Page 2 of Pucked Up Plans
“Only you.”
“At Nordic?”
“Even better.” He pauses, heightening her anticipation. I can’t help but be invested in finding out what his answer is. Even though I don’t have a clue what they are going on about in the slightest. “At Aspenridge.”
At the mention of the college, she leaps into the air, throwing herself against his chest. With little effort, he catches her. She loops her arms around his neck and exclaims, “That’s the most ’mazing thing ever.”
“I thought you might like it. Even if we have to go grocery shopping before we get there, right?”
Her hands cup his cheeks. “Can we get marshmallows? You ate all of them last week and didn’t replace them.”
This kid is a riot. I’m so entranced in their conversation, I almost miss Aubrey patting my leg. I peer down at her. The face I’ve loved since the minute they put her on my chest looks up expectantly at me. “Mommy, what are smarshmellows?”
“Only the best thing ever.” The guy’s voice pulls my attention away from my daughter to him yet again. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a shit-eating grin on his kissable lips.
Down girl. Don’t even think about it. Don’t even think about him.
Lennon wrinkles her nose, the confusion evident on her adorable features. Addressing my daughter, she wonders, “You’ve never had marshmallows?” Aubrey shakes her head. Lennon regards the man. “Keeley, we need an extra bag for Aubrey. Think that’s doable?”
This time I can’t help the chuckle emitting from deep within me. What preschooler talks like this? Certainly not mine.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “Does she always speak like that?”
He trains his gaze my way, piercing me with a stare. But not in a bad way. And his eyes don’t even ogle me. Which is probably for the best.
“Unfortunately. She’s definitely wise beyond her five years.” He engages in a stare-down with the little girl. With the two of them so close together, I notice the resemblance in the eyes, nose, and cheeks. It’s cute they have such a sibling bond. “Can we grab a bag of marshmallows for you? Lennon’s treat. It’s her turn to buy.”
Lennon’s little eyes roll again. “Don’t be ‘diculous. I gotta save my money for new skates. I told you last week.” She puts a lot of emphasis on the wordtold, drawing it out beyond the one-syllable word it is.
“Guess they’ll be my treat then.” Lennon nods fervently in agreement.
Lost in his cobalt eyes, I suddenly remember my manners, shooting down his idea gently. “Oh, no. You don’t have to do that. We can grab them the next time we go to the store.”
“It’s no trouble. Especially since she’s never had them before.”
Polite as ever, Aubrey pipes in, “Thank you. I can’t wait to try them.”
I don’t think she understands what’s involved here. She knows she’ll be getting marshmallows, which she’ll probably hate. The girl’s sweet tooth is nonexistent, the main reason she’s never had them.
The man shifts Lennon to his hip, situating her in such a way only a guy with experience can do. Offering his hand, he declares, “Lennon will bring them into school next week. I’ll make sure they’re in a sealed plastic bag, so they aren’t a temptation to open before she gets home.”
I’m not sure how to react to this man’s kind gesture. Is this a Vermont thing? Should I get used to this weird sort of encounter? The sharing of food with virtual strangers?
“Uh, thank you?” I hate how the phrase comes out as a question, but my confidence has gone missing since I’m still contemplating what’s happening. Besides, the way he studies me, his penetrating gaze is a tad unnerving.
“Sure thing. A friend of Lennon’s is a friend of mine. And everyone should know what marshmallows taste like.” His left eye shoots a wink in my direction. At least he’s not judging me for not serving my kid marshmallows before now. When he looks down at Aubrey, I swear her cheeks flush.
Get in line, girl.
Oh my god. I have to get my mind out of the gutter.
His hand is still outstretched, waiting for me to shake it. “Nice to meet you…” He trails off, his hand still in the air.
“Tate,” I provide, hoping it’s my name he’s waiting on. His genuine grin confirms it.
“I’m Lennon,” the girl states, “and he’s Walsh.”
I frown at her introduction. I could have sworn she called him something else. Twice. How did I get that so wrong?
