Page 119 of Pucked Up Plans
“I missed you, Tate.”
“And I missed you too.”
She gives one last squeeze before pulling away completely. On my right, I find Aubrey in the air, embraced by Walsh. He’s holding her exactly the way he does his daughter, and for a brief period, I can’t breathe. The way she’s snuggled against him leaves me overcome with feelings. Because for all this time in her life, she’s never once had that—the devotion of someone akin to a father. And damn if I don’t want to give her one. Specifically, the one currently holding her.
“I want a dad like Walsh.”
Her words from months ago ring in my ears, matched in intensity with the pounding of my heart. It’s so loud I wonder if anyone else can hear it.
She moves her head to the side before leaning in and leaving a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for letting us make donuts, Walsh. I hope they taste so yummy.”
I’ve seen Walsh dole out love and affection for Lennon many times, and it hits me right in the feels. But the way he responds to Aubrey’s comment—with the same twinkle and care in his eyes—about does me in.
Finding a man who’d love me hasn’t been high on my radar. I’d nearly come to terms with Aubrey and me always being a family of two. I never expected Walsh, with his generous personality, his quirks I can’t help but love, a daughter of his own. But damn. Now that I found him, I don’t think I can givehim up. Not either of them. And by the looks of it, neither can my daughter.
I’m brought back to the present by Walsh’s deep voice. “You’re welcome, Aubrey. Think you can talk Lennon into helping us in the kitchen?”
Aubrey ponders for a minute, her finger tapping her chin. “I’ll see what I can do.” I can’t keep the giggle inside, and Walsh complements it with a chuckle. She wiggles out of his arms, eager to play. Before she disappears in search of her friend, she turns and locks eyes with me. “Call me when you’re ready to make the batter, Mommy.”
I can only nod. Not because of the comment, but because of everything transpiring in the last ten minutes. Or longer. When I stepped outside and found my car cleared of snow.
I may regret my action later, but I immediately fall into Walsh’s arms, hoping beyond hope neither of the girls sees our embrace. The surprise on his end is evident, but he accommodates appropriately, wrapping his arms around me.
Unsure of how long I stay tucked into him, I don’t move until my heart rate is back to normal.
“Hey, you’re good?” He holds me at arm’s length to assess my mental state. Ever since we had sex, he’s been more attuned to my moods and emotions.
“Yeah. Happy to be here with you, to spend the afternoon in the kitchen watching you try to ‘help.’” There’s so much more I want to say, so many secrets to spill, but I rein it in. The entryway of his parents’ home is not the place to clue him in. He deserves privacy.
“I’ll have you know I’ve been working on my skills. Even boiled water yesterday for pasta all on my own.”
I pull out of his embrace so I can slow clap and observe his cheesy grin. “Boiled water. Wow. Super impressed. I should hand over my apron to you for every meal.”
The shock on his face is priceless, as if I’d do that.
“No. Please don’t. I won’t survive on my own. Who will feed me? And my child? We’ll starve.”
“Pretty sure Millie wouldn’t ever let that happen.”
She never would. Even when he moves out and gets a place of his own, unless he moves super far away—something I don’t foresee—she’d never let them starve. At least not Lennon.
But most likely not her son either. Heck, she feeds his teammates. I haven’t been privileged enough to attend a hockey dinner at Millie’s, but I learned all about them the night at the hockey house. Seems she’s a bit of a celebrity with the team. For good reason.
He swipes a hand across his brow. “Phew. Thank goodness one woman in my life has my back.”
A smile brews on my lips, and the emotion in my chest expands. Not sure how much space remains.
“Come on. I need your help reducing the apple cider before the girls assist.”
His head shakes. “May just be your girl. My girl might bail.” A deep sigh rumbles out. He starts for the kitchen, and I trail behind.
“That’s okay. I’ve got lots of time to work with her to love cooking and baking.”
My feet stop moving. What the hell am I saying? She’s not “mine” to work on. Sure, Ihopethis relationship lasts for “lots of time,” but is there a guarantee it will?
That would be a big fatno.
All the emotion filling up my chest deflates rapidly at the thought.
