Page 77 of Pucked Up Plans
After hanging up our aprons, Aubrey takes a bath, not curious the timing before dinner. I advised Aunt Marsha not to cook for us tonight since we’d be there Wednesday and Thursday, so dinner is soup I heat from earlier in the week, using paper everything since I can’t fathom adding any more dishes to the sink and counters. I spend little time in the kitchen because seeing the mess makes me a little antsy. After my shower, we spend extra cuddle time on the couch with books.
The doorbell rings around seven p.m. as I’m finishing braiding Aubrey’s hair.
“Who’s that, Mommy?” Aubrey wonders.
The flutter low in my belly predicts who I think it is.
Moving off the couch, I check the peephole before I answer. Excited doesn’t do my emotions justice. He’s a little earlier than he implied—with no text message as to his eta—but it doesn’t stop me from tearing the door open.
Walsh stands there, his cobalt eyes shimmering under the outdoor light, flakes of our first snow stuck to his hair. Instead of gray, a navy Aspenridge hoodie covers his torso, hiding away his muscles. My mind fills in for what my eyes can’t see, conjuring up the hidden, burly biceps. Until my eyes home in on a white bandage tinted with blood on his forehead.
“Walsh. What happened to your forehead?” I hold open the storm door, inviting him in. His fingers clasp a bouquet of wildflowers. Handing them over, he shrugs off his coat and unties the laces of his boots, taking them off one by one.
He dismisses my concern with a wave. “A minor battle wound from a tiff on the ice. Doesn’t need stitches or anything, thank goodness. It would have set my timing back even more.”
I can’t assess his “battle wound” for myself, so I believe him at his word.
“I wasn’t expecting you so early. I thought you’d let me know when you were on your way.” The words leave my mouth, and I’m embarrassed by how they sound—judgmental and borderline rude. He appears crestfallen, and it does funny things to my heart. I’m about to apologize, but he speaks first.
“Did my text not go through? I sent it from the bus, so maybe it didn’t.”
My phone’s been sitting in the kitchen since I used it to pull up the recipe. Hmm. Must be on silent or I was into the books we were reading and didn’t hear it.
“Sorry. Aubrey and I were busy, and I didn’t think to check it.”
We stand in my entryway, and Walsh’s demeanor changes slightly, as if he’s embarrassed. “She’s probably still awake, and I’d apologize for it, but I kinda needed to see you sooner. And I tried to stay at my house until I said I would come over, so maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t get my message, but I couldn’t stand waiting there any longer. Not when I could at least start on your kitchen mess while you do the bedtime routine.”
His ramblings filter in my foggy brain like slime oozing out—slowly. I don’t fully comprehend what he’s talking about before he steals a peek in the living room. Satisfied with what he sees or doesn’t, he pecks my cheek. His action is so jarring, I can’t make sense of it. And when he leaves me standing there, completely awestruck and floundering, I fall.
I fallhard.
The warning bells clang in my head, but my heart doesn’t listen. No, it gallops after Walsh, needing to be closer to the guy who’s currently enchanting it.
This is not good.
This isnotgood.
I can’t get involved with a guy right now. A guy who seems to check all the boxes of someone I want to be with. I may not know everything about Walsh Keeley, but there’s only about one thing I can find fault with: he doesn’t load the dishwasher correctly. I’m sure he’s got other quirks and habits I won’t adore, but fuck if he isn’t the sweetest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.
My feet fixed in place, I stare after him for way too long. Breaking out of the Walsh trance I’m under, I temporarily shake off these feelings. Because under no circumstances can I march into the kitchen and act on any of them. Not at this moment. Not even tonight.
I won’t be able to last much longer before combusting with lust and desire for this man. It’s a lethal combination, thememory of buzzing with hunger for another man always in the back of my head. With Damon, it was different—I was an inexperienced teenager who thought she was in love. Now, I’m still mostly inexperienced, but with the obstacles I’ve overcome in my life, the need to tread lightly still exists. With so much at stake for me and Aubrey, I can’t make a similar mistake based solely on my sexual wants and needs.
Except, with Walsh, it’s already been more than sexual, and we haven’t had sex yet. Which doesn’t permit me to be so casual with my heart and urges.
I follow the sounds of running water to the kitchen, not even a glance at the couch where Aubrey waits for me. The shock of her sitting at the table in the kitchen knocks me for a loop.
For a moment, all I can do is stare. Walsh faces away from us, his arms elbow-deep in the sink. From her position, Aubrey’s eyes intently watch his every move. If “stars in her eyes” were more physical and less figurative, her eyes would shoot out of her head. She’s got it almost as bad as her mother.
Shit. Which makes this whole scenario even worse.
Tamping down the spell I’m under, I call her name quietly. “Bree, you ready for bed?” I don’t address Walsh currently standing in our kitchen, cleaning upourmess. If she has questions about why he’s here, I’ll do my best to answer, hoping I can simply ignore them by changing the subject.
She tears her vision away from Walsh, her googly eyes focused on me. “Otay, Mommy.” Slowly, she hops down off her chair, stopping in the middle of the kitchen, her mind clarifying what’s happening. Instead of walking to me, she ambles three steps toward Walsh, tugging on his pant leg to garner his attention. My breath ceases with her actions, wondering what she plans to do.
Walsh tips his head to my daughter, his grin big and sweet. “What’s up, Aubrey?”
“Is Lennon sleeping?”
