Page 69 of Pucked Up Plans
I tug him into the kitchen and give him a job.
“Peel these potatoes. Please,” I add sweetly.
“This is a lot of potatoes for you and Aubrey.”
“Making mashed for the lunch tomorrow. What are you bringing?”
Alarm bells go off above his head. “We’re supposed to bring something? I thought all we had to do was show up and eat.” His shocked expression is quite adorable, eliciting a flip of my heart.
“Oh. I offered.”
“I’ll give you some money for them. They can be from both of us.” He pulls his wallet from his pocket, but my hand on his stops the action.
“Just peel. I’ll make sure you get credit.”
He seems to accept that and sets to work.
Walsh takes an absurd amount of time to peel one potato. Seriously. Like fifteen minutes. I’ve cleaned up everything from the pretzels, started the water boiling, and wrote our dinner order all while he’s peeled one potato.
“Good thing you’re a good cleaner. You suck at prep work.”
“Actually, it’s quite genius. Got you to fall for it, didn’t I?”
Because yes. I took the peeler from his hand and started peeling the potatoes.
My fingers halt their movements as I study the smug expression covering his handsome features. “You played me?” I sound way less confident than I intend. An unexplained feeling sprouts in my stomach, a knot of dread at how easily I fell for his act. I can’t help doubting if everything with him is an act.
“No. I would never. I truly suck. Mom keeps trying to give me small jobs, but I’m so out of my element, it takes forever, and I never do them right.” Honesty infuses his tone, matching the truth on his face. His hand covers my hand holding the peeler in the air. “I’m sorry, Tate. It was a joke. I hope you believe me.”
The thing is, I do believe him. He’s been nothing but honest with me. “I do. But for your antics, you’re on double cleaning duty.”
He blows out a breath of relief. “Deal. I deserve whatever that is.”
I finish peeling the potatoes in silence. While one would think it might be awkward, it’s kind of reassuring to not have to fill the space with idle chatter. There are still so many things I want to know about him, but the quiet is nice.
Walsh orders our dinner, but since the restaurant doesn’t deliver, he runs out and grabs the food. While he’s gone, the girls clean up the mess they made of the doll accessories. In her sweet little voice, I overhear Aubrey telling Lennon, “No, those go in this bin” and “We have to put away everything.” Lennon doesn’t seem to complain, and I’m glad my girl’s not afraid to stand up for what needs to be done.
Once Walsh returns with dinner, we eat together in the kitchen, our conversation focused on our favorite Thanksgiving foods. As I process the scene, my heart pings. It often does when I ponder what Aubrey’s missing out on without a father figure. I don’t allow the niggle in the back of my brain to suggest Walsh could be him. What a ludicrous idea.
I sometimes picture the future, and the man sitting at the table with us possesses many similar qualities with my potential partner.
After dinner, Walsh gives Lennon a ten-minute warning until they have to leave. He cleans up the mess from dinner and the pot from the potatoes.
“Thanks for dinner. One of these days I’m going to make a trip there. The food was amazing.”
“We’ll go together. One night without the kids. Whenever that may be.”
Instead of permitting myself to be goaded into yet another discussion about when we can go out, I state, “I’d enjoy that.”
He removes the towel from the oven handle—the ones I clarified were for drying hands—and peeks down the hallway. “Two minutes.” Without warning, he stalks over, which is like four steps. “I’ll take even one minute.” His lips crash to mine, the action so startling, a tiny gasp of surprise trips out of my mouth.
Mindful of his “one minute” timeframe, I quickly collect myself and lean into the kiss, my lips parting for his tonguealmost immediately. His tongue does a quick sweep of my mouth before he pulls away too soon.
“Shortest minute of my life. You were just getting started,” I complain. It was barely enough time to even taste the burger he enjoyed for dinner.
“I’ll make it up to you next time.” His tone implies, “whenever that is.” But I ignore it. We’ll get there.
Moving out of his space, I state, “You definitely will.”
