Dad Bod (Under Construction 1)

ks as we cut down the road to Madden’s house.

Marshland surrounds the gravel path that leads toward the split-level Southern-style house that sits on South Inlet. The view is positively breathtaking. I park the Jeep beside Madden’s work truck, the Davenport Construction logo prominent in bright red and yellow print down the side and around the tailgate. I check my face in the mirror to make sure it’s clear of red splotches. “I’s get out too, Auntie?”

I climb out of the Jeep and open the back door, unlatching Kenny’s car seat. “Yeah, Ken-man. But I want you to be on your best behavior. A Southern gentleman, okay?”

“Yes’m, Auntie.” He gives me a chubby thumbs-up as his feet crunch against the gravel.

“Belly!” Ken-man shouts as he races toward the front porch. “You’s a princess?” His husky laughter tugs at my heart, light with happiness and love. But when I close the Jeep door and follow the path up to the porch, I have to bite back the laughter that bubbles up in my chest.

Belle’s dressed in a fluffy cotton candy pink tutu dress that wraps around her neck and flows full and wide toward her feet. Thick pom poms in multicolor are sprinkled about the tulle, brown leggings, and white canvas shoes. Glitter dusts her pink-tinged cheeks, and her dark brown hair is … well, it looks like she had a tussle with a hairbrush, and she won. Brown locks of tattered curls and frizz stick up in this direction and that. She’s certainly got a style of her own goin’ on her, and I’m diggin’ it.

“What is yous wearin’?” Ken-man’s eyes are alight with amusement as he giggles

“Grammy always says you are what yous eats. And I wants to eats all the cupcakes. So I’s a cupcake.” She slips cupcake embellished shades on her face, shoving stringy strands of hair out of her face as she struts down the steps, so much swagger and grace in her little steps; I’m in awe of her confidence.

And this, y’all, is the very reason why my new best friend is a five-year-old preschooler because this kid is livin’ her best life.

“If she’s too much, I don’t mind to make her change into something more…” Madden considers his next words as Belle pins him with a glare.

“Grammy says I gotta own it, and I”—Hot Mess Bess sweeps her arms out in front of her dress, careful not to pull at the material—“wook fasbulous.” Belle raises her sunglasses and attempts a crinkled wink at Madden.

“What’s wong withs ya hair, Belly?” Kenny scrunches his brows as he takes her in.

She smooths the tattered locks back from her face. “What you mean?”

“It’s all over. Did you bwush it? My momma always makes me comb my hair before I leave the house.”

Belle reaches into the mess of fluffy tulle and brandishes a lollipop. Never mind the fact that she just littered. Her daddy can scold her for that. I’m completely enamored with the fact that her tutu has freakin’ pockets. I need this. I need this tutu with pockets to wear to yoga or on midnight Walmart runs. It’s versatile and makes a unique fashion statement for sure.

“Brushin’ ya hairs ain’t cool, Ken-man.” Belle shrugs and shoves the sucker between her lips.

And as if a lightbulb has flickered in Kenny’s mind, he shrieks, “You’re it!” as he slugs Belle in the arm and pumps his little arms and legs into a jog around the Jeep. And do you think this little sassafrass cares that she’s dressed in frills? Hell no. She drops her sucker to the ground and hikes her tutu dress up around her waist, as not to trip over the long layers, and she chases Ken-man around the Jeep singing loudly and out of tune.

Maybe that wine should be tequila, and stat.

“You’re in over your head, Williams.” Madden laughs from behind me. I cock my glare in his direction, a smartass reply lingering on my tongue and ready to slip off, but… I’m bought up short and speechless when I drink him in. He’s leaned against the column, a black tank highlighting the definition in his chest, his biceps roped and corded in muscles, and his callused hands are tucked into the pockets of gray sweatpants.

And this, my friends, is where I’m caught—hook, line, and damn sinker, because that niggling intuition to speak, react, freakin’ breathe … well, it’s as stunned into disbelief as I am. My body is frozen in my place, my jaw slack, and drool trickling down my chin.

Madden’s smirk stretches so far across his face that if this beautiful man didn’t have ears, that smile would cut his head in half.

Thank God he has ears.

And sun-kissed flesh.

A sexy smirk that makes my knees buckle and—

“Oh my gosh, yous has a cocker!” Ken-man exclaims. What in the ever-lovin’ fuck is a cocker? I can’t see the kids, only hearin’ their voices projecting from somewhere near the side of the house.

“Hers name is Barbeque, Kennet! Not cocker! She’s a chicken.”

“You has a chicken as a pet, Belly?” Ken-man laughs. I can’t make this shit up, y’all!

“Here, hold her. She just laid eggs, see?”

I look up at Madden for direction on where to find the kids, and it’s then I register he’s struttin’ toward me, hands still stuffed in his pockets.

And with every step he takes nearer, I realize my head is suddenly pounding with an intense pain because it seems I’ve fuckin’ forgot how to breathe.