It was no one’s fault that Diesel Church existed at the opposite end of the “basic” spectrum—that his body should be sculpted by artists; that his golden-brown hair was a little long and a little wild and almost insisted you run your fingers through it; that his skin was covered in these gorgeous, swirling, cryptic tattoos—I’d picked out a hummingbird at his collarbone, but I didn’t know what the others were, or what they stood for, and I wanted to, rather desperately; that his nightstand was stacked with books on everything from studying French to building a chicken coop to something called Husbandry of the American Wyandotte, which was straight-up mystifying; that he was smart and funny and kind and could do anything, but seemed to enjoy running a salvage yard.
Diesel Church was only forced into chinos under duress, like that day at the courthouse. He probably understood “basic” about as well as I understood French, which was to say not at all. And while I wanted to ask the man endless questions, and wanted to hear him explain every facet of himself in his deep, comforting voice, and wanted to look at him forever, I couldn’t imagine he’d have any interest in me beyond being a fake fiancé.
Which, I believed, perfectly explained why I was on the floor and not watching Marigold take her bath.
I was backing up before I started to believe this fake relationship was real.
Fool me twice and all that.
“Who knew that stuff could go airborne the way it did, though, huh?” Diesel continued ruefully. “Or that she’d decide to rub it into her hair while we were busy figuring out how to clean the walls?”
“It was very Jackson Pollock,” I defended. “Her artistic genius cannot be contained by walls. Or, um, the ceiling.” I glanced up at the peachy-pink stain over my head that looked vaguely like a sunflower. “I could grab some stain killer at the hardware store, if you want. Should take that right out.”
“Or you could just keep buying her squeezy pouches.” Diesel grinned. “And then on rainy winter days, we can lie on the floor and pick out shapes, like they’re clouds.”
Marigold crowed like she endorsed this plan, but me? I sighed with helpless longing. Really, how the heck was I supposed to remain strong against the combined pull of this man and this baby, when all I wanted was to imagine I’d still be in their lives come winter?
Masochist that I was, I stood and let their smiles reel me closer to the half-filled sink where Marigold pounded the surface of the water with her chubby fists and blinked against the splash with eyelashes that had gone thick and spiky.
“You need more bubbles,” I pronounced, reaching for the bottle of lavender bubble bath that had also been part of the basket. “Just a teeny bit more, okay, sweetie, okay? Lavender is supposed to be relaxing, and it’s almost bedtime.”
“Baba,” she said happily as I turned on the water and poured a capful of the liquid under the stream.
“That’s right! Bubbles! Did you hear her repeat that perfectly?” I grinned and turned to Diesel to find him staring at me with one of those weird, intense looks I couldn’t interpret. I focused on Marigold and cleared my throat. “So, you never told me… how was the casserole?”
“The what?”
“The chicken casserole I brought over the other day.”
“Oh! That casserole. Um. It was… delectable?” He nodded vehemently. “Yup. Best ever.”
“Yeah?” I smiled, relieved. I hadn’t realized I was anxious about what he’d think of my cooking skills until that moment. “The recipe called for mushrooms, but I wasn’t sure if you’d like them, so—”
“Are you kidding? I love mushrooms. Adore them. They were the best part of the dish!”
“—so I left them out,” I finished. I cocked my head. “Did it taste like mushrooms?”
“Er.” Diesel rubbed the back of his neck. “Only in the sense that mushrooms are delicious and so was the casserole?”
“Oh.” I frowned. “Well, good, then. I figured you’d have that for a couple days anyway. Want me to heat you up some?”
“You can’t! It’s… gone.” He shrugged and patted his flat stomach. “It was just too good.”
“Wait, you mean you ate it all? That fast?” I laughed slightly. “No way! The whole casserole and all fifteen biscuits?”
“Maybe?” He looked a little sheepish, and I hoped I wasn’t making him uncomfortable. Lord knew it probably took a lot to keep a guy of his bulk running.
“Well, grab me the dish and I’ll make you more!” I offered. “Miss Sara at the bed-and-breakfast probably wants her pan back anyway.”
Diesel looked momentarily panicked. “Oh, I uh… couldn’t return it empty. That’s bad manners.”
“Of course you can!”
“No,” Diesel insisted. He looked deeply uncomfortable, which was both cute and weird. “I’ll get it back to you later.”