“Well, this one is better than that one,” Rosalie decrees, opening the book and turning to the first page. Flashing her big brown puppy dog eyes at him, she adds, “Please, Daddy?”
The little boss has defeated the big boss tonight. With an indulgent roll of his eyes, he climbs across the bed and takes the book. “We’ll read it once, then you’re going to bed.”
Rosalie claps her hands, looking up at me with a victorious smile. I hold up my hand and she gives an answering high five.
Mateo settles in beside us and starts reading the book. I’m not normally present for their bedtime routine, but his practiced command over the words and Rosalie’s recitation between giggles leads me to conclude this must be how they always read this story. It’s a cute book, probably a million times cuter because it’s Mateo reading it. For all the stories this manipulative man has told in his time, this is by far the most adorable.
My poor heart barely makes it through the book without exploding. Mateo reads his lines with relish, Rosalie comes in with hers then collapses into giggles of delight, and I’m so consumed with tenderness for both of them I could burst. She’s in my lap so I can already squeeze her, but this little performance is making me want to jump Mateo’s bones even more than I did prior to the interruption.
After the story ends, Mateo hauls Rosalie back to bed. I take the opportunity to rid myself of my pesky clothing and burrow underneath the blankets.
Mateo reenters the room, closing the door behind him and meeting my gaze. “Now, where were we?”
“Oh, I’m a step ahead of you,” I assure him, nodding toward the dress. “Clothes have no place here.”
He smirks as he unbuttons his shirt. “Women and bedtime stories, I swear. I should’ve skipped straight to that move and saved myself a lot of plays.”
I can’t help smiling. “Yeah, you really should’ve. Remember when we were in here the first time and you mentioned you had been reading Isabella a bedtime story? You should’ve made me watch. Then sent your cops to talk to me. I would’ve been like, ‘leave that man alone, he reads to his daughter.’”
“Eh, you covered my ass anyway,” he says, peeling his shirt off and going to work on his pants. “I got the right result, regardless of my method.”
“I’m just saying.”
“My way led us here,” he states.
“Um, that would have, too. Much faster. You in daddy mode makes me crazy. You could’ve swept me right off my feet if you’d played that card sooner.”
He shrugs, faintly shaking his head. “Women.”
I roll my eyes at him. “It’s not a woman thing. You have kids. Didn’t it make you all warm inside when you first found out you were going to be a father? When the baby kicked and you got to feel it for the first time? When you looked at ultrasound pictures? Didn’t it make you all lovey to see Meg’s belly growing, knowing your baby was in there? Don’t answer that last one, obviously,” I add, quickly.
He does anyway, as he drapes his shirt across the chair. “None of that made me feel warmth or desire.”
I cock my head to the side. “No? When did it kick in, then? When the babies were born?”
“When did what kick in?” he asks mildly, ditching his last article of clothing and hitting the lights.
I frown slightly as he heads to the bed. “The…” I trail off, unsure how to explain it. The moment I realized I was pregnant, my affection for the little bundle growing in my womb rooted itself deep inside my soul. I don’t know how to describe the feeling, but he’s already a parent—I expected him to know exactly what I’m talking about.
“Desire for a woman because she’s having my child?”
That’s not what I was talking about, but I shrug.
“Doesn’t do anything for me. A stranger could have my child. Why would that make me feel anything for her?”
“Because of the connection implied?”
“What connection? That we’ve had sex before? I’ve had sex with plenty of women I’ve had no feelings for. It didn’t mean anything. Why would a pregnancy change that?”
Grimacing, I shake my head and wave my arms in front of myself in a halting motion. “All right, shut it down. I don’t want to hear about that, it makes me ragey.”
I expect him to be amused by my possessiveness, but he’s frowning at me. It’s a puzzled frown, like I’ve just given him new information. It throws me. There’s no way that’s news. I hate thinking of him having sex with anyone who isn’t me, whether he knew me at the time or not.
Then he asks, his words more alarming than his tone, “Do you feel that way? Do you feel having a baby necessarily breeds some sort of emotional connection between a woman and the man who impregnated her?”