Page 46 of Detention with Daddies

Ivan is grinning at me when I arrive, but I notice that his dad is nowhere in sight. I raise my brow at him. “Where’s your dad?”

“Had a work emergency. He’ll be back before dinner. He always is.”

“Mm-hmm.” I wave him along. “Show me your kitchen.”

I mean, I can see it peeking out of the back of the house, but I don’t want to just charge my way inside. Still, Ivan won’t stop smiling.

“So, what kind of cupcakes are we making? Do you know what she likes?”

“I was thinking chocolate? I see her eat them sometimes.” The blush on his lightly tanned cheeks has me knocking my shoulder into him.

“There’s nothing wrong with paying attention. Do you two ever hang out?”

He shrugs. “In gym sometimes. We’ve been lab partners a few times too. A lot of her friends are friends with my friends, but we’re usually not…you know.”

“I do.” Being young and being interested in someone else is scary.

“When I get the chance, I make her laugh. It’s high and sweet.” Again, his cheeks turn red, and he won’t meet my gaze.

“Girls like boys who can make them laugh. That’s a good sign. And I have the perfect chocolate cupcake recipe.”

He guides me around the kitchen a little, but most of it, I figure out myself. I’m far too familiar with poking around in other people’s kitchens. We have fun. Ivan is a good kid. Funny. I get why he can make Chelsea laugh.

We’re a mess as we frost them. I brought a few piping bags and tips to play with, and I’m impressed with his dexterity. They look good, even though we’re smudged with the chocolate fudge icing and powdered sugar when Matteo gets home.

He stands in the doorway, his usually stoic self seems a bit more stony—darker as he peers at us for a long beat. I turn to Ivan with a raised brow, and he only offers me a shrug.

“I mean, I did send him a text.”

Yeah, I had too, but I hadn’t gotten an answer…How much trouble are we both in for this?

“You’d better go clean yourself up,” I say softly. “And apologize to your dad.”

Ivan trudges toward Matteo like he’s going to the guillotine while I clean the mess up in the kitchen.

I don’t hear their conversation, other than, “Aw, come on, Dad.”

Sighing, I wash the rest of the dishes—I’m pretty good at cleaning as I go, but the water keeps me from listening in on their moment and means I can slip out of here quickly.

Ivan gives a long, suffering sigh, sends me an annoyed but apologetic look, and stomps up the stairs.

I’m drying my hands when Matteo approaches, ready to pack everything up and get out of here. I hate that I overstepped, yet Matteo stops me with his hands on my shoulders. His touch is light, tentative.

He takes a deep breath that I can feel against my back, and I try not to think about how warm he is. Or how close. “I’m guessing he told you that he asked me.”

“He did. I texted you too.”

“Yeah. I saw it in passing but didn’t actually read it until I was parked in the driveway.”

“Well, shit.”

“How inappropriate has he been with you?” Matteo’s voice is low but not threatening.

I turn, and his hands drop to the counter around me. We’re so close. My heart races, and I bite my lip, looking up at him as he waits for my answer. “He wasn’t. We were just making cupcakes for a girl at his school that he’s got a crush on. It’s her birthday tomorrow.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps and relaxes, but he doesn’t retreat. I feel trapped, but not in a bad way. It’s strange how much I want to reach up and brush my hand over his short, trimmed beard and the stubble along his throat. His mouth is soft, with a full bottom lip.

“He likes to push his boundaries sometimes. I’m sorry for assuming the worst. I like that you want to help him. That you were willing to spend your Sunday here to do so.”

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