Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Maybe she feels it too, because she drops her hand. “Sorry. I—”
“It’s fine,” I say. Touch me again.
“All parents feel like you do at one point or another. All I’m saying is, being a wonderful father and being great in your field, it’s, well—the two aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, quite the opposite. What greater motivation to make the world better than having a child?”
She turns and looks at the cot. It creates a little distance between us, and I get the overwhelming urge to pull her toward me. To close the gap. To feel more of her heat.
Guinevere hasn’t stirred.
“Give yourself a chance. Flirt with the possibility that the two of you will rub along quite nicely together. You do so far.”
She looks back to me and I can’t stop staring at her. How her pillowy-soft mouth curves, how her hair seems to glow in the moonlight, how her almond-shaped eyes are every shade of blue at the same time.
“You’re amazing,” I blurt out. She looks down at my collar, no longer meeting my gaze. “You’re kind. And insightful. And patient. And…beautiful.”
I stop. I know I’ve gone too far.
“I should go,” she whispers.
I can’t disagree with her. Everything that could come after this moment is too complicated if she stays.
NINETEEN
Eira
John sets down some eggs on the kitchen island. “The key with scrambled eggs is not to overdo it. Never whisk. Always use a fork.”
When I woke this morning, I quickly got ready, not knowing when Guinevere would wake. It’s a new environment and her schedule might get a little wonky.
“Good tip,” I say, cracking eggs into a bowl. “How many shall I do?”
“Twenty, I think. Some will want fried.”
I laugh at the idea of making twenty scrambled eggs. “I better get cracking,” I say and give John a wink.
“Oh dear,” he says, his expression crestfallen. “Your puns will have to get better than that if you’re going to be influencing my granddaughter’s sense of humor.”
I laugh. “It was pretty bad,” I say. “I’ll try to do better next time.”
Dax wanders into the kitchen, Guinevere in his arms. My entire body goes up in flames. I don’t want to look at him in case he can read my mind, because then he’d know I was a second away from sliding my hand over his chest last night and asking him to kiss me. I force myself to smile.
“Is she ready for her breakfast? Does she want eggs?”
Dax frowns at me like I’ve pissed him off and a shiver skates down my spine. What have I done? I’m not really going to feed his daughter eggs.
“What are you wearing?” he asks, his tone terse.
I glance down at myself. “Jeans and a shirt. If you—”
“The apron. I can’t have you wearing the apron with Jacob’s face on it. I’ll never hear the end of it.” He strides toward me and starts to undo the tie at the back as if it’s about to explode if he doesn’t get it off me as soon as possible. I may or may not have imagined Dax peeling my clothes off, but it wasn’t motivated by his brother’s face.
Once untied, he lifts the apron at the front and I dip my head so he can slip it off.
“Okay,” I say. “No apron.”
“You boys are ridiculous,” John says from where he’s putting sausages into the oven. “There’s no reason to be jealous, Dax. It’s an apron, not an engagement ring.”
Dax and I lock gazes, our eyes wide as if we’ve been caught keeping a secret.
“I don’t believe in feeding the beast,” he says, recovering quickly. “That’s all. Don’t want him with any more ammunition than he already has.”
“Shall I take Guinevere and give her some milk?” I ask. “Dax, you could take over eggs?”
“Actually,” he says. “I’ll do the milk.”
There’s a boom in my chest, like a mallet on a kettle drum.
“No problem,” I say, trying to sound like it’s no big deal that Dax has chosen to be a father above any other choice he had this morning. Even if the other choice was eggs. Baby steps.
I start cracking eggs into the bowl and watch as Dax sets Guinevere in the DockATot and starts preparing her milk. His hair is still damp from the shower and his navy t-shirt clings to his chest a little too closely.
Not that I’m looking.
Not that I got up extra early so I could wash my hair.
Not that I’m wearing my most flattering jeans and I’ve actually put on some mascara and lip gloss.
“Hey Guinevere,” I say, as Dax fixes her bottle. “Did you sleep super well? Did your brain grow? One day it will be as big as your daddy’s.”
I hear Dax’s huff of a half laugh behind me. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he passes just a little too close to me, grazing my arm with his.