Page 78 of Pucked Up Plans
His hearty laugh echoes around the small kitchen. “Hardly. But she’s getting ready for bed soon with her mom.”
Aubrey contemplates his words, soaking up what he tells her, trying to make sense of it. I so want to interrupt, to explain in terms she can understand, to ease her mind. Or maybe that’s guilt talking, always trying to protect her from the consequences of choices I’ve made for the two of us.
“Can you bring her next time you come over?” Her words start timid, as if she’s not sure what she wants to say. “She’s really fun. Even if it’s bedtime. Maybe she can sleep here too.” Her smile grows at the idea. I wasn’t aware sleepovers were on her radar. Must be because I mentioned today about sleeping at Aunt Marsha’s on Wednesday. “Good night, Walsh.” Slowly and tentatively, she wraps her arms around his legs, the action so out of character, it leaves me utterly speechless.
His arms wet and soapy, he kinda pats her back with his elbow. “Night, Aubrey. Sweet dreams.” His inquisitive gaze finds mine over her head. So many uncertainties swirl among the varying shades of blue in his eyes.
All I can do is gape back, not having a clue how to interpret this scene displayed before me.
If I could, I’d join their embrace, begging for him to make this an everyday occurrence. But I can’t. For so many reasons, most of which I’ve forgotten at the moment.
When Aubrey lets go, she faces me, and a lump clogs my throat. All the sacrifices I’ve made for us, forher—the sleepless nights, the move to Vermont for a new life, dragging her away from the only people she’s ever loved and known—gather into a knot of emotion threatening to crack the precipice of the ground I stand on.
Not only have I gone and fallen hard for Walsh, but Aubrey has too. And she doesn’t see him as just Lennon’s father.
What have I done?
CHAPTER 19
WALSH
Tate’s face pales as if a ghost appeared in her line of vision. I deliberate if she’s going to be sick, not truly understanding why else her color would be sheet white. Although, she’d probably be green if that were the case.
“I have to, um, put Aubrey to bed,” she stammers unconfidently.
“I’ll be here.” I motion my head to the sink full of dishes.
Tate grabs Aubrey’s hand and tugs her out of the room. It’s a gentle tug, but something has spooked her.
My mind reels through the last ten minutes while I continue to tackle the dishes. Grateful I came a little early, it’s going to take a while to clean up the mess from her baking. However, I’m not the least bit annoyed at the state of her kitchen. If the smile continuously creeping on my face is any sign, I’m happy about it. Because it gives me time with Tate. And I get yummy cookies out of the deal. Win-win.
If I could figure out why she’s acting so odd.
Is it because I came earlier than expected?
Is it because her kid hugged me?
Is it something else I did I’m not even contemplating, in which case, will have no way to attempt to fix?
I’m at a loss here and out of my element. It was like the time I showed up at the florist asking for flowers when I didn’t know what kind she likes. I fumbled my way through, winning her over with the beautiful fall bouquet the florist suggested. Today’s wildflowers were an impulse buy. It might be a problem, but I saw the way her face lit up when she noticed them in my hands. Every time I bring them, she glows. It’s all I can do to keep her vase filled with living ones.
Speaking of, I rinse and dry my hands, putting a temporary hold on cleaning to search out where she left today’s bunch. I find them on a table in the living room. The hall to the bedrooms tempts me. What I wouldn’t give to sneak down and eavesdrop on their bedtime routine. I’ll pretend it’s for pointers, but it’s seeing Tate in her element as a mom.
She’s so damn sexy as a woman, but I’d be lying if she didn’t land squarely in MILF territory. Though, it’s less of a “love to fuck” scenario and more of a “give me everything” one.
Whoa, what?
I have to reassess my thinking here.
I want to have sex with her, and when that happens, it will be so much more than fucking. Currently, it’s more of an “if.” As much as it might be soon—damn, I hope so—it still seems like there’s a possibility of it never happening. Even though there are currently two condoms in my wallet, I don’t have any notions of it happening anytime in the immediate future. But when I can figure out a plan to make it happen, I’m prepared. Unlike last time.
Flowers in hand, I go back to the kitchen. Removing the almost dead ones from the vase, I rinse it out and put the new bouquet in, arranging it like I have an advanced degree in flower-making. Is that a real thing? I’d never pursue something so foolish—I’d fail the first course. I file it away to ask the florist of Whispering Petals—Jenny—at my next visit. Even with myfew visits, she knows my secrets, and I’m comfortable enough in our friendship to ask how to become a florist. As if it’s a secret or something.
Jeez, Walsh.Tate has you all off your game today. And not just the romance one.
Though I scored a clutch goal in today’s game, I played sloppy. Our entire team did. Missed shots, extra penalties for our side, incomplete passes. We won, but it wasn’t a fun victory—we were the “better” team. The bus ride home was quiet and somber, but it offered me the chance to rest with no one riding my ass about it.
I don’t know how much time passes before Tate reappears in the kitchen, but it’s way less than it requires to put Lennon to bed.
