Page 70 of Summer with the Single Dad

He was glad that they were patient enough to climb the stairs to the bedroom and use the bed because Justine straddling him, bouncing up and down with her long dark hair over her creamy shoulders, was an image he wanted burned into his brain for life.

She was on her belly, and they were post orgasms. One orgasm for him, three for her. As it should be. She hadn’t even gotten up to use the bathroom, yet. His chest heaved and sweat misted his skin and hers.

Sweeping her hair off her face, he leaned down and kissed the patch of freckles on her bare shoulder. “You still feeling okay? No guilt monsters or anything telling you not to get your orgasms and enjoy them?”

She opened sleepy eyes and smiled at him. “Not yet.”

“Good.” He kissed her in the same spot one more time, then swung his legs over the side of the bed to go on the hunt for his clothes. “I’m going to get the oven preheated and round up ingredients. Take your time.” Then he flashed her a wink after his head poked through the neck of his shirt and he opened the bedroom door.

Unable to keep the stupid grin from his face, he brought up some of his tried-and-true cake recipes on the tablet and gathered the ingredients they would need. It was easy enough to triple batch a white sponge cake and just add different flavorings, so that’s what he intended to do. He also promised to make a dairy-free batch of cupcakes, as well as a dairy-free cake and a gluten-free cupcakes and cake. Luckily, this wasn’t his first dietary restrictions rodeo, so he had all the alternative ingredients.

He was just measuring flour into the stand mixer when Lucy Liu—or Justine Brazeau—joined him in the kitchen, tying her hair up into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was back in her perfect ass-hugging jeans and tank top, but draped the cardigan over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Put me to work, chef.”

“Aprons are in that drawer there,” he said, pointing to the middle drawer beside the fridge.

She walked over and opened the drawer, rummaging through all the different aprons in there. Bennett, of course, wore his standard black one that said, “Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’.” She snorted when she saw it.

“It was a gift from the girls for Father’s Day last year.”

“Sure, it was,” she said, pulling a light blue apron from the bottom of the pile. It had little red cherries on it. A lump formed in his throat.

She must have noticed a shift in his eyes or expression, because worry filled her gaze. “Is this one not okay? There a bunch in here, I just had to sift to the bottom to find one that wasn’t a kids’ or had a chiseled bare man’s torso on it.”

“It … it’s fine. That was Carla’s. Nobody has worn it since …”

Her eyes went saucer size, and she immediately put it back in the drawer, pulled out a different one and draped it over her neck. It was one of the ones with a naked man’s ripped torso—a dumb joke gift from Jagger a few years ago. “It doesn’t matter what’s on it. An apron’s an apron.” Her smile was forced and caution remained in her eyes as she tied it around her waist.

“You … you can wear the blue one if you like. It’s fine.”

But she was already closing the drawer. “Nope. All good here.” She glanced down at the spray-tanned, headless body. “I mean, not a shade of orange I’d personally strive for, but the man’s got a washboard I could do a laundry load on.”

He snorted. Then a new thought popped into his head. “Speaking of laundry, I’m sure you’re itching to put on a load, so please feel free to do it here.”

A brittle smile curled her lips. “I will, thank you.”

Silence descended upon them. And not the sexual tension-filled silence that he liked. This was an awkward silence. Silence borne of his gut-reaction to seeing her with his dead wife’s apron. It was such a benign and innocent thing and yet it was also enough to make his own guilt monster whisper things in the back of his mind.

“Music?” he asked, punctuating the quiet with an abrupt one-word question. He pulled up his phone as she cracked eggs single-handed into the mixer. The small portable speaker on the counter kicked to life and a moment later, alt-rock at a respectable level crooned in the corner, quelling the silence and tuning out the guilt monster in his mind.

Perhaps he was just projecting his own feelings and seeing things that weren’t really there, but when Clint mentioned the trailer, Bennett could have sworn he saw Justine deflate a little. Did she want to move into the trailer?

He was happy having her in the house.

Sure, he missed his bed, but based on how things went today, maybe she’d be interested in inviting him to share it with her? The futon in the office wasn’t terrible though. He could survive. He would survive. And he’d certainly slept on worse when he was in the Marines. But if Justine wanted to stay in the house, he would sleep on the futon. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her at this point.

She intrigued him.

She was so reserved in so many ways. Almost cold.

And yet, when she warmed up, when she let down her guard and opened the gates to her inner workings, it was beautiful. It made him feel special, because he was sure it wasn’t easy for her to drop her shield, and she was choosy with who she shared personal things with. At least that was the vibe he got from her. He remained very curious about how exactly her patient died on her table, and what happened just before that to make her bring her personal life into the OR It had to be something big, something life-altering.

It sounded like both of her parents were still alive. And her sisters.

Did someone die?

Was she in a relationship and he cheated?

Was that when she found out she was barren?

---