A shiver wracks me.
What have I gotten myself into?
The children stop talking and watch, too, as he hangs his keys on the hook, powerful muscles moving in his back under the thin, oil-streaked T-shirt. My gaze drops to his ass, snug in his soft jeans, and I swallow hard.
God, that’s one tight, spectacular ass.
Another wave of heat washes over me. I force my gaze away from his butt as he turns and shoves that fall of dark hair out of his eyes.
He pauses there, taking us in, and familiar pain flashes through his eyes. They’re so expressive when he lowers his walls even for a moment. So beautiful.
Giving myself a shake, I close the book. “Dinner time,” I say brightly.
He blinks, paling a little, and I wonder if it’s because he’s skipped lunch, or if he’s remembering another woman saying these words to him.
How can I ever compete with a ghost?
And who says you are? I scold myself as I pick Cole up and tug Mary with me, heading to the kitchen, keeping my gaze off this damaged, sexy man-bear who’s gotten under my skin without even trying.
How pathetic is that? He’s fascinating. He’s irritating, but also captivating.
A guy who’s been harsh and rude every step of the way, who lashes out instead of talking things out, who’s turned his pain and sorrow into a knife and swipes with it at anyone who steps too close.
A guy who can’t remember how to open up. How to hold his kids. How to control his strength, or his words.
A guy who looks adorably confused and scared as I wait for him to sit at the kitchen table and then deposit Cole onto his lap.
“Here.” I put Cole’s plate in front of them. “Help him eat.”
Cole stares up at his dad’s bearded face, eyes going round, mouth trembling, and I make myself go sit across from them, beside Mary.
His dad’s face isn’t much better. His brows are knitted. He looks from the little boy on his knee to the plastic plate and kiddie fork on the table.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, closing his eyes briefly, and I’m sorry I’m making him do this before he’s even had a bite.
“I hope you like it,” I say quietly, and tuck a napkin over Mary’s dress. I smile down at her. “You like my mac and cheese, don’t you?”
Mary nods, mouth already full. “It’s different from what Grandma makes, but I like it.”
“I put broccoli in it,” I mouth at Matt.
He chokes. He starts to cough, a flush rising to his cheekbones.
Cole laughs, stabbing at his macaroni with his fork, making a mess.
Mary giggles.
Matt wipes at his eyes, one-handedly, looks down at his son, and his gaze softens again. His mouth pulls into a reluctant, faint smile when Cole lets out another peal of laughter and bangs his fork in his plate.
Mary reaches across the table and pulls on the plate. Cole grabs it, hauls it back. Mary laughs, her eyes flicking to her dad, as if afraid he’d get angry.
Matt puts his large hand over Cole’s small one and guides the fork into the plate. Cole quietens again, looks up at his dad.
Then down at the plate.
He grins, showing all his little teeth.
Matt’s brow furrows as he helps Cole snag some macaroni, then lets go, letting his son bring the fork up to eat. There’s a gleam of something new in his gaze now.