Page 61 of Sweet Thing

“Oh, fine. How about you?”

His lips twitched at my turning it on its head. I’d felt him, hard between my thighs. I’d heard him crying out my name at the peak of desire. Sure, he had told me it could never happen, and while it was hard not to take that personally, I also understood that there wassomethingbetween us.

“Not great, but I’ll live.”

That made me smile. We both had our crosses to bear.

He cleared his throat, drawing a line under it. “I’m going to the gym, assuming you’re okay with staying with her for a while.”

“Of course. In fact, I was planning to take her to a class at the Chicago School of Folk Music.”

“Music? Isn’t she kind of young for that?”

“They’re never too young for music. This is a JiggleJams session, geared toward infants. Tilly used to love it. Now Mom takes her to one for older kids.”

“I really appreciate this extra stuff you’re doing. I didn’t expect anything beyond feeding and changing her.”

“Stimulating all the baby’s senses is important. She’s going to be a super well-adjusted baby. Don’t worry.”

His mouth scrunched up, like he had something more to say. “You should talk to your parents about what happened in Greece.”

“Maybe … when the season is done.”

His brows V’ed together dramatically. I was starting to love that look, all scowly concern. “When it’s done? That’s six months away, eight if we go all the way.”

“Now’s not a good time, Lars. This year is so important to Dad, and anything that upsets him will only throw him off his game.” And that included dalliances with teammates. What was I thinking?

“You think he can’t handle hearing his daughter was hurt?”

“I think it would start to live rent-free in his head.” Sighing, I headed to the coffee maker. “If something happened to Mabel, don’t you think it would mess withyourmind?”

“Sure, but I’d also want to know.”

I tried another tack. “You might not remember this, but about thirteen years ago, the Rebels were in the Finals. It was Game 4 and they were 2-1 down in the series against LA. Suddenly my father was scratched from the game.”

“Yeah, some personal issue.” He shrugged. “So?”

“That morning, I had a fight with Rosie because she told me she liked my brother Hatch and she planned to marry him, which made me so upset that I screamed at her.”

He squinted. “How old were you?”

“Ten. Rosie and Hatch were twelve. I thought if they got married I would lose them both, so I ran away. I planned to go to my great-gran’s cottage in Saugatuck and I thought I could take my bike there. I was missing for nine hours.”

Bafflement gave way to awareness. “Your dad missed the game because he was worried about you.”

“Yep. He flew home to Chicago, and when he landed, I had already been found, hiding in Erik Jorgenson’s basement. It’s where he keeps his very large Christmas collection.” Erik was probably the most holiday-obsessed person I knew. “I got tired on my bike about ten minutes in, so I hung out with a weird Swedish elf and cried into Erik’s Jul-themed cushions.”

“Remind me how the game went.”

“They lost that one and the next. Finals done. My dad was crushed, and it was my fault.”

“Jesus, Adeline.” He stepped forward and took me in his arms, and I let him because I needed the comfort. I needed the assurance that I was making the right call here. “I get it, sweet thing, I do.”

Sweet thing?He’d called me that last night in bed (oh, how I wished that reference was as smutty as it sounded). He still held me, and it felt glorious.

Until the glorious feeling was replaced by a new, exciting enhancement against my belly.

He didn’t take a step back which would’ve been the sensible thing to do. Maybe neither of us was feeling sensible. My hand lay on his chest, my fingertips absorbing the heat and vitality of him.

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