Page 104 of Single Dad Dilemma
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the peas and the applesauce were fornutritional valueand wouldn’t go bad, but instead, I pushed that tongue into the side of my cheek, because he hadn’t gotten to the inexplicable boxes of Fig Newtons yet. I didn’t evenlikethem. “What wouldyouhave gotten?”
“Not this.” He opened another bag. “That’s something, at least.”
I snatched it from him and pulled out four bags of chocolate chips. “You won’t be complaining about my choices when I make cookies and they’re full of these.”
“Do I get to eat them?”
Oh great, now he was teasing me.
I sniffed. “Undecided.”
He braced his hands on the counter and peered down at the pile titledLily’s Irrational Grocery Store Adventure. “How about if I make dinner? Will you share the dessert?”
My eyes narrowed in a glare. “Do you purposely make everything sound sexual?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “No. You did say you have a dirty mind.” Barrett rubbed his hands together. “How about grilled cheese? Might as well use up some of that bread.”
“You’re really going to make me dinner?” I asked, giving him a sidelong glance as I riffled through the laundry basket to see what pajama options I’d ended up with. My nose wrinkled. Two baggyT-shirts, and that was about it. Where was a girl’s fleece pajama set when she needed one? I wasnevergoing to warm up again.
“That seem strange to you?”
“Yes.” A balled-up pair of socks was wedged into the bottom corner of the basket, and I yanked them out for layering purposes, careful not to fling any underwear around. “No one ever cooks for me. Unless I’m paying for my meal.”
“Oh, you’re paying, all right,” he said, walking around the counter to stack the groceries in a neat pile next to the fridge.
“With what? You already took sex off the table.”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I regretted it.
Barrett’s movements slowed. “Do you think I’d make you pay for meals with sexual favors?”
If there wasn’t a dangerous glint in his eyes, I might have thought he was offended.
“No.” I watched his face as he turned again, continuing to put away the food I’d bought. “I think you’re a gentleman.” His hands paused, but he didn’t face me. “I think that you equate sex with serious relationships. And you’ve probably never dated casually in your entire life. That’s probably why I can’t figure you out.” I swallowed, pushing down my nerves, ignoring the bursts of warmth that came with accidental eye contact and a brush of his skin against mine. “You flirt with me. You seem to be unbalanced by me, I guess.”
Eventually, he did turn around, but his expression was guarded. I chose my next words carefully, well aware that the two of us were walking a very fine line. At the edge of the cliff, a dizzying fall just on the other side.
Now that I was warm and the fight had drained out of me, down the proverbial drain alongside my embarrassment, I could see how we’d arrived at this place. How each seemingly insignificant step had gotten us right here—where he risked my anger to take care of me. Where I risked honesty even through the fear that had always held me back.
We’d begun this relationship—for better or worse—with our weaknesses on display. Under a blinding spotlight, every wrinkle, every imperfection harshly lit and up for dissection. But instead of feeling worse for it, I found that I liked Barrett’s weaknesses. I liked his imperfections. Even more surprising was that I could fully believe he’d say the same about me.
Which was why saying the rest of it out loud, the truly important part, didn’t fizzle and die behind any of the conversational filters I’d spent over a decade cultivating.
“And you want me,” I said quietly, my own voice hardly audible over the loud clanging of my heart. “I can see it in your eyes right now. But I don’t believe that you’ll do anything about it knowing there’s an end date. And that makes me very curious, Barrett King.”
For a moment, he did nothing but stare. Puzzling me out. Just like I was. There was a flicker in his gaze, the shifting of his thoughts, and I saw the moment he came to a decision.
“Let’s play a game,” he said.
My brow flattened. “What?”
“Twenty Questions,” Barrett continued. “You want to know more? Great. So do I.” His arms spread out wide. “We have nothing but time.”
Time had nothing to do with it. I could’ve spent my time learning jujitsu or how to speak Mandarin. I could do laundry (no) or math (absolutely fucking not) because I hadtime.
This was a bad, no-good, horrible idea. There was a one million percent chance I’d regret it. The thought of someone digging into my past—even if it was him, even with the detestable soft spot I’d developed for this man—made those warm bursts turn to ice.
“What kind of questions?” I asked warily, easing myself into one of the stools at the island.
