Page 20 of Exposed

Hewants me. He sways back and forth tenderly with his son like he’s been doing it forever. He’s too much. This man is my kryptonite.

“Come tell me what you like, and I’ll order us takeout.” He turns and goes into his house, confident I’ll follow him.

Why is his confidence such a turn on? He makes me feel like a feral cat in heat.

After grabbing my backpack, I follow him inside. I’ve only spent one night here, but it already feels more like my home than any home ever has.

When I walk through the front door and slip off my shoes, it looks like the contents of a baby store was dumped in the living room.

Shani is prancing around, busily sniffing all the new merchandise.

“What do you like to eat?” His voice trails off at the end when he sees me staring at his living room.

He chuckles. “I had the longest, most expensive shopping trip of my life today.”

Baby clothes, a toy dump truck, a light blue stuffed dog, a stuffed panda bear, wipes, diapers, diaper cream, a sinkbath, rattles, teething toys, towels, burp clothes, bottles, formula, insanely soft looking blankets, a bouncer, a walker and a tummy time mat litter the kitchen table, sofa and coffee table.

“Did you buy the entire baby section?” I giggle.

“Smart ass,” he smirks. “No. I left some for other parents.”

“How generous of you.”

“You have no idea the limitless generosity I possess,” he winks. “When can you potty train babies?”

“Two years old usually,” I respond casually.

“No fucking way. I’ve got to change poopy diapers for twoyears?”

“I’ve heard boys take longer,” I shrug, and Matt groans. “Welcome to parenthood,” I give him a thumbs up.

He sighs. “I’m gonna teach him sooner. I’ll find a way.”

“You do that. Let me know how it works out,” I grin.

“Wait and see. It’ll happen. So, I had zero time to cook today. What do you like to eat?” He asks.

“I don’t need anything. I’m the homeless girl taking advantage of you.”

“You are welcome to take advantage of me,” he flirts.

“Shush. You know what I mean. I’m already overstaying my welcome. You don’t need to feed me.”

“I told you I’m lonely and want a roommate. You’re doing me a favor,” he replies.

I circle my finger in the air at him. “How did you spin that to sound like I’m helping you?”

“I do the occasional spin class, but I’m not spinning anything right now. It’s the truth,” he quips.

Guilt gnaws at me that I feel like I can’t take care of myself.

“You don’t have to get me food. I ate on my way home from work,” I lie.

His bouncing motion with his son halts, and he tilts his head at me. “Didn’t see an empty food bag in your front seat.”

“I…” Why do I suck at lying? “I threw it out. Don’t like a messy car.” I don’t like being messy, but I also don’t own anything to put in my car.

“I noticed. There’s nothing in your car except your backpack.”

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