Page 6 of Tru Blue
The baby let out a bloodcurdling cry, and she pushed that adventurous, crazy, story-seeking part of herself aside and peered around the aisle again, this time checking out the man more closely. The magazine he was looking at slipped to the floor, and he kissed the baby’s head, murmuring something she couldn’t hear. His big hand covered the breadth of the baby’s back like a football. He had deep-set eyes that were currently focused on the unhappy baby. The sleeves of his dark T-shirt clung to his massive biceps, making her wonder what he did for a living. Did they have lumberjacks around here? His jeans clung to powerful thighs, hanging low over black boots. He was sexy in that badass, hardcore way Crystal loved so much. He caressed the little girl’s cheek so gently Gemma could feel it on her own cheek. He pressed a kiss to the top of the little girl’s head, then held her tiny hand, quieting the alarm bells in Gemma’s head.
“He’s okay, princess. Just hungry. We’ll feed him as soon as we get a few more things and pay for the formula.” He spoke softly to the little girl, his voice full of concern.
Princess.
His eyes darted from the baby to the little girl, then back to that sweet little guy in his arms. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll get one of everything.”
She watched him grab one of every size diaper and set them in the cart around the girl, and then he stuffed the ones that wouldn’t fit beneath the cart. She might not have a uterus, but she had ovaries, and they’d just exploded at the love emanating from the slightly intimidating dichotomy of darkness and light before her.
Chapter Three
TRUMAN FELT THE unmistakable heat of a stare before he lifted his gaze and saw the long-legged babe watching him. Strands of brown, gold, and just about every color in between fell in loose waves around smooth ivory skin and plump crimson lips—lips he imagined doing all sorts of erotic things. He saw her in brush strokes, imagined painting her delicate chin, her long, slender neck, slim shoulders, and trim waist, and sexy-as-sin curvaceous hips. His body flamed with awareness. Lincoln wailed, jerking Truman’s big head into gear, overriding the greedy little one below his belt, and he stepped between the stranger and Kennedy.
Her green eyes skittered over his cart. “I guess your baby eats a lot?”
Her voice was like liquid heat, flowing over his skin, soft and warm like the summer sun, but the thread of curiosity it carried caused him to stand up taller and square his shoulders. He didn’t need anyone slowing them down.
“He’s starved,” he said gruffly. He grabbed the handle of the cart and bounced Lincoln against his shoulder, trying to quiet him.
“So feed him.” Her eyes never left his, like a cat that owned whatever territory it crossed, piercing and challenging at once.
He gave her a deadpan look that he knew translated to, No shit, really?
“Right.” He pushed the cart past her and she grabbed the side of it. His hand shot out and circled Kennedy. The woman’s eyes dropped to the little girl, eyeing her skeptically.
“Is it dress like Daddy day?” Her fingers curled around the cart as she reached for a package of formula.
“Something like that,” he said, watching her open the package and tear the protective cover off of one of the ready-made bottles of formula. She put on the nipple, shook it up, and handed it to him.
He looked at the bottle, then at her. “I haven’t paid yet.” The last thing he needed was to get harassed for using something he hadn’t paid for. His plan had been to get in, get out, and get home, not get hung up with a pushy little know-it-all, regardless of how hot she was. Lincoln hiccupped between cries, and she thrust the bottle into his hand.
“It’s not like they’ll arrest you for feeding a hungry baby.”
“Baby hungy,” Kennedy piped in.
Truman’s chest constricted. He reluctantly took the bottle and held it to the baby’s mouth. Lincoln sucked, then cried, sucked, then cried.
“You should cradle him.” She set down her basket and motioned with her arms like she was cradling a baby.
He shifted Lincoln in his arms. The woman stepped closer. She must have seen wariness in his expression, because she stopped a few inches from him and reached across the short distance. Her hands were soft and warm as she lowered Truman’s elbow, angling Lincoln’s head higher than his feet.
