by Jewel E. Ann
“Here. You’re going to cut off a finger or ram the knife into my counter.” He separates two slices and puts them in the toaster.
“I like pot roast on bread, lots of ketchup.” I pull the pot roast out of the oven and toss the hot pads aside.”
He pins me to the counter. “I like you in my bed, lots of begging.”
“Don’t distract me. I’m starving.”
“Me too.” His head dips to my neck.
I close my eyes as his tongue trails up to my ear. “Griff …” Everything south of my stomach wants sex right here, right now. But my stomach craves pot roast on bread, dripping with ketchup.
My toast pops up.
“Five minutes. Just let me eat first.” I rest my hands on his chest to push him away.
He adjusts himself, taking a step back. “I can’t compete with pot roast.”
“You know I would choose you over pot roast.” I fork the tender meat onto the toast and squeeze a moderate to heavy amount of ketchup on it. “But why would you make me choose?”
Ketchup drips onto the plate as I take a huge bite.
“You can sit at the table.” He chuckles.
I shake my head. “This is fine.”
“I’ll throw some clothes in a bag. We should go back to your place and get your laundry going first.” He heads down the hall toward the bedroom.
I inhale the rest of the sandwich, mopping up every drip of ketchup with the crappy sprouted grain bread. “Make sure to tell your mom she makes the best pot roast ever. Then make sure to never say those same words to my mom.”
“Got it.”
As I wash off the plate, my phone rings. It’s probably my mom. She has creepy timing. I retrieve the phone from my bag. It’s not my mom.
“Hey, Professor.”
A shrill scream sounds, clenching my heart. It’s Morgan.
“Sorry to bother you, but she’s…” distress bleeds from his voice “…colicky or something. It’s never been this bad. I don’t want to be the overreacting parent that calls the pediatrician, but I’m …”
“Okay, just … I don’t know. Maybe she’s teething?”
“I looked that up. It seems a bit early, but … shh …” He tries to soothe her. “It’s like something is hurting her.”
“It could be gas pains. I really don’t know. There’s no shame in calling her doctor.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds, but then another scream pierces my ear.
“Did you call your mom?”
“Yeah, she … she said it was probably colic. Stupid catch-all. But she won’t stop crying. She was just fine an hour ago. God … I don’t know what to do.”
“How long has she been crying?”
“I … I don’t know. Ten minutes. Thirty. An hour. I don’t know. It feels like forever.”
“Do you need me to come over?” I hate offering. It’s not going to sit well with Griffin.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I can’t think.”
“I’ll be over in a bit.”
“Thanks.” The defeat in his voice tugs at my heart.
“Who’s that?” Griffin carries his overnight bag into the living room.
I cringe. “It was Nate. Morgan won’t stop crying. He’s a little distressed.”
“Did you tell him to call a doctor?”
“Yes. I think he’s afraid to call the doctor. His mom thinks it’s colic and it probably is, but he’s just … not able to think straight.”
Griffin shakes his head, flipping off the lights. “Did you tell him you’re off duty right now?” He opens the back door as I grab my purse.
“I uh … told him I’d be over in a bit.”
Thunk.
He drops his bag to the floor and flips back on the light. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Griff, I won’t be long.”
“How do you know that? Do you have some magical pill to give her? Is that all you’re doing? Driving over there to deliver the magic pill and then coming right back home?”
I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I need to go because I won’t be able to think about anything else except the shrill cries and distressed pleas.
“Don’t be mad.”
“You’re choosing him over me.”
“Knock it off!”
His eyes narrow with my outburst.
“It’s not a competition—not between you and a sandwich and not between you and Nate. I’m going over there because it feels like the right thing to do. This isn’t any different than the time you skipped out on me to help a friend whose bike broke down an hour north of town. I didn’t accuse you of choosing him over me. He needed your help more. That’s it.”
“Go.”
I shake my head. “Tell me it’s okay to go, not because I need your permission, because I need you. And if leaving now lands me locked out of your house on your front doorstep later, then I won’t go. I choose you. Always. But it pisses me off that there has to be a choice.”
Griffin closes his eyes and pushes out a long breath. “It’s okay to go.”
My fingers lace around the back of his neck, waiting for him to open his eyes. “I love you, Grocery Store Guy.”
His eyes open. I kiss him. He barely kisses me back, but I feel a small pull and that’s enough.
“You might not always be first in line, but you’re always first with my heart. Okay?”
He nods.
“Meet me at my place?”
He nods.
I give him one more peck on the lips and leave before one of us says something we shouldn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The cries rattle my bones as I open the front door. The man standing in the doorway to his bedroom, gently bouncing the arched-back baby, shares no resemblance to the confident professor. He’s the young boy in my head—feigning confidence while drowning in desperation.
“Sorry. I would have been here sooner, but I stopped to pick up a few things.” I hold up the bag in my hand. “Teething gel, homeopathy pills for teething and colic, calming baby massage oil with lavender.”
“Hold her. I’m going to call the doctor.” He takes the bag from me with one hand while passing Morgan to me with his other hand.
