His hands frame my jaw, fingers brushing into my hair, and I’m immediately lost in him. In the feel of his hands on me, his hypnotizing lips.
Holy shit, this man is potent.
He grazes one hand down my shoulder to my breast and cups it over the fabric of my blouse and bra. My nipple puckers, making us both moan in delight.
“You’re so damn sweet,” he groans, but before he can do anything else, the phone in his pocket rings. He fumbles for his phone and frowns at the display. “It’s Maggie.”
“You’d better answer it.”
He pauses, gazing down at me with hot eyes, then pulls back and accepts the call.
“Hey, Maggie.” His brows shoot down in a frown. “You’re kidding me.”
He drags his hand down his face and looks over at me with regret.
Our night is over.
“Of course you did the right thing. Yes, I’m on my way. No, it’s okay. Sure, put her on. Hi, sweetheart. I’m so sorry you’re sick. Yes, I’m coming to get you right now. You didn’t ruin anything.” He smiles now. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ll see you in a little bit.”
He hangs up and turns to me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately. “What’s wrong with Gabby?”
“Chicken pox,” he says and shakes his head. “Maggie took her to urgent care, just to be sure. My kid has the chicken pox.”
“Oh, the poor thing.” I reach for my purse. “You go pick her up and I’ll go to the pharmacy for supplies and meet you back here.”
I’m tugged into Carter’s arms, in a strong hug. “You don’t have to stay.”
“If you’d rather I didn’t—”
“That’s not what I said,” he replies quickly. “You’re welcome to stay, if you’ve already had the chicken pox.”
“I did. And I’m happy to stay and help. Taking care of a sick kiddo isn’t easy.”
“Are you sure? I’m sorry, this isn’t how I envisioned tonight going.”
I laugh and then shrug. “That makes two of us, but yes, I’m sure. Let me help you.”
“You’re always helping me.” His smile falls and he reaches out to brush his thumb over the apple of my cheek. “Who helps you, Nora?”
“I think that’s a conversation for another time,” I say. “Go get your daughter. I’ll probably beat you back here.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“The pharmacy is literally around the block. I’ll be fine.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We’ve had a break in the weather, so I don’t have to try to make my way through snow in my heels on the short walk around the corner to the pharmacy. I immediately reach for the usual suspects: antihistamine, Tylenol for pain and fever, Gatorade, and chocolate.
Because chocolate is always necessary.
I also throw a couple of teen magazines in the basket, and on my way to the checkout counter, I see a set of oven mitts, covered in green ivy. They look like something my mother would have in her kitchen, and I snatch them up, remembering an episode of one of my favorite TV shows.
I was right. I beat them home. So I go straight to Gabby’s room and put clean sheets on her queen-size bed. I put the magazines, medicine, and Gatorade on the bedside table, as well as the oven mitts, along with a small roll of tape I found.
Just as I get the pillowcases back on Gabby’s pillows, I hear the front door open and footsteps down the hall to the bedroom.
“You did beat us back,” Carter says.
“I have all the supplies you should need,” I inform Gabby while I pull her in for a gentle hug. “I’m so sorry this happened, sweetie.”
“I itch,” she says. “And I’m hot.”
“Fever,” I murmur, feeling her head. “Did anyone give her anything for the fever?”
“Yes, she just had a Tylenol and a Benadryl. They should kick in soon,” Carter says. “Gabs, why don’t you put some pajamas on and get in bed?”
“Okay. Uh, what are the oven mitts for? Am I supposed to bake in my condition? Also, I think Grandma has the same ones.”
I laugh and slide them on her hands. “I once saw an episode of Friends, where most of the cast gets the chicken pox. To keep from scratching, they duct-tape oven mitts on their hands. So if you get out of control scratching these things, we’ll do the same thing.”
“But if they itch, I should scratch them.”
“No, if you scratch them, they’ll bleed, and you’ll scar.” I lift my shirt up to show her my stomach. “See this? It’s a chicken pox scar.”
“But it itches.”
“Trust me, I know.” I pull some pajamas out of her dresser. The softest ones I can find. “Pull these on, and get settled.”
“Dad, I know it makes me sound like a baby, but will you tuck me in?”
“Sure.”
“And I want my letter from Mom.” She bats her eyelashes, and Carter opens the bedside table drawer, pulling out a folded letter that’s seen better days. It’s been folded and unfolded a hundred times from the look of the battered creases.