Page 49 of Single Dad Dilemma
I wasn’t sure anymore. And for so damn long, it was all I’d wanted.
Nervous energy had me pacing into the kitchen, unable to leave the mess I’d helped create. I moved quickly, stacking cookies into a plastic container and then soaping up a washcloth to wipe down the island. There was still a bit of flour on the floor, but I was able to get that wiped up too.
The cookie sheets, washed and dripping, went onto the drying rack to the right of the sink, and I searched through a few drawers until I found clean dish towels so that I could dry and put them away.
There were still muffled noises from upstairs, so I knew I had time to sneak out before Barrett made his way downstairs. My mind conjured the image before I could stop it. Running into him in a dark kitchen, without the kids to distract us. My stomach pitched with nerves, a persistent fluttering behind my ribs that really pissed me off. That was the last thing I fucking needed.
But I still couldn’t bring myself to bolt, and I dug my proverbial heels in when the question of why poked at my subconscious.
Everything about him—them, really—had me feeling a little off-kilter. Did he hate me? I wasn’t sure anymore. On my end, at least, there’d been no flirty energy, because honestly I did not need those kids picking up on any subtext. Knowing Maggie, she’dParent Trapthe shit out of us. Find some clever way to lock us in the house together for a weekend, hoping I’d emerge with a ring on my finger and her dad hopelessly in love with me.
I snorted, drying the last cookie sheet and tucking it away in the correct cupboard. The counter was clean again; no dishes remained inthe sink after I’d loaded everything into the dishwasher. With a quick exhale, I folded the towel and hung it neatly over the handle of the oven door.
My bag was empty save for my unused cookie cutters, and when I slung the handle over my shoulder, I paused before leaving the kitchen, looking back at their tree.
A Christmas Storywas playing on TV again, and when Ralphie opened his Red Ryder BB gun, his face reminded me of Maggie seeing her mixer.
It was too much,I scolded myself. The present went too far for a temporary babysitter. A temporary neighbor. Bryce would love his gift too; I’d found a vintage jersey of a British football team he’d told me he loved. But I couldn’t deny that Maggie’s gift was different, that I’d picked it out for her knowing exactly how much it would mean. And that maybe,maybe, a small part of me would be remembered after I was gone.
It was the first time that particular thought was allowed to take root in my head. After a decade of movement, a decade of outrunning my own shit, I was thinking about what would be left behind. Selfishness took many forms, and that withered part of me that missed companionship blossomed under the self-centered thought that maybe, just maybe, someone wouldmissme when I was gone.
Maybe Maggie and I could maintain a friendship ...
Maybe this time, I could keep in touch with someone. I could find postcards at a new location and have a place to mail them. Write down more than just my favorite things and hide them in a book. I could share a piece of my life with someone.
My hands were trembling, my head down as I started to walk away.
Leave. Leave now. You say you don’t want to get caught, but you are a cookie-eating, Scrabble-winning liar, Lily Marie Townsend.
I blew out a slow breath and paused, closing my eyes while I tried desperately to ignore the truth of that while it blared in my head. Whenmy eyes opened, I found myself face-to-face with Barrett in the arched entrance to the room.
“Oh,” I said on a shocked exhale, my heart banging around inside my chest. “How are you so fucking quiet when you walk around?”
His eyes moved over my face. “Been holding on to that swear word all night, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, mouth softening. A little. “I suppose this means our truce is over.”
I cleared my throat. “I suppose.”
Barrett didn’t move away. Neither did I.
Then he moved, just half a step. Closer, though, not farther away.
The sudden nearness of him had me jumpy, my hands unable to fidget properly because they were empty, and I didn’t think he’d appreciate me using his soft-looking sweatshirt as an outlet for my repressed sexual energy.
Besides, what was I going to do? Yank on the front until he was two inches away? No thanks.
Knowing my luck, he smelled even better the closer he got; then what would happen? Chaos. Anarchy. Probably some really great sex, if he’d let himself relax long enough to break a few rules.
My skin tightened at the thought, adding to the unrelenting noise in my head that I couldn’t get a handle on. It would be good. There was no doubt in my mind that it would be incredible.
Biting kisses. The kind that felt like a fight.
Torn clothes. Slow wouldn’t happen, not between us. It wouldn’t be reluctant or hesitant.
Knocked-over furniture. Held up by walls and tables because moving to a bed would take too long, would allow for second-guessing and more rational heads to prevail.
