Page 115 of Single Dad Dilemma
“Moresocks. Looking at the snow makes them feel colder.”
With a sigh, Barrett kicked off his slippers and nudged them in my direction. As I shoved my double-socked feet inside, I wiggled my toes and sighed happily.
Barrett motioned for the spatula, and I handed it to him, glancing quickly at his face.
On day two of our snow-pocalypse, we’d traded in for a very different vibe. It wasn’t so muchrampant sexual tensionas it wassweet and innocent because we’re not sure what to do with each other now that all the proverbial cards are on the table.
After we dozed for a bit longer, I took a quick shower and tried very hard not to make eye contact with my reflection because I didnotwant to see the collateral damage of my little mental breakdown in the midnight hours. When I was done, face cleaned and damp hair slicked back off my face, Barrett was busy in the kitchen making french toast.
Two meals in a row, folks, and I didn’t even have to take off my underwear. It was some kind of new world record.
He did some work at the dining room table after breakfast, talking to Bridget more than once. Two other men called him, and they discussed things like draft picks and plans for the combine, and it all sounded incredibly official.
It was a nice morning, all in all. Without being asked, Barrett pulled the electric blanket off my bed and transferred it to the couch, where I blasted that sucker up to high and curled up with my Kindle to read. Fine, half the time I was staring at him over the edge of my Kindle, gaze darting back down to the screen anytime he raised his from his laptop and tablet. There was no lingering eye contact. Just a guy doing work and a girl reading steamy fanfiction about the same two idiots falling in love.
At least, until he brought out the glasses.
They had dark frames—black, maybe—and he pulled them out of a nondescript leather case before sliding them onto his face. My throat went dry, and my Kindle was slowly lowered all the way down into my lap, lest it interfere with the untapped professor fantasy playing out in front of me.
Barrett noticed, doing a slight double take when he caught me gawking.
“What?”
Intelligent words seemed a bit beyond me at the moment, so I settled on, “Glasses. Why?”
His mouth softened in a wry grin, which absolutely twisted my stomach in knots, and he adjusted them on his face. “Staring at screens most of my day. Makes my eyes tired after the season is done. I know, they probably make me look older.”
“Yeah, practically geriatric,” I said airily. At least, I tried to say it airily. It came out all choked and wonky. Even though his mouth didn’t move, I’d swear it in a courtroom, the man’s eyes smiled. “It’s not attractive. You should take them off.”
Barrett hummed, then went back to work, glasses still very much on his face.
I rolled my eyes and tried to focus on my story.
After a few hours of relative peace, he forced me to watchRudy, sitting at a respectable distance away, still wearing those fucking glasses. When I surreptitiously wiped my cheeks at the end of the movie, he didn’t gloat, just handed me another tissue.
I swiped it from his hand. “How many tissue boxes do you have around this house? They keep popping up everywhere.” I blew my nose and wadded up the tissue in my hand. I wasn’t going to admit this just yet, but watching that movie made me feel like I’d run through a brick wall for Rudy.
“Two.” Barrett stretched an arm over the back of the couch, his fingers coming dangerously close to my braid. If he kept looking at me like that with those damn hot-teacher frames on his face, I’d mount him like abike. “I just keep moving them wherever you are, just in case.”
That one comment was the only time we’d danced around what happened the night before, just innocuous enough that it didn’t make me want to hide under blankets all day.
“Funny,” I said, peeling off the blanket. That was about the time I informed him he was helping me make cookies. It was either that orask if I could sit in his lap and stare at his face, and I wasn’t sure he’d agree to that just yet.
The TV remained on in the background, Barrett having switched it to a sports talk show after the movie was over, and with the sides of the bowl finally scraped and the dough acceptably mixed, I caught him watching the talking heads discussing his first season as a coach in Buffalo.
“You know what I’m gonna say,” the first guy said, leaning back in his chair. “I thought he was too young to be a head coach at his last job, but he did all right because the system and the players were established. But starting over in Buffalo, with a new quarterback he didn’t draft, was a recipe for disaster. When he benched Archer Evans, I thought that man had lost his mind.” He shook his head. “End of the Barrett King era before it could even start.”
His coanchor tossed a piece of wadded-up paper in his direction. “Go ahead, say you were wrong. I want to hear the words coming out of your mouth. My man Barrett did his thing, and there’s no arguing it. That guy needed his ass benched. Not many coaches would’ve had the stones to do it.”
“I reserve the right to change my mind.” The first guy held up his hands. “That’s all. I’m notsayingI was wrong, but I need to see what they do next season before I actually admit he can hack it as a head coach.”
I narrowed my eyes at the screen, wondering who the hell these guys were and why they got to talk shit.
Barrett continued scooping dough onto the cookie sheet. “This is a good size?”
“Little bit bigger,” I told him. “No one wants a dinky chocolate chip cookie.” He scooped another one, and when he glanced up, I nodded, continuing to study him when he made another ball of dough exactly the same size as the last one. “Is that weird?” I asked.
“What?”
