have my dick noticing just howgoodhe smells, or how close his knee is to brushing mine. I clear my throat, adjusting myself in my seat to the growing bulge in my lap under the table.

“So, ground rules,” I say, my voice coming out an octave higher than it usually is. Dean holds his gaze for another beat before subtly shaking his head and running a hand through the mess of honey-swirled hair on his head.

“Right, ground rules. Um, I made a list of some on my phone. I thought we could go through them and see what we want to add or take away.”

“When did you have time to make a list of rules?”I ask. We’ve been together all day, and unless the proposal was premeditated?—

“When you were in the bathroom with Lem and Mel at the Pier, after Mellie got mustard in Lemmie’s pigtails. Ollie was content in her stroller with her stuffed sea lion, so I jotted down some ideas.”

Ah, right. The mustard fiasco. Mellie accidentally brushed Lemmie with her hot dog, leaving the tiniest drop of mustard on the end of Lemmie’s hair, and all hell broke loose. They fought, screamed, scratched, and then Lemmie wouldn’t stop crying until I took them to the bathroom and rinsed her hair out in the grimy public sink.

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