Page 38 of The Stud Next Door (Frisky Business 3)
I guess in all my worrying about Connor, I sort of forgot that I’d actually have to see him at some point today.
Our eyes meet the moment he walks through the door, and it’s like everything Taylor said about how I might get hurt just disappears. He flashes me a smile, and it sets off a firework show in my chest. Taylor might be trying to protect me, but she doesn’t know him. More importantly, she doesn’t know us. And “us” is something I’m dying to learn more about.
“Sorry I’m a little late. I had a meeting that seemed to drag on forever. How was my baby girl today?” he asks, setting his sleek leather briefcase on the counter and joining me on the floor.
This is what I love about Connor. Even in his dress pants and button-down shirt, he doesn’t think twice about crouching down on the carpet to play with his daughter. I’d be melting into a sappy sweet puddle if he weren’t so damn fun to look at.
I lick my lips and smile down at Marley. “She was an angel, as always. I already fed her. She’s just been waiting up for you.” We both have.
“How about I put her down, and you and I have a glass of wine on the couch. Did you eat? I can whip us up a quick dinner first.” Connor picks Marley up and cradles her in his arms. She’ll be too big to hold like that soon, and I can tell he’s trying to soak up every minute of it.
“You cook?” I stare at him with surprise all over my face. Sometimes he makes it too easy to tease him.
He leans in close to me, so his face is within a foot of mine. I can smell his cologne and practically feel his breath on my skin.
“I can boil water,” he says, “and they make really good jarred pasta sauce these days.”
I laugh, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Pasta sounds delicious.”
Connor stands and carries Marley to her bouncy seat near the kitchen, which he straps her into. My heart pounds while I wait for him to finish, and I decide to put a pot of water on the stove, rather than just stare at his backside.
When he joins me in the kitchen, he arches a playful brow. “I thought I was the one making you dinner.”
“You worked hard all day,” I say with a shrug. “I figured the least I could do was help.”
“You are helping. All the time. Don’t pretend like watching Marley isn’t hard work. I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you.”
My stomach drops. I choose not to remind him that I’m leaving in a few short weeks.
Instead, I give him a half smile and shrug again. “All right. Tell me about this jarred pasta sauce.”
Conversation flows easily between us as we double-team our dinner. I boil the pasta while Connor pours us some wine. When Marley fusses and wants to be held, Connor frees her from the bouncy seat and holds her with one arm, stirring cooking pasta with the other. I try to pretend that’s not totally dreamy.
It’s not long before we’re sitting on his couch, bowls of spaghetti in hand and wine on the coffee table in front of us. Marley plays with a stuffed pig on the floor.
I realize how silly it might sound, but this is the grown-up life I always pictured for myself. Pasta on the couch with my hubby, and our baby playing nearby . . . it’s perfect. A simple life, but one that feels comforting and somehow right.
I let out an involuntary moan when I take the first bite of food. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until we started cooking, and Connor wasn’t lying about that pasta sauce. I sneak a glance at him to see if he noticed the sound that escaped my throat, but if he did, there’s no trace of recognition on his face.
“So,” I say between bites, “tell me about this meeting of yours that kept you busy all afternoon.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know. It was dumb. Number crunching, stuff like that.”
“Number crunching sounds important.”
“Not this kind. It was one of those meetings that could have easily been an email.”
I nod and study Connor’s profile, noting the hint of stubble that darkens his jaw. I wonder if kissing him would rub my skin raw. I wonder if his stubble would tickle between my thighs.
Geez. I have to pull it together.
Thankfully, Connor speaks before any other filthy thoughts can run through my brain.
“How was your day?” he asks. “Besides Marley.”
“Fine,” I say automatically. Then, after a moment’s pause, I add, “I talked to my sister while Marley was napping.”
“Where does she fall in the lineup?”
“Number two. She’s only a year younger than me. We’re close. We were practically inseparable growing up, until about high school when we started competing for everything. But we’re good now. It was nice to hear her voice.”
