Page 50 of The Refiner

Astor’s nostrils flare, that sexy hard line of his jaw prominent as he tries to look serious.

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t that traumatic. Don’t act like you’re scarred for life.”

Men are such wimps. No wonder God let women carry the children. Men wouldn’t survive morning sickness.

“Shut up.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh wow.Shut up. You have officially crossed over into the land of immaturity. Welcome, we’re glad to have you here.”

Elite my ass. Astor Potter might be the patriarch of Potter’s Plastics, but a six-pound little girl brought him down to normal-people level. That’s definitely the blood of a McKellan.

“Anyway, are you hungry? How do you feel about eggs over easy?” I tease. “Or is anything runny too soon?”

“It’s too soon,” he clips, never taking his eyes off me.

“Oh, well, maybe you’ll feel better once you clean the glob of poop off your shirt.”

I really do try to hold back my laugh, but it just erupts out of me when the color drains from his face, his eyes doing a slow sweep of his shirt until he gets to the hem.

“How the—never mind.”

He reaches behind his shoulder and, in one manly motion, pulls the shirt over his head, leaving us both in a trance as I stare at his rock-hard body, and him at the shirt now on the floor.

My oh my, this man and his abs. “Do you ever just lie in bed and stroke yourself?”

Astor chokes, and I realize how that sounded. “I meant your abs, not your….” I wiggle my fingers at his pajama pants. “Not that. I just thought if I had abs like yours, I would lie in bed and just run my fingers through the ridges. It’s like a roadmap. A very hard, very sexy roadmap.”

I think Astor realizes I’m likely sleep-deprived and talking crazy since all he does is grin. And then ruins it. “I do believe that’s another compliment, Ms. McKellan. Admit it. I’m growing on you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t try and be cute. I just saw you cry over a dirty diaper.”

“I was not crying.”

“Sure, you weren’t.” Shrugging, I turn, walking back to Tatum’s crib and laying her down. Looking at Astor’s body clearly makes me stupid.

“I wasn’t.”

Those damn abs appear to my left, and I have to take a deep breath before standing up straight and facing them again. “Fine. You weren’t crying. You were whining.”

His jaw twitches, which only enhances that flexing muscle in his neck that—“Oh, no.”

I cover my mouth, trying to smother the laugh bubbling out.

“What?”

Oh my gosh. “You have a little—” I can’t hold in my laugh as the color, once again, drains from his face.

“Please tell me it’s not what I think it is,” he begs, his eyes closing like this is the worst day he’s had in a while. And dammit, if it doesn’t hit that exposed piece of my heart.

“Stay here.”

As funny as this whole morning has been, I have to draw the line somewhere. The man has suffered enough.

Hurrying over to the changing table, I grab fresh wipes before walking back over and pausing as I stand in front of him, realizing that I’ll have to touch him. Memories of his hand rubbing my back as I laid my head in his lap come flooding back from last night. I don’t even know if he managed any sleep, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, the warmth and pressure of his hand soothing me into a deep sleep.

This man has made sure he’s taken care of me, even when I’ve hated it.

I take a step toward him, his chest rising and falling in a way that lures me in closer until we’re hip to hip. Neither of us makes a sound or a snarky remark when I raise onto my toes, my hand going to his shoulder and his to my hip, holding me steady. I ignore the slight tremble when I press the wipe to his neck and drag it across his skin a couple of times, making sure I got the small spot Tatum left behind.

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