decadent as the taste of her tongue. My hand glides up her bare, smooth thigh to her hip. I grasp her with harsh fingers, holding her steady so I can slide against her again.
But then she turns her head away, breathing hard. “Jake, the kids . . .”
Shit. The thought of the half-dozen sleeping demons just yards away should put a damper on my desire. But it doesn’t. The stiff, hot erection straining between us whispers, You can be quiet. They’re asleep. You have hours and hours until morning, he whines. Just think of what we can do with all that time.
And as if the baby can actually hear him, Ronan’s cry squeaks out from the monitor on the nightstand.
Double dog shit fuck damn it.
That wasn’t me. That was the dick talking.
I roll off Chelsea. My forearm covers my eyes and my breath comes out in forceful puffs, like I’ve run a marathon.
She says my name again, and I pant out, “It’s okay—you’re right. Just . . . just give me a minute.”
Or an hour. Possibly a day.
Chelsea laughs breathlessly, with a hint of frustration. “My nephew has incredible timing. Incredibly bad timing.”
I lift my arm and glance her way. Her cheeks are satisfyingly flushed, her lips swollen. It’s a damn good look on her.
She sits up to tend to the hungry baby, and I roll to my side and pull her flush against me. “Let me take you out tomorrow night,” I say.
Her fingers skim across my brow. “I don’t have anyone to watch the kids. I can’t just grab a sitter out of nowhere. They’re a lot to take on.”
“I’ve got that covered.” I happen to know the toughest, most capable, patient child raiser ever. She got me to adulthood in one piece—and I was a shitload worse than all the McQuaids put together.
Chelsea leans back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. So say yes.”
She kisses me—fast and hard, the way I like it. Then she hops off the bed because Ronan is winding up to full volume.
“Yes.”
13
At six p.m. Saturday night, I stand in Chelsea’s foyer, wearing black slacks, a gray button-down shirt, and a black jacket. Chelsea is still upstairs getting dressed. I didn’t go to my prom, but if I had, I imagine it would’ve felt something like this. Eager excitement. Thrilling possibilities. It’s a new, rare feeling and I kind of like it.
When a knock comes from outside, I open the door—and there, before me, stands the kid whisperer. Luckily, she was good with short notice.
“Hey, Mom.”
My mother is a tiny woman—five foot nothing, one hundred pounds, exotic gray-blue eyes that see through all types of bullshit, and a timelessly attractive face. What she lacks in physical stature she more than makes up for in a supersized personality. She flings herself at me, arms around my neck. “Honeybear! I’ve missed you!”
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Rory and Raymond, two sides of the same snickering coin. Raymond elbows his brother. “Honeybear? ”
Internally I sigh. This could get ugly.
Behind my mother, Owen, her long-term boyfriend, walks in, hauling overloaded shopping bags in both hands. Owen’s in his fifties, sports a noticeable beer belly, and has been just a hair or two away from totally bald for years. Together, they’re an odd-looking couple—the kind who would make people say, Is she really going out with him? But Owen is a hell of a guy—patient, kind, hardworking—and he’s worshipped the ground my mother walks on since the day they met.
He places one bag on the ground and shakes my hand. “Good to see you, Jake.”
“Oh!” my mother exclaims, the Alabama accent she’s never totally lost shining through, “I have to get the other two bags in the car—can’t forget them.”
Owen taps the air with his hand. “I got ’em, G. Take it easy.”
The kids, minus Ronan, are lined up at the entrance to the den. Riley holds Regan on her hip. “That them?” my mother asks me, nodding her chin.
“That’s them.”
She approaches them slowly, regarding each one by one. “Hey there, children. I’m Jake’s momma and your babysitter for the night. You can call me Gigi.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “And that’s Owen.”
“What’s in the bags?” Rosaleen asks.
“Well, aren’t you just adorable on legs.” My mother crouches down to eye level with her. “In the bags are what we’ll be doin’ tonight. Ingredients for all kinds of cookies. Chocolate chip, sugar, peanut butter bliss, and some that haven’t even been invented yet.”