Kissing her warm head, I take in his disheveled hair, wrinkled white tee, and black jogging pants. Nope. No sign of Professor Hunt anywhere.
“I know. I’m a disaster.” He looks in the bag. “How can I know so much but feel like I know nothing at the moment?”
There’s nothing I can say. I’m twenty-one with no true parenting experience and way too inexperienced at life to give sage advice.
“Call the doctor.”
He glances up from the bag. “So you think so too?”
Bouncing his screaming daughter, I nod several times. Nate lost his wife in an unexpected blink. I don’t want my gut instinct to be wrong; I’m not going to suggest rubbing gel on her gums or dissolving pills in a teaspoon of water until a doctor rules out anything serious.
A few minutes later, Nate jogs down the hall. “He’s meeting me at his office.” He grabs a pair of running shoes from his closet.
I put Morgan into a football hold with her tummy pressed to my arm and swing her back and forth. Her cries ease a fraction.
“You have a pediatrician willing to meet you at his office instead of sending you to urgent care?”
“He’s a friend of mine.”
“So why were you afraid to call him?”
Nate looks up.
“Really? You’re worried he’s going to think you don’t know what you’re doing?”
“Do I?” He finishes tying his shoes. “For the love of God! Listen to her. She won’t stop. Something is wrong.”
Desperation. He’s killing me.
“Let me know what you find out.” I start to hand her to him.
“You’re not coming?”
“I … I don’t know. Do you need me to come with you?”
“If you want to, that would be
great.”
Morgan shakes in my arms as her cry hits a peak. A few seconds of silence follow before she gets her second wind.
“I’ll go.” I don’t know if I want to go, but the slight relief on Nate’s face says he needs me to go.
“Thank you. Let’s go.”
We arrive at the pediatrician’s office after the loudest fifteen minutes of my life. Nate falls short of keeping his shit together, but I applaud him for his attempt. The agony etched into his brow is too deep to fool anyone.
“Nathaniel.” The tall blond with green-framed glasses shakes Nathaniel’s hand.
Kids must love his fun glasses and huge smile. Moms must love everything else about him. He’s hot. A different kind of hot than Griffin, but still … hot.
“John, this is Swayze.” Nate unfastens Morgan from her car seat.
“Nice to meet you.” John shakes my hand before washing his hands at the sink.
“You too.”
He examines Morgan. I watch Nate. Are his thoughts on Jenna? Or is he asking God why? Why take the mother of his child and leave him lost without a sense of what to do?
We go through a few questions, and I say we because I have more waking-hours knowledge of Morgan. The doctor concurs that it’s nothing serious. He prescribes a change in her formula and gives Nate a few samples to try when he gets home along with the things I picked up for gas and teething pain.
I put Morgan in her car seat. Before I get the harness latched, she’s asleep. She wore herself out.
“I apologize for calling after hours. I was just—”
John shakes his head. “Hey, man, don’t ever apologize. First-time dad. On your own. I’d be a mess too. Don’t tell Bella I said this, but no amount of schooling can replace motherly intuition. She’s better with our kids than I am.”
“Thanks.”
“Let me know how the change in formula works. And…” he gives me a quick smile before returning his attention to Nate “…I’m glad you’ve found someone. It’s good for you and Morgan.”
“Oh…” Nate shakes his head and chuckles “…Swayze isn’t … I mean, she’s Morgan’s nanny. That’s all.”
I return a shy grin and shrug.
John’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “You found a nanny that comes with you to after-hours doctor’s visits. She’s quite the find. Sounds like she’s a keeper.”
“Yeah, well…” Nate redirects his focus to the car seat, refusing to look in my direction or John’s “…again, thanks. I’ll call you.”
I’m not sure which is worse, the screaming or the awkward silence. For Morgan’s sake, I’ll say the screaming is worse. But the ride home isn’t fun.
“I shouldn’t have called you,” Nate says as we go in the house. “I had a weak moment, and I overstepped a line.”
What do I say? In my years of being a nanny, I’ve never had anyone call me to accompany them to a doctor’s visit outside of my normal working hours. But maybe other nannies have had it happen. I’ve also never been a nanny for a single parent.
“I wanted to help you out, even if my help was in the form of moral support.”
“Still …” He sighs, setting the car seat on the floor.
Morgan hasn’t made a sound since we left the doctor’s office.
“I’ll pay you overtime for this.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes filled with regret.
“You don’t have to pay me anything extra. Technically, you didn’t ask me to come over here. I offered because I, too, was concerned about Morgan.”
He steps closer, too close for the silence surrounding us. The last time we were this close I had my hand on his bare abdomen, and the time before that, he hugged me in the garage to comfort me during my breakdown.
“John thought we were … together,” he says.
Definitely too close. Yet, I feel no urge to step back. Standing this close to him feels familiar and a slew of other crazy emotions.
I look up. He’s so close I have to strain my neck a little. “Crazy.” My voice trembles. “Since I’m so young.”
That’s it? That’s my best response? Yes, I’m fifteen years younger than Nate. But … he just lost his wife a few months ago and I have a boyfriend. That should be why it’s crazy.
