Page 71 of One and Only

He was right. In my nerve-laden babbling, I’d said the words without thinking.

“What did you say then?” I asked evenly.

He gave me a long, unreadable look. “Not that,” he finally answered.

Before he could say anything else, before I could say—or do—anything else, like launch myself at his face and see what happened, Olive opened her bedroom door. “My flowers are done. Pajama time?” she asked.

Beckett snapped the gaze, and with his eyes off mine, I let out a quiet, slow exhale at the easing of whatever had been pulled so tight between us.

“Yeah, sweet pea.”

She hopped back into her room, the tuneless humming lightening whatever mood had settled over the two of us.

Mood.

Temporary insanity, whatever.

But he still looked very thrown-off by this new development.

And oh, it made me want to tease him mercilessly. “Do I have to get pajamas on now too?” I asked lightly.

His eyes churned with something I couldn’t quite define.

Beckett brushed past me and down the stairs with light steps, and with a hand over my suddenly weightless stomach, I turned into the guest room to grab my clothes and move them into his bedroom.

Olive’s bedtime routine was a well-oiled machine, and as I moved my things from the second bedroom upstairs down to Beckett’s, I watched them navigate it with ease.

There was a snack at the kitchen counter. A graham cracker and a small glass of milk. She methodically dunked the cracker into the milk until it all but fell apart.

She brushed her teeth, standing on a stepstool in her bathroom, for the full recommended two minutes, I was informed. No cavities for Miss Olive.

Beckett brushed out her hair, and the sight ofthatdid things to me at an almost biological level.

Have you ever seen a six-five guy with huge biceps brush out his daughter’s hair to make sure it wasn’t tangled when she went to bed?

It would do things to you too, no matterwhatyour type was.

In an effort to cool said things down to a manageable level, I closed myself into the main bedroom, finding an empty drawer or two in the bathroom to unpack my cosmetics after moving them from the guest bathroom and a section of the walk-in closet where I could hang the shirts I had with me.

The room was so clean and tidy, he didn’t keep clutter anywhere, and even his clothes were mixed in among each other—dress shirts hung next to T-shirts and jeans folded in by athletic pants.

I ran my hand down the sleeve of a worn Portland Voyagers shirt, and before I could stop myself, I pulled it up to my nose to take a deep inhale.

Maybe Beckett wasn’t my type, but fucking A he smelled addictive.

He found me there, just after the sleeve fell out of my hand.

“I’ve got some work to do in the back garage,” he said. “I told Olive I’d build her a gardening bed, and I want to get started on it while it’s still light.”

I nodded, cheeks warm because five seconds earlier and he would have caught me sniffing his clothes.

“Need any help?”

He shook his head. “Just doing some measuring and cutting tonight. I may need a second set of hands tomorrow.”

I found myself wringing my hands, standing in that closet with him, and he noticed, quirking one eyebrow when I stretched them out in an effort to stop.

“Umm, what side of the bed do you sleep on?” I asked. “I’m pretty beat, so I think I’ll turn in early.”

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