Liars (Licking Thicket 2)

“Who loves her bubble bath?” Diesel’s deep, soothing voice set off little earthquakes in my stomach. “Would you look at that smile? Parrish, come look!”

Marigold’s happy shrieks and the sound of violent splashing filled the kitchen.

I squeezed my eyes shut, glad Diesel couldn’t see me from where he stood at the sink. “Can’t. Busy.”

Possibly the most important discovery of the last few days was that Diesel’s whole “I reject that rule” confident flirtation had lasted about as long as Marigold’s diaper change.

Which was a good thing. A really good thing. Obviously.

I mean, the similarities of this situation to the whole clusterfuck with Payne were undeniable, but at least Diesel wasn’t pretending he was interested in sexing me up anymore, which would only muddy the already-murky fake-fiancé waters. We were doing this for Marigold, after all. I was spending most of my free time at his place for the next week and a half so we could cement our happy-family façade and impress the caseworker for her sake. The fact that Diesel seemed perfectly content to forget about my award-winning ass was all for the best, when looked at through that lens, and I would absolutely not ruin this situation by wanting more.

Which was why I would remain on this floor until every particle of baby food that had wedged itself in the cracks was clean, or until Diesel Church ceased being so goddamn irresistible.

I was planning to be here a while.

Diesel sighed impatiently. “I told you I’d wash the floor myself. I don’t want you to—”

“I know.” I scrubbed at the floor as hard as I could with both hands, my whole body getting into the act. “It’s fine. I want to.” Or, okay, if we were being honest, it was more like I’d needed an excuse to step away from Diesel for a minute, but honesty and I were no longer on speaking terms, so I wasn’t gonna say that out loud. “The apple-carrot squeezey was my idea after all.”

“And it was a great one! I swear, I feed her the same stuff already, but the squeeze pouch makes it cooler or something. Your gift basket was a hit, bab—uh, Parrish.”

I stifled a sigh. Yeah, so no flirtation… but there’d been this. Diesel looking at me with weird intensity every once in a while. Diesel calling me a pet name and correcting himself, which only drew attention to it. Diesel teasing me or flicking me with a kitchen towel, like he’d breathed a giant sigh of relief and become more relaxed, more comfortable in his skin, since I’d agreed to this plan. Diesel smelling like clean sandalwood soap, which was some kind of unresearched aphrodisiac and scientists needed to get on that.

I was pretty sure most of it was unintentional—I was not crazy enough to think he had ulterior motives for his soap or whatever—but it didn’t matter. The way we’d connected in such a short time was messing with my brain, making me want things I knew better than to want. And while I loved knowing something I’d done had contributed to his comfort and happiness, I also hated thinking he didn’t feel like he could do this on his own.

It wasn’t like I was anyone special. It wasn’t like my presence alone was going to magically fix this for him. It wasn’t like I was gonna be a permanent fixture in his life… or Marigold’s.

But then again, I knew from experience that I ticked a lot of the right boxes on paper when it came to getting custody of a baby. I was the responsible, upstanding, good influence you wanted as a prospective co-parent. I was the ace in the hole. So maybe those pet names were Diesel’s way of practicing for the home inspection that would be coming, or his way of keeping me turned up sweet for the duration. Either way, this didn’t mean I was the guy Diesel wanted warming his bed.

Which, again, was a good thing. And if I just kept telling myself that, at some point I’d believe it.

Objectively speaking, I knew I wasn’t bad-looking. I was, you know, average. Average height and average build, average intelligence and average ambitions, a little more high-strung than most and blessed with a higher bank balance, but too wholesome and white-bread to ever be considered sexy, let alone hot. Payne used to jokingly call me “basic,” and it had taken me a long time to realize it wasn’t a joke and even longer for the sting of it to go away, but once we’d broken up, I’d embraced the fuck out of it. I liked chinos and listening to NPR. I genuinely enjoyed dinners with my elderly relatives. I read Birds and Butterflies magazine and daydreamed about the pollinator garden I would someday grow, once I had a home of my own. I was who I was, and I wasn’t going to pretend to be more or less than that.