Page 38 of Mister Mom

“That’s pretty close. Must be nice for the kids.”

I shrug, pushing my plate away and taking in the state of Via’s high chair tray. “Yeah, they watch the kids when they aren’t traveling.”

I walk over to the sink because Via’s about to have rice as a headpiece if I don’t wipe her down soon.

On my way back to the table, I find Vance’s gaze on me. He has a way of making me feel wanton with just one look. As though he’s itching to have his hands on me, and is struggling to control himself. I wish I didn’t like it so much.

Pulling my own gaze away from him, I concentrate on cleaning Via up. When I pick her up from the high chair, she rests her head on my shoulder.

“Give me five?” I ask.

He stands up, collecting his dish and mine. “I think I can keep myself busy.” His smirk is on display as he walks toward the sink.

“Please don’t clean. I’ll get to it—”

“When?” His eyebrows quirk up.

“I manage.” Via goes limp in my arms. Daycare must have been a busy place today.

“Go put your daughter to bed, Layla.” With his back turned to me, he starts moving the dishes from the stove over to the sink and I hear the faucet turn on before I reach the bottom of the stairs.

Via should have a bath. I should rock her to sleep like I usually do, but she’s out like she’s the mother of two young kids, so I change her diaper and clothes and place her into her crib, where she settles again after a few moments.

Moving on to Payne’s room, I see that he’s moved from the bed to the floor.

I slide my hands underneath him in an effort to get him back into his bed. “Oh, you’re so big now,” I whisper to myself and place him on the mattress, pulling the covers up over him.

The picture of him and Carver next to the bed pulls me in to remembering what I thought my life would be like. We were going to beat the odds. We’d win the Hollywood lottery and be the ones to enjoy successful careers and a successful marriage. Now I’d just be happy if the kids saw more of him in person than they do in that ridiculous sour cream commercial he’s in.

I mean, come on—the man doesn’t even eat anything white. I’m not lying. Nope. Sour cream, mayonnaise, yogurt. He won’t touch anything dairy that’s white. Maybe that revelation should’ve been my first inkling that something was off.

I sigh and rise up off the bed, leaving Payne’s room and making a quick stop in my own before I head back downstairs. I give myself the once-over in my mirror, taking in my tired eyes and the grey underneath. After a quick dab of face powder, I pinch my cheeks to bring out their natural rosiness, readjust my breasts in my bra so they’re sitting pretty and decide I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. For what, I can’t be sure.

Do I want Vance? Hell, yes. But I’m smart enough to know I shouldn’t. But no one’s ever been hurt by basking in the feeling of someone else’s eyes smoldering when they look at you, right? Not to mention, I’m a single mother and a working actress with no real social life unless it’s something my PR people tell me to go to. Sue me if it feels nice to be wanted after having a husband who couldn’t stop wanting everyone else.

The dishwasher is loaded and Vance is cleaning Via’s high chair tray when I reach downstairs.

“You have any idea how long it took me to figure out how to unlatch this?” He eyes the soapy tray he’s scouring with a sponge.

I chuckle. “I know, they should call it adult-proofing. When Payne was younger, I had this toilet seat lock…” I shake my head—I should not be telling this story.

“Yeah?” he says, looking over his shoulder at me, a laugh ready behind his smile.

“Never mind.”

He turns around, drying his hands on the dishtowel. “No, no, tell me.”

I prop myself up on the counter, tucking my hands under my thighs. “We were away at a hotel and I woke up in the middle of the night. Long story short, I ended up with my ass in the sink.”

He buckles over in laughter. “Shower wasn’t a better option?”

I pick up the hot pad next to me and throw it at him. “It was two in the morning. My brain wasn’t functioning.”

His jeans mould to his ass when he bends over to pick up the hot pad and I don’t bother pretending not to stare. He eyes the drawer under my legs where the hot pad belongs. I should jump off the counter, take the hot pad from his hands and put it back in the drawer.

I don’t.

It’s like a slow-motion montage in a movie. He saunters over, one hand landing on the inside of my knee, easing it apart while his other hand opens the drawer. The hot pad drops and he shuts the drawer as I swallow hard, his eyes never leaving mine. His other hand pushes my other leg to the side and my breaths become shallow.

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