He grins. “True. Sometimes I forget how young you are because of everything you know about me that happened before you were born.”
Why are we having this conversation an inch from our toes touching?
“Do you have a few minutes?”
Do I have a few minutes to stand this close to a man who is not Griffin? No. His name is all it takes to force my feet to distance us.
“A few minutes for what?” I glance at Morgan.
“I want to show you some photos.”
“Of Morgan?” I return my attention to him.
“No.” He jerks his head toward the bedroom and lifts the car seat. “I don’t think I should take her out of here until she wakes up on her own.”
I follow him down the hallway. “You mean you’re afraid to take her out of it.”
“Exactly.”
Griffin is at my apartment. I should be there. Why am I following Nate when I need to find my way home to my boyfriend?
He retrieves a shoebox from his closet and sits on the bed. I take a seat next to him, but not too close.
“Where was this taken?” He holds up a photo. It’s young Nate dressed like a pirate.
“Outside of the bowling alley.”
“How can you tell? There’s no sign, I’m facing the street, and the background is blurred and black because it was night.”
“You know how I know. Are we back to this?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead he grabs another photo. “What about this one?” It’s Nate and the girl from the photo in the back of the book in his nightstand. Morgan—Daisy. They’re eating cotton candy.
“Circus.”
He grins and nods.
We go through five more photos. I know the location of all of them.
“I have to go,” I say as he reaches for another one. “It’s late. Griffin’s at my apartment waiting for me, and I have laundry to do before my trip.”
He nods. I see the you-just-popped-my-balloon disappointment on his face.
“Yeah, sorry, you’re right. I thought you might like seeing things that could validate what’s in your mind.”
I do like looking at these photos. Tomorrow I plan on doing nothing but looking at them when Morgan takes a nap. “If it weren’t so late—”
“I get it.” He puts the lid on the box and returns it to the top shelf in the closet. “Another time.”
Tomorrow.
“Yeah, another time.”
“Thank you.” He runs a hand through his wayward hair. “I’ll act my age next time and not send you a SOS before calling John.”
I chuckle. “It’s fine. Really. Hopefully the new formula works. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight.”
*
It’s eleven by the time I get home.
NASCAR’s on TV.
Lights turned off.
Griffin’s asleep on the sofa. No shirt. Bare feet. Taut inked skin begging to be licked.
Several piles of neatly-folded clothes cover my coffee table. I don’t deserve my grocery store guy. After removing my clothes—all of them—I grab his hand. Sable eyes blink open and make a slow inspection of my naked body.
“Come to bed.” I tug on his hand.
He grips my hand but doesn’t budge. Shadows from the TV dance across his face, making his expression indiscernible. If I could choose a mind to read, it would be his. I want to know what makes him tick. I want to know what he thinks when he looks at me for long minutes. Even when I’m not looking at him, I feel his eyes on me. I don’t know how … I just do.
Easing to sitting, still holding my hand, he ghosts his other hand up the inside of my leg, stopping an inch from the top. My pulse jumps up a notch.
“I know eve
ry curve of your body.” His gaze works its way up to mine.
My lips part, letting my breath fall out in a heavy pant.
“I know what each curve feels like under my hands.” He bypasses the apex of my legs, skating his hand along my skin—over my hip, dipping down to my ass, up my back, and around to my breast. It’s agonizing—striking a match in slow motion.
My eyes close, teeth digging into my lower lip as he squeezes my breast. I love the controlled strength in his touch and the calloused pad of his thumb brushing over my nipple.
“I know how you taste.” He teases his lips and tongue across my belly. “I know what you want before you say the words.”
“Griff …” I release his hand, moving both of mine to his head.
“Shh … I know.”
He does know. Griffin knows me more intimately than I know myself. With the slide of two fingers and the flick of his tongue, I let go of the thoughts in my head and give myself to him.
“Griff …” I claw at his head, holding my breath, praying this need and the pleasure it promises will last forever. This is my favorite part.
Teasing the edge.
Wanting it to last.
Needing it to end.
The anticipation breeds addiction.
“Don’t come yet.” He bites the inside of my leg and slides his fingers out of me.
A nervous chuckle squeezes past the thick pulse in my throat. “Then you better walk out that door. If you put your mouth on me one more time or touch me again … I’m gone.”
He stands, towering over me like Nate did, but Nate confuses me. Griffin commands me without saying a word.
It’s protective.
It’s possessive.
It’s lust.
It’s love.
It’s everything.
Cradling my face in his hands, he kisses me. It’s the slow start of a love song. I’m certain every time he kisses me like this I fall in love all over again. This is the kiss I dreamed of from the moment I turned over the receipt and read his phone number under Grocery Store Guy.
My hands slide up his chest, wrapping around his neck as his hands feather down my sides, wrapping around my waist. Lifting me a few inches off the ground, he continues to feast on my mouth, carrying me to the bedroom.
As he releases me to the floor, I keep my hands wrapped around his neck, whispering over his lips, “You did my laundry.”