Page 5 of Hot Puck
The only decision in my life I floundered over and lived to regret was marrying Johnathon Whitman.
Not that I had any other options at the time.
And I am rectifying that mistake now.
Pressing the bell, I step back and wait for someone to answer the door.
The ding-dong of the bell quickly fades away leaving only silence and I wonder if anyone is home.
Chase should be here. The older girls should be in their summer school program like every other weekday, but Chase is usually home with the baby in the mornings.
I’m poised to press the bell again when the faint sound of a baby crying catches my ear. The sobbing gets louder and louder to the accompaniment of thumping feet and the low rumble of a deep voice.
When the door flies open, through the screen I see a barely clothed man bouncing on his toes, a squirming baby held against his bare chest, her butt and head cradled in his big hands, while she wails her displeasure for all to hear.
And for the first time in years, my insides clench—throb.
I suppose this is what women mean when they say their ovaries explode.
The hunk of male perfection in front of me is all man. Nothing kid-like about him.
He’s the hottest thing I’ve seen—possibly in my life—and from one heartbeat to the next my long dormant-believed-dead libido is resurrected.
I’m so shocked by my body’s reactions I can’t speak.
Not even when he pushes the storm door open and moves to the side.
“Thank fu”—his gaze darts to the baby on his shoulder—“fudge, you’re here. Come in. She woke up hangry. Her butt is clean, and her bottle is in the warmer.”
In my flustered state, I don’t question him. Don’t ask what the hell he’s talking about. Just step inside the cool house, and when he hands over the crying baby, I take her, cradle her to me and rock side to side as though I’ve done it a thousand times before.
“The kitchen is that way.” He throws out a muscled arm and my insides do that weird clenchy-swoony thing again. “I’ll be in the office in the basement if you need me, but the call should only last thirty minutes. It’s just a check-in with the store managers.”
The baby on my chest continues to wail, but I can’t take my eyes off the man in front of me, his body now in full view.
My stare has him looking down. “Shit!” Wide eyes bounce back to mine. “Shoot. I meant shoot. I need to get dressed and I’m already running late.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply, he turns and heads up the stairs two at a time. When he reaches the top, he looks back with a frown.
“Her bottle should be ready now. I put it in the warmer before I took her upstairs to change her diaper.”
“Oh.” I jolt out of the lust-daze I’m in, disguise it as a rock of the baby, and offer him a smile. “Right. I’ll get her fed and take care of her until your meeting is done. No rush.”
Turning away from the sight of him in nothing but his underwear—and holy hell, that ass!—proves more difficult than I expect, but I do it and head in the direction he indicated.
Except for the neglected front yard, the outside of the house is the picture of perfect suburban family life, and inside is no different. It’s like a movie set. Even with the clothes and toys and general daily bric-a-brac of family life scattered around the place, it’s neat and tidy.
And clean.
When I enter the kitchen, I find a large open space filled with light streaming in through the row of windows facing the backyard. A big island dominates the center of the room.
On one side is the work area—countertop, oven, fridge, sink, dishwasher. On the other, a row of stools is tucked under the counter edge. Behind them the space holds a well-used comfortable looking couch and a plethora of baby equipment and toys on a colorful baby blanket spread out in the middle of the warm colored timber floor.
A glance at the countertop near the fridge finds the bottle warmer easy to locate. When I pull the bottle from the device and turn the baby so she’s cradled in my arms instead of over my shoulder and she sees what I have, the crying stops.
Instantly.
Her rosebud mouth remains open as though she’s about to let out a yell, but her eyes are glued to the bottle in my hand.
