Page 60 of Sweet Thing

As much as I would have liked to bury myself beneath the covers and never come out, I had a job to do. I needed to remember that. I slipped out of bed and threw on a Rebels jersey and Lululemon lounge shorts, then after a quick side trip to the bathroom, headed toward the kitchen.

Should have stayed longer in front of the mirror. Not because I needed to make myself presentable or hide away from the consequences of last night, but because it would have been better to miss Lars Nyquist giving his daughter a rundown of a past game. I so did not need to hear that, not when it was so adorable my ovaries did a two-step. As I lingered in the hallway, Lars said something about “the idiot left winger from Nashville.”

“You’d hate this asshole, Mabel. The guy hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together, so I had no problem fooling him and getting that puck off his blade.”

Mabel made a sound of agreement.

Lars chuckled. “Yeah, you know exactly what kind of bozo I’m talking about.”

Bozo?Who called a guy on an opposing team a bozo?

The man who just realized he’d said “asshole” in front of his daughter and was trying to cover with a dorky word, perhaps? Gah, stop being so cute!

Okay, time to get this show on the road.

I entered the kitchen just in time to witness Lars picking up Mabel and settling her against his broad shoulder. I’d seen guys holding babies before. My dad, his brothers, even Lars. This should not have been any different, but I knew something now I didn’t know then.

Fatherhood wasn’t easy for Lars. While it was easy to assign his difficulty to some playboy-manchild attitude, it clearly went deeper. He didn’t think he was capable. A man who could thread a puck through a tiny space, who could drill for days and practice for eternity—this guy thought he wasn’t good enough for this new gig.

I had thought that as well at first. But what I saw now was Lars gazing at his baby daughter with an intensity that broke my chest wide open. The man was falling hook, line, and sinker for his little girl, and I wasn’t sure that he even realized it yet.

With Mabel safely ensconced in his thick, muscled arms, he moved to the bottle warmer. Skillful hands tested the temperature of the formula while keeping the baby safe. Raising the bottle to her lips, he paused a moment and said, “You want it, baby girl?”

Yes, please.

My lusty thought must have manifested in this reality because Lars’s attention was diverted from Mabel for a moment. His gaze darkened as it raked over me.

And “raked” was the right word here. The way he looked at me felt positively forbidden.

“Mine?”

Mine?I pressed a hand to my chest, a move that sent his nostrils into a flare.

“What do you mean?”

“Is that my jersey?”

Oh.“No, it’s mine. Well, Dad’s.”

Color tagged his cheeks. “Sorry, I assumed you’d helped yourself. It would be okay if you had.” He was fully focused on Mabel now.

“Wait, do you not believe me?”

“Of course I believe you.”

He looked up, then down again at the sweatshirt. Was he so offended by it? When it wasn’t even his! Before he could say another word, I did a quick pirouette to reveal KERSHAW in large letters on the back.

“My dad’s.” I turned back in time to catch his nostrils flaring, his gaze fixed not on the jersey but my bare legs.

“Right. I just—never mind.” He placed the bottle down on the counter and deftly switched Mabel to his shoulder.

“Hold on, you need this.” I grabbed a burp cloth and placed it on his shoulder. “Unless you want to smell like regurgitated milk all day.”

“My favorite.” Once burped, he set her back in the highchair. The awkwardness of a moment ago appeared to have passed. “I know it’s only been ten days, but I feel like she’s grown an inch or two. Am I wrong?”

“Babies are like weeds and this one is happy and healthy and enjoying her food.” We had taken her to see the pediatrician yesterday morning and she was meeting all the necessary milestones. “You’re doing good, Lars.”

He looked pleased at the compliment. “And how are you doing after last night?”

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