Page 16 of One More Kiss

“Not since our wedding,” Aya piped in.

My heart seemed to freeze, my chest so damn tight I wondered if I was having a heart attack. “Jasmine and I get along just fine. She’s a lovely woman. That’s why I want to make sure you don’t set her up with a…a…”

“Jackass?” Nash asked, amusement lacing his tone.

I nodded sharply.

“Well, we can run it by Cam,” Aya said, picking up her mug. “Maybe he’ll have some other folks to add to our list.”

“How long is this list?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Right now, we have seven names,” Aya said.

She walked around the bar and rinsed out her mug while I tried not to pop a blood vessel.

Seven men. Not one. Seven.

“Where’s my son? I want to snuggle him.”

The baby monitor Nash had clipped to his waist flashed and sounds of Levi stirring flared from the speaker. “Good timing,” he said.

“I’ve got him. We’ll read a few stories and play,” Aya said. She brushed another kiss to Nash’s lips before she hurried out of the kitchen, her steps light.

I bit back a growl. I didn’t want her encouraging Jasmine to dream of romance—with someone else. I didn’t want any man to replace the towering passion we’d ignited in each other.

I crouched down, fumbling through my pots as I searched for the one I wanted to sauté my potatoes.

“What’s got you in such a mood?” Nash asked.

I glanced up before dropping my gaze quickly. Nash wasn’t as good at reading me as I was reading him, but that’s because I didn’t give him the opportunity. Nash was empathetic by nature—that made him an even better creative.

I didn’t need him picking up on my disquiet. “Who said I was in a mood?”

“Your snappy tone and all that pot-banging you’re doing,” he said.

I rose and settled the appropriate pan onto the Wolf cooktop with silent precision. I turned on the burner, waiting until the gas caught before turning the knob to medium heat. I added olive oil to the pan with a deft flick of my wrist. No way he could accuse me of anything untoward now.

“Why don’t you go work on that song you were telling me about?” I asked. “I need to make dinner and you know you just get in the way.”

Nash raised a thick brown eyebrow. “All right. Dismiss me. For now. But I expect you to be honest with me, Pops. We made a pact.”

I thrilled at the term, even though Nash threw it out ironically. He rarely called me anything other than Steve, and I didn’t want to push him for more than he wanted to give. I hadn’t been much of a father to him, hadn’t even known he could be mine until I started working as his bodyguard when he was a teenager. Even then, I’d let his stepfather, Brad Porter, treat Nash with disdain and disrespect because I hadn’t wanted to make the kid’s life worse by overstepping my role. I should have, though, because Brad knew I was Nash’s father, and did his best to destroy that bond before it had a chance to blossom.

That was over now, but I was gutted each time I remembered my inability to save my son from the other man’s abuse.

Over time I’d realized that monsters have no race, financial, or gender barriers—bad people exist everywhere. But by the time I understood that, Nash’s mother was too cowed and too far gone with drugs and alcohol to help our son, and Nash had spiraled so far down he barely managed to save himself.

I bit my cheek, hating that I’d hurt him, vowing again to do better, be better.

Which meant steering clear of Jasmine and her new soon-to-be-boyfriend, that jackass Malcom.

I scowled as I dropped the potatoes in the skillet. The sizzle and steam rose quickly, not unlike my temper at the idea of Malcom touching Jasmine’s lovely, smooth skin.

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