Page 101 of Plays Well With Others

I try to concentrate on my mission—finishing this awesome braid. But I’m stealing glances at the man by my side, twisting and weaving blonde strands with those big hands, and that intense concentration in his brown eyes, and all I can think isWhy is it so damn swoony when a man does a kid’s hair?

You know why. You know what you want.

I lose my grip on a small chunk of Mac’s hair.

Focus, Rachel.

I grab the fallen strands, then quickly finish the braid, tying it off. “There,” I declare. “It’s been a while since I’ve French braided, but check it out,” I say, proud of my work.

Carter finishes, grabs the hair tie Mac is holding, and ends his braid. Before he can even survey his work, he peers at mine. “Mmm. Nice job, Rachel,” he says, no teasing, no joking, just…praise.

My stomach flips—then cartwheels when he turns his face to me, his warm brown eyes locking with mine. “You’re good at that,” he says.

What is wrong with me? Do I have acompliment my hair braidingkink?

“Let me see how you did,” Mac says.

“There’s a mirror in my bedroom,” I say, pointing.

The tiny human pops up from the floor, grabs her phone, and scampers to the bedroom.

And Carter comes in for a kiss.

Oh.

Wow.

That’s surprising.

And nice.

I think I hum against his lips.

Yes, that’s definitely a hum. His kiss is soft. Just lips. No tongue. No hands in my hair, or on my face. The only parts of us touching at all are our lips in the barest brush, the sweetest caress.

But somehow, it’s making me want him even more than his heated possessive kisses do, than his filthy words, than his dirty stares.

This kiss is turning me inside out with its deceptive innocence.

When Mac’s footsteps signal her return, Carter pulls away, saying nothing, just giving me a wolfish grin.

I’m practically a puddle. He went from a soft caress of a kiss to a filthy smile like that.Just take me now.

“I have a winner,” Mac announces when she returns to the living room. “Both of you.”

“Whoa,” Carter says, his eyes widening. “A tie?”

“Ties are bad in football but sometimes okay in life,” Mac says, waggling her phone. “That’s what my daddy says. Oh! He’s on his way. He just texted me.”

That’s good. Because I need to get Carter alone very, very soon.

Fifteen minutes later, Mac is rushing to the door I just opened. “Daddy, I beat Carter in golf, and Rachel made me cake, and Carter and I finished a puzzle in one hour and six minutes, and they both braided my hair.”

“You’ve had a full day,” he says.

She wraps her arms around him in a waist hug, and he scoops her up into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Those are some seriously impressive braids. Looks like my wide receiver might be trying to show me up,” he says dryly.

Carter points his thumb at me. “No, sir. It was all her doing. Rachel is awesome at braids.”

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