Page 27 of Pucked Up Plans
Crap.
I all but utter the word aloud, giving myself away to Carley who’s chattering about something or another. Most likely a hot, older guy. Who may be a dad. Which in no way describes Walsh. A dad, yes. Older, no.
He waves me over. The nerves from earlier flurry stronger with his invitation.
I cut my friend off mid-sentence. “Car, I gotta go. Doors are opening. Talk soon. Love you.” My finger jabs the red button, effectively ending the call before she can accuse me of giving her the runaround. No doubt I’ll have a dozen text messages by the time I get back to my car.
A need to compose myself overcomes me, so I delay a couple of minutes to check myself in the mirror to calm my nerves.
“It’s just a playdate for your kids. This is not a date for you. He’s just a man. A hot, sexy, college hockey player man, but still. You’ve got this.” Emphasis on thehotandsexyandhockey player.
The broad shoulders.
The powerful legs.
The brawny arms.
My pep talk does little to quiet the pounding of my heart or the slowing of my pulse. When Walsh waves me over a second time, I get out of the car and walk toward him. Trying to wear some bravado on the outside, I make my way to him, hoping he doesn’t see through my act.
“Hey. You didn’t specify what chips you wanted with your sandwich, so I went with barbecue. But I got salt and vinegar for me so we can trade if that’s more your style.”
His offhand comment about chips has me stumbling. Right into him. He makes quick work of bracing me so I don’t fall, steadying me by my shoulders before removing his hands, making sure I won’t fall. His touch ignites fire, the flames felt places with no contact.
“Whoa. You okay?”
Embarrassed, I can’t look him in the face, so I stare at his arm. Despite a slight chill in the October air, the sleeves of his button-down are rolled up, his tattoo on full display.
Without realizing what I’m doing, I grab hold of his arm, yanking it so I can inspect it in more detail. Lennon’s name inswirly script on top of black, newborn footprints, her date of birth below meets my vision.
“This is so cool. Are those her actual footprints?” At first glance, I assumed they were just a reproduced image, but upon closer examination, there are lines and crevices, intimate details carefully etched on his arms. Inked reminders of the miracle of life, preserving the memory of her tiny feet.
“Yep. I had them transferred from the identification card.”
“Wow. I love it.” My fingers trace her feet, his skin soft under my touch. He doesn’t pull his arm away, and I’m still holding onto it, caressing his skin. I wonder if he senses the jolts of energy on my skin at our connection.
My brain yells at me to remove my fingers from his arm. It takes me a moment to comprehend the message, but then I let go, as if his hand was burning mine.
Which it is. Figuratively.
“Thanks.”
The opening of the school doors cuts off any more he’s going to say, kids exiting the building with the usual end of the day happiness. Lennon and Aubrey hold hands. Lennon skips to us, tugging Aubrey behind her. My girl does her best to keep up, but coordination isn’t her thing. While she stays upright, she’s more like a raggedy doll being tugged behind a kid.
“Hiya, Keeley,” Lennon exclaims, jumping into his outstretched arms, letting go of Aubrey’s hand at the last minute. Bree stumbles slightly, but I’m there to catch her.
“Squirt. How was your day?”
“We made applesauce. With real apples and a press. It did not taste good.” She sticks out her tongue to prove her point.
Afraid to upset her friend and disagree with her opinion, Aubrey whispers in my ear, “It was yummy. Not as good as the one you make.”
Walsh leans in closer to us. “Do you put sugar in the one you make?” His smug grin confirms he heard what Aubrey said.
Ignoring the way his proximity heats my cheeks, I reply, “Only apples.”
Lennon’s distaste shows on her adorable face. “Can we talk about it later? I’ve been waiting weeks to watchLittle Einsteinswith Aubrey.”
“It hasn’t even been one, you goofball.” Walsh fits his fingers under Lennon’s armpits, tickling her to the point of laughter.
