Page 56 of From Maybe to Baby

"Daddy?"

We spring apart like guilty teenagers.

"I should..." Jonas gestures vaguely toward his kids, but he doesn't move yet.

"Yeah." I steady my breathing and remind myself why this is complicated.

But he pulls me in for one more quick kiss before he scoops up his kids, one under each arm.

"To be continued?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Very unprofessional of you," I tease.

"Completely unprofessional."

Yikes. Something in my universe feels off. And I'm in so much trouble. But maybe some trouble is worth having. Some rules are worth breaking.

Maybe.

Back in my room,I still feel his kiss. Still feel his hands in my hair.

I should be writing my article. After all, I’ve downloaded the last bit of software needed for my replacement laptop, so have no excuse to do anything other than start pounding my story out on the keyboard.

Instead, I'm lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan, imagining things I have no business imagining.

Like how his voice sounds.

Like what it might be like to wake up next to him

Like how San Francisco is foggy, and that the mornings there have their own charm.

Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

"Stop it," I tell myself firmly. But my traitor brain is already there, picturing it, clear as day.

Dammit, I am so not that sort of woman. I don’t dream about some dude sweeping me off my feet, and I certainly don’t dream about one who comes already equipped with kids. Oh, hellno.

But the vision of working on my laptop at his kitchen counter, writing my next blog… won’t get the hell out of my mind, where it’s taking up real estate that is not and never will be available for such drivel.

My phone buzzes. A text notification about the Aftershocks' upcoming season schedule, and a link to purchase tickets. I've somehow subscribed to their updates. Somehow. For research purposes. Obviously.

I imagine the stands full of cheering fans. Me sitting with the other players' families. Jace and Lukas decked out in tiny jerseys with their dad's number. Teaching them to cheer at the right moments. Learning hockey rules beyond "puck goes in net."

God help me. But I'm already googling average temperatures in San Francisco. Already wondering if Jonas would teach me his pancake recipe. Already thinking about how to write about family travel from a… family perspective.

Without the snark, without the disdain, without the air of superiority that’s earned me my loyal social media following.

Another image invades my thoughts. It’s not welcome…

Christmas morning. Stockings hanging. Kids running down actual stairs in an actual house. Jonas in one of those ridiculous holiday sweaters. Me taking pictures, not for Instagram, but just to have. For the memories.

"Nope." I sit up, trying to shake off this domestic horror. "Absolutely not."

But, too late. The images keep coming, faster now, more vivid.

My phone lights up with texts from Mom:

How's the view?

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