Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I am now. She fell asleep.” He exhales and drags his hands over his face. “You were right about the burp. I had no idea a baby that small could belch like a frat boy drinking beer.”
“Can I come in or do you want me to leave now that everything’s okay?” I shift on my feet, hoping he wants me to stay.
“Oh, shit,” he says, moving out of the entryway. “Would you mind staying for a while in case she wakes up?”
No woman would tell a smoking hot, six-foot-three man covered in baby powder no. Even if he’s her boss’s boss.
“Of course. I’ve been babysitting since I was fourteen.”
He lays a hand on my shoulder, leaning into me. “Thank you, Tessa.” His touch isn’t meant to be sexual in nature, but my nipples harden and a place low within me clenches. He quickly removes his hand. I’m sure my face shows the effect he has on me.
I walk past him into the main living area, needing some space, and glance around in shock. “It looks like a baby tornado hit,” I say, laughing.
Diapers are strewn across the floor and couch and bottles sit on every flat surface available, including expensive looking antiques. I count five pacifiers on just the coffee table.
“I thought I could handle a sweet baby for the night, apparently not,” he says with a huff.
“Yeah, I’d say the baby showed you who was boss.”
I help Barclay clean up the mess, and check in on his niece, Beatrice, who’s sleeping like an angel in her crib. She has a mop of curly hair the shade of Barclay’s, and her long black eyelashes rest against chubby cheeks. She’s adorable. I wish she were awake to play with, but I’ll keep that thought to myself.
I tiptoe out of the room, and Barclay’s leaning against the wall, looking like he ran a marathon. I bite down on my lower lip, trying so hard not to laugh.
“I know. I know,” he says, smiling at me. “I suck at babies.”
“You just need some coaching.” We stand in the hallway, gazing at each other, awkwardness growing by the second. Maybe it’s time for me to go.
“Would you like a drink? God knows I could use one.”
I nod, though it feels like there’s a large elephant in the room we aren’t addressing. Basically, I shouldn’t be here alone.
“Maybe a diet soda or something. I’ve already had two, working on three glasses of red wine tonight, so no more alcohol. Mrs. Mackenzie gave me the bottle.” Barclay raises a brow at the mention of his assistant, but doesn’t ask anything further. I follow him to a sparkly kitchen with shiny granite counters and stainless steel.
“Have you eaten dinner?”
“Just popcorn.”
“Tessa, that’s not food. I’m ordering pizza from John’s. Have you tried it yet?” He hands me a drink.
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the glass. “It’s been the dollar slice life for me. The cheap place by the office, and it’s not even worth a buck.”
“That’s like eating cardstock with tomato sauce. John’s it is.” Barclay pulls out his phone to call in the order, and a pacifier tumbles out of his pocket, landing on floor. We both stare at it and laugh until we’re in tears.
“Hey,” Barclay says, after calling in the pizza order. “Let’s play a little game while we wait.”
“What do you have in mind?” I ask, giving him a pointed stare.
“We’ll ask each other a few what or why questions. For instance, why do you always wear pink?”
“So, you’re going to start with that one?” I ask, and he laughs.
“Yeah, I guess I am.” We take a seat on the couch with a comfortable friend-zone distance between us.
“After having a boy, my mother loved dressing me in pink frilly clothes. One day, I asked her why the boys at preschool didn’t wear pink, but the girls could wear blue. She told me it was because pink gave me a special superpower and I believed her. So every day, I have to wear something with pink in it.”
“I do believe she’s right,” Barclay says, his eyes darkening. “The color looks lovely on you, Tessa.
“Thank you,” I say, blushing pink, of course. “Okay, my turn. Are there any rules?”
I give him the once over, contemplating how far I want to stick the knife.
“Nope,” he quips, and I take a deep breath.
“Okay, then. Why isn’t there a Mrs. Hammond, or a soon to be one?” I go for the throat. After all, he’s thirty-seven. In Alabama, guys that age have kids in middle school.
“Honest?” he asks, and I nod, watching him squirm. “Well, I’ve never been with anyone who made me want this.” He gestures around the room full of baby gear and wedding photos. All scream one thing: commitment.
Considering how I feel so drawn to him, maybe not being together isn’t such a bad thing in the end. He’s the kind of man who could tear my heart to shreds.