Page 84 of At First Flight
He’s not distracted by his phone or trying to take a call while half listening to the kids. He’s there. Present. His hand rests protectively on Evelyn’s back in one frame. His head tilts back in laughter beside Oliver in another. He’s smiling in every single one, and not the polite kind reserved for photo ops or polite strangers.
No, this is real. And it hits me square in the chest.
Dean could be anywhere. Tucked away in some pristine office overlooking a boardroom or buried in spreadsheets and phone calls. He has every excuse in the world to be too busy, too preoccupied, too important.
But he chooses them. Every time.
That kind of undistracted and unwavering devotion is its own kind of aphrodisiac. It’s not the muscles or the money that undo me, though he has both in spades. It’s this. A man who isn’t afraid to get a little dirt on his designer boots if it means making his niece laugh. A man who values bedtime stories and breakfast pancakes over power plays and investor meetings.
Where wealth and status define some men, Dean redefines what it means to be rich. And he proves it to me, to those kids, every single day.
And that… that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Then a message from Dean chimes in.
Dean:
They’re muddy, loud, and in heaven.
Lila:
So your parenting plan is manual labor and livestock?
Dean:
Works every time.
Lila:
You’re dangerously charming when you’re confident.
Dean:
Only when you’re watching.
I smile too long at my phone. The kind of smile that seeps into your bones and lingers in the corners of your day. The kind of smile that improves the rest of your day.
With a destination in mind, I pack a cooler with watermelon, sunscreen, and a jug of sweet tea and head home toward Otter Creek Farms.
Once I step free of the car, the air hums with summer. A wet kind of heat that sticks to your skin.
Evelyn tackles me at the barn entrance, covered in sticky fingerprints and joy.
"LILA! I named the goat Waffles!"
"Excellent choice," I say, hoisting her up.
Around the barn, Rowan and Dean work shirtless under the sun. My brain flatlines as I take in Dean’s taut abdomen—the mounds and valleys I traced with my fingers the night before.
"You always show up after they’ve hit peak destruction," Rowan calls.
"Total coincidence," I lie.
Dean wipes his brow and saunters over. He steals a slice of watermelon from the cooler I’m opening and grins. The lazy kind of smile that reeks of secrets.
"You didn’t have to bring supplies," he says, voice low as he leans into me.
"I know. I wanted to."