Two of the five lick their lips.
My mother stands back up and turns to Riley. “You’re Riley?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Any allergies in this bunch that I should be aware of?”
“No, Gigi, we don’t have any allergies.”
“Perfect!” She walks down the line and stands before Rory. His mouth is set and his eyes squint appraisingly. “You’re Rory?”
“Yeah.”
“I hear you’re the tough one.”
“You heard right.”
She folds her arms. “You ever heard of salmonella poisoning, Rory?”
He thinks for a moment. “You get it from, like, raw eggs, right?”
“That’s right. You know what’s in raw cookie dough?”
“Eggs?” Rory asks—still sounding like a smartass with the one short word.
“Yep. So, maybe since you’re so tough, you can play Russian roulette with salmonella and be our dough taster. What do you think?”
And he cracks a smile. “Sure.”
“All right, then! Everyone grab a bag and show me where the kitchen is.”
They do as they’re told and follow my mother with her cookie bags like she’s the Pied Piper. All except Rosaleen, who stays in the foyer with me. I move to the bottom of the staircase, one arm resting on the oak railing. Waiting.
Then Chelsea appears on the landing. And it’s—boom—instant slow motion. Like every cheesy fucking teen movie from the eighties that I never watched. Her royal-blue dress swishes as she descends, giving teasing glimpses of creamy thigh. The soft fabric cinches at her waist and the deep V of her neckline exposes a tantalizing hint of perfect, pale cleavage. Her curled, glossy hair bounces with each step . . . and so do her boobs.
Rosaleen’s little blond head swivels from me to her aunt, then back to me. “Are you gonna kiss her?” she asks curiously.
My eyes continue their travels. And I breathe out, “Oh, yeah.”
Rosaleen scrunches her nose like a bunny that ate a bad carrot. “That’s disgusting, Jake.”
• • •
After reminding the kids not to be idiots for my mother, I take Chelsea to the Prime Rib—a high-end supper club in the heart of DC. It has an elegant, old-school kind of feel—candlelit tables, dark-paneled walls, excellent red wine, and an adjoining room for dancing to the soft tunes of the piano man singing bluesy versions of classic songs. I step in front of the maître d’ and pull out her chair myself. After rattling off the specials, he goes to retrieve the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon I ordered as we scan our menus. For a second, a horrifying thought occurs to me.
“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“No,” Chelsea scoffs, gazing back at the choices with anticipation. “I love a good piece of meat.”
“Happy to hear it.” She detects the smirk in my voice and meets my eyes over the menu with a playful laugh.
After placing our orders, we drink our wine . . . and I can’t stop looking at her. She’s just so fucking gorgeous. She takes a sip of wine and a crimson drop glistens on her upper lip. She swipes at it with the tip of her tongue and I ache to lick it off with mine. Suck on those lips. Drink wine from the hollow of her throat.
I adjust myself below the table and take a swig from my own glass. Christ, this is going to be a long night. Everything she does, everything she says, makes me think of sweaty, slow, hard, deep fucking.
“Your mom isn’t anythi
ng like I imagined.”
Except that.
“What were you imagining?”
“Well . . . a larger woman, I guess. How did she even survive you—you must’ve been a huge baby. And . . . she looks so young.” Chelsea points a finger. “That means you have good genes; you should thank her.”
“My father was a big guy; I take after him build-wise. And my mom looks young because she is young. She had me when she was sixteen.”
“Sixteen?” Chelsea repeats, probably thinking, That’s only two years older than Riley. Pretty fucking young.
I nod, sipping my wine.
“So, your parents are divorced?” Her tone is hesitant; she doesn’t want to wander into uncomfortable territory.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “He left . . . when I was eight.”
Her face pinches with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” And I couldn’t be more honest. “It was the nicest thing he ever did for me.”
Our food arrives. Chelsea stares wide-eyed at her porterhouse, ’cause it’s larger than her head. “Now, that’s a big piece of meat.”