Page 4 of Baking With A Rockstar

Before either one of us can say another word, a loud wail comes from the monitor, blaring through the room.

He looks around the kitchen, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. “What the hell was that?”

“That was the baby monitor. Looks like my baby is up.” I’m not sure how I feel about leaving him alone right now, or turning my back to him, but I hate having Mira cry even more. Taking a big breath, I give myself a little pep talk before walking over to where he stands, trying to maneuver my way around him without actually touching him. That would be too awkward. “If you’ll excuse me, please.”

He finally moves a little to one side, allowing me to push past him—barely. The close vicinity allows me to not only feel his body heat but to also smell his intoxicating scent. My heart skips a few beats, and I chastise myself for reacting to him at all. I like to be in control of things, and right now, in this situation, I feel anything but—least of all, my own body.

Without looking back, I halfway sprint up the stairs to the second level, panting by the time I make it all the way up. At the end of the long hallway, I open the door to the makeshift nursery—we just added a crib to the otherwise normal guest bedroom—and turn up the dimmed light.

Mirabelle—who we call Mira pretty much ninety-nine percent of the time—is sitting up, the tears from a moment ago already replaced with a big toothy grin. “Ma-ma.” She draws out the syllables, clapping her little, pudgy hands together with an enthusiasm only a ten-month-old baby can have.

“Hi, cutie pie. Look at you clapping. Good job.” The compliment for her newfound skill makes her squeal, which is the cutest thing ever. Seeing the joy spread across her whole face is something that will never get old.

After a diaper change and a fresh set of clothes—thanks to Mira’s uncanny ability to have managed a second poop blowout today, all before ten o’clock—we go back downstairs. Thankfully, our visitor is nowhere to be found when we get to the kitchen. I pick up my phone to call Hannah and ask her about him, but it goes straight to voicemail. In that moment, I realize I still don’t even know the guy’s name.

How embarrassing.

Now that I think about it, I don’t think Hannah has ever mentioned it either. She likes to talk about her family, but usually doesn’t mention any names or occupations. I certainly never imagined such a fine specimen as her grandson, that’s for sure.

I put my squirmy girl on the floor in her little playard, so she can play while I clean up the mess I left behind in the kitchen. After wiping random strands of hair out of my face, I throw the last bits of crumbs from the counter into the trash. Mystery man must have taken it upon himself to clean up the floor since I can’t see any more dough leftovers. The front door slams loudly just as I’m starting to prepare Mirabelle’s late breakfast.

“Charlie?” Hannah’s voice carries through the house, and I let out a loud breath of relief.

Finally, I’m about to get some answers. Hopefully.

“In the kitchen.” I watch Mirabelle crawling over to the side of the playard that’s closest to the entrance of the kitchen. Just hearing Hannah’s voice has put the biggest smile on her face, making me chuckle.

Watching children get all excited about something has become one of my favorite things. There really isn’t anything quite like it. The pure and raw joy they feel is reflected so clearly on their faces. It’s both a miracle and a sad truth at the same time—a miracle that we’re born with such an easy instinct to be happy about the simplest things, but also sad that we seem to lose the ability to hold onto that little piece of magic when we have to face the world we live in.

Hannah walks into the kitchen, her face sun-kissed, her eyes immediately lighting up at the sight of the wiggling child on the floor that’s trying very hard to get her attention—doing a little bouncing dance and squealing as loud as she can.

“Where’s my favorite little girl?” Hannah clasps her hands together before opening her arms wide as she walks toward the playard, egging Mira on even more. Mira’s little booty is bumping up and down so quickly, it looks like she might prepare for take-off in a minute.

In less than thirty seconds, they’re reunited when Hannah picks her up. After snuggling for a while, Mira babbles like she’s filling in her replacement grandmother on everything she’s missed since they saw each other last—which was only a few hours ago, early this morning. I could watch them do this all day long, because it never ceases to melt my heart. Underneath the surface, it hurts a little bit sometimes, knowing my own grandmother—the woman who basically raised me—will never have those moments with her great-granddaughter.

For some reason, that thought brings me back to our shirtless intruder, and I’m trying to think of the right words to ask Hannah about him. “So, Hannah, uh...”

Well, this is going well so far. She stares at me as I try to figure out how to ask her about her grandson without sounding stupid. At least, I really hope he was telling the truth about that. The alternative wouldn’t be very good.

But before I can get out another word, we all turn toward the sound coming from the hallway, where someone is clearly walking down the stairs.

Hannah’s eyes go wide and she shrieks. Mira joins her without a second thought, and I giggle at her excitement, even though she has no clue what all the commotion is about. “Hudson! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?”

Hudson? Mmmm.I like it.

Now, why am I thinking about liking his name?

“Hi, Grandma. Surprise?” His voice goes up a little at the end, making it more of a question than a statement. Hudson—it’s good to finally know his real name—walks up to her, giving her as good of a side hug as he can manage with the baby occupying the other side of his grandmother. Of course, Mira is clapping and squealing, almost falling out of Hannah’s arms from all the excitement.

What a traitor.

After a moment, Hudson lets go of Hannah but stays close, peeking around his grandma to smile at Mira. “And who do we have here?”

I’m still behind the kitchen island, completely engrossed in their exchange.

Hudson looks freshly showered, a few droplets of water still shimmering in his hair—brown, just like his eyes. The black jeans and white T-shirt combo don’t do much to hide his incredible physique, and I have to remind myself to keep my eyes above the shoulders. Or maybe I shouldn’t look at all, but the jury is still out on that. Either way, there is no need to stand here and ogle his incredible upper body.

Cut it out, ovaries.

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