Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
I reread his DM. “He wouldn’t have bought tickets if he didn’t want me to join, right?”
“Nope,” Ripley says.
My gut drops. “You think he’ll take someone else?”
“Nope.”
Definitive signs that I shouldn’t be taking advice from an almost-two-year-old, but Ripley is too cute to just ignore. “Is that your new favorite word?” I ask and tickle beneath his armpit.
He giggles, then nods profusely. More baby giggles, until he settles down and munches into the fruit. “I love strawberries, Awnie Loonie.”
I eat a goldfish cracker. “What else do you love?”
“Cars!” He makes a vroom noise. “Doggies.” He wipes his mouth with his hand. “Daddy. Papa. You.” He suddenly flings his soft arms around my waist, and my clenched heart untwists.
I hug my baby nephew back. “I love you too.” Ripley is the perfect distraction to my mopey afternoon blues, and soon, we find ourselves on the floor. He’s leap-frogging with me from one side of the living room to the other.
“Jump!” he says, preparing for the biggest jump of his life. His tiny feet barely lift off the ground, but I make sure I jump the same short distance.
“Jump!” we say together.
He catapults a half inch.
“Whoaaaa, you jumped so far!” I high-five him.
Ripley beams. “Again! Jump!” Just as we hop another step, Donnelly enters the living room, and my heart has leapt another five yards without the rest of me.
He seems to be absorbing the image of me playing with the baby. Car keys looped on his finger, his gun and radio are holstered like he’s on-duty, but no one trails behind him. He’s all alone.
“Hi,” I say, breathless.
“Hi to you.” He scratches at the back of his head, his breath just as trapped as mine. Our eyes only shift when Ripley races over to a bucket of Hot Wheels. Ripley doesn’t have a bad habit of putting smaller toys in his mouth, so he’s allowed Hot Wheels with supervision only. “You babysitting?” Donnelly asks, coming closer.
I pick myself off the floor. “Kinda. It’s not really a big babysitting gig. Moffy and Farrow just stepped out for a sec.” I point at the ceiling. “They’re on the rooftop if you’re looking for them. I think I saw Oscar and Charlie go up there too.”
Donnelly slips his fingers through his tousled hair. “I actually wanted to talk to you.” He ends up gripping the back of the couch. The mod blue piece of furniture separates me from him, but how he’s sweeping me, I get the distinct notion that he’d love to catapult it if he could.
He wants to talk to me.
I really hope this isn’t a bad news talk. I’m almost on edge. I say almost because something about sharing oxygen with Donnelly always makes me floaty inside. Like I’m a few seconds from an exhilarating takeoff.
“Okay, yeah,” I nod. “I’m all ears, even the ones that haven’t fully grown in yet.”
He starts to grin. “You’ve got ears on the back of your head?”
“The tops of my feet. Better to hear you with from down below.”
“Lemme talk to your foot. Gimme.” He motions to me, and I high-kick my bare foot at him. Donnelly clasps my ankle, and my smile is effervescent inside me, keeping me warm.
“Hale?” He talks to my toes. “You hear me?”
“Loud and crackly,” I say, then accidentally wobble out of his hold. Losing balance, he tries to keep me from doing a painful split by reaching for my hips, but as he scales the couch, I splat onto the cushions—and he falls on top of me.
Holy shit.
His strong build is melded against mine. Our chests rising and falling together, his hand is on the cushion near my cheek. He’s just as surprised he landed here. “Fuck. Sorry.” He lifts himself off me quickly. Standing, he’s raking his hands through his hair and readjusting his untucked black tee.
My face is roasting.
We both check Ripley, but my nephew is busy racing a yellow Mustang against a green Jeep on the floorboards.
I sit up, trying not to remember the epic, most unforgettable time Donnelly and I had sex. The memories blaze my body in a needy swelter. “What’d you want to talk about?” I ask. “My DMs?”
His brows twitch. “Your DMs?” He digs in his pocket, confused.
“I thought you read it.” It says he did with a timestamp.
He skims his phone. “Shit, no. I must’ve clicked into it, but I never saw it. Your dad”—he jabs a thumb behind him—“called me when I was on the elevator.”
“The team-up?” I’m guessing.
“Yeah.” Donnelly reads the DM in full, then looks deeper into me. “It’s never a no. Of course I wanna still go with you. Who else will be Team Callie with me?” He motions to me. “We’ll hit up all the Bass panels together. It’ll be dope.”
Except there’s the new underlying fact that we’re going as friends.