Page 12 of Pucked Up Plans
He ambles ahead of me, and my eyes dart down to his pert ass. Inwardly, I scold myself for noticing.
He’s off-limits.
You’re not his type.
You can’t date anyone at this point in your life.
But damn. Walsh Keeley would be a mighty fine choice.
CHAPTER 5
WALSH
In my humble opinion, my girl’s got a heart of gold. I’d like to think I’ve had a minor part in cultivating it, but she came like this. She certainly doesn’t get it from her mother. I may have “loved” her once, but Megan’s not what one would call friendly. She’s way more cold than warm, although her icy demeanor has thawed since first learning about Lennon. Almost as if a motherly instinct lay dormant inside her.
Ever since she was little, Lennon’s had this way about her, this natural ability to read people’s emotions. To back off when needed, to let other people have the limelight, as in today’s case. I don’t know how she senses it, but she’s hardly ever wrong. She’s got an old soul, surely.
Focusing on Lennon’s behavior allows me to ignore the beauty walking a few paces behind me. I keep inserting myself into her life: buying marshmallows for her kid, leaving my number so she can text me how the kid likes them—can you say ulterior motives—and now inviting them to the park. Sure, much of it’s for Lennon’s sake, something I’m convincing myself to seem a little less obvious. I should not be this wound up about a woman, the mother to one of Lennon’s friends, nor someone I met less than a week ago.
By the time I reach the toddler swings, Lennon’s already sitting in one, having scrambled into it on her own. She never lets her size hold her back, and when the girl wants something, she’s balls to the walls and keep out of her way until she gets it. It will get her far in life, when she uses it for good. Not at bedtime against me, especially when I’m exhausted from the day.
Aubrey stands to the side, her fingers fiddling, her eyes wide, an unreadable expression on her face. The one mirroring her mother’s. She’s not quite the spitting image of Tate, but they share a similar shape of their faces. Aubrey’s hair is chestnut brown to her mom’s darker, almost black, locks. Where Aubrey’s eyes are more hazel, Tate’s are a deeper chocolate brown.
No, Walsh. Do not go there.
Tate goes over to Aubrey, bending down to her level. I ignore the way she folds herself, her butt sticking out, curves fully on display in the crisp linen shorts she wears. “You want to swing yet, sweetie?”
“I’ll watch Lennon.”
The gleeful expression on her face is in contrast to a girl who’s just going to “watch” someone else. But who am I to force her into something she doesn’t want to do?
I stand behind where Lennon sits, waiting somewhat patiently. “Let me know when you’re ready to swing. I’m happy to push you too.”
Lennon twists her torso and studies me with a kindhearted expression, my heart bursting with love for my daughter. A love I never felt until she came into my life, one growing stronger with each passing day. “She’ll be ready soon, Keeley. She just needs an extra minute.”
“I think you’re right,” I respond to her thoughtful comment, pulling the swing back, just the way she likes it. Letting go, the swing powers forward, her giggles and delight as joyful as ever.
She’s always loved the swings. Now that she’s a little older and extinguished her fear of not holding the chains with a death grip, she loves the “older” swings, going as high as she can. She hasn’t yet mastered the art of pumping, but it’s not for lack of trying. Skating athleticism doesn’t translate to swings.
“Wheeeee!” she shrieks, laughing and having a grand old time.
I propel her as high as I can without it being too dangerous—don’t need any more of those judgy mothers on my case again. Seriously, the kid’s had blades of steel strapped to her feet as a toddler, but the swing’s going too high?
After a few minutes, I sneak a peek at Tate and Aubrey. The girl stands at her mother’s leg, and the smile she sports is still big. I wave her over, and surprisingly, she doesn’t hesitate. She pulls her mother along behind her, who hoists her up into the swing next to Lennon. Taking her position behind Aubrey’s swing, Tate smiles kindly my way. I’m not entirely sure what I did to earn such a warm and inviting beam, but I’m grateful for it. There’s something mesmerizing about her, a feeling I haven’t experienced in a long time.
Dare I say ever?
No. It’s been two quick encounters. Focus on the kids, not your neglected cock.
Except I have the faint suspicion it’d be more than just sex with her.
Fortunately, Lennon’s voice diverts this runaway train of inappropriate thought.
“All done. How about we feed the ducks now?”
“Sure, Squirt.” I allow the swing to come to a stop on its own to give her a last few sways. She brings her legs in to stand up, which invokes the gasp. You know the one—from the mother who’s appalled at the young man who’s allowing the kid to standin a swing.Stand!Still holding onto the chains. Me in arm’s distance.
At first, I think it’s Tate, which saddens me. Sure, her kid’s less courageous than Lennon, but she doesn’t seem like one of “those” moms. But I guess I’m stereotyping her into that category. Just because she’s young doesn’t mean she can’t judge other parents.
