Whit #2
So I slip off the couch and head to the kitchen, where I take my time with a glass of ice water, staring into the suds floating around the sink. Desperate to get my mind off the way his thumb might feel circling around my joystick.
I’ve abstained from wine tonight because I assumed that was behind my full body flush and inappropriate longing the last time he was here.
Maybe this time I’m ovulating….
My fingertips slide under the hem of my shirt and dig into my skin, like I’m an ovulation witch.
I don’t know what I expect to determine by prodding my squishy lower stomach.
Normally, I hate when ovulation pains stab through me because they’re an agonizing reminder of everything I can’t have.
I understand the science supporting leaving ovaries behind during a hysterectomy—I only wish I didn’t have to be reminded of their presence so regularly.
Although, for tonight, it would be handy to have an excuse for why I’m eye-fucking a man I wouldn’t normally have any desire to take a second glance at.
In a flurry of chaos, Jonas beats Colt in their race and a hilarious victory dance erupts, leading to Colt smacking him repeatedly with a throw pillow.
I’m basking in the unadulterated joy, laughing and rooting for both sides in this play fight.
Jonas shakes his skinny butt at Colt. Colt’s pillow makes contact with Jonas’s head.
The doorbell rings, and we all fall silent.
“Got it,” Colt and I say simultaneously.
He bought pizza last time. And brought so much candy tonight, he probably needed to get a pay advance from the ranch to afford the massive price markup at the corner store. Plus, I owe him for helping with Jonas. Even though he placed the order, there’s no way he’s paying.
I race to the door, nearly tripping over a pair of sneakers left haphazardly in the middle of the floor. I’m the first to the front door, but Colt’s arm shoots out to stop me. His warm hand lies on top of mine, and we turn the black door handle. My breath catches at the click of the door mechanism.
He’s close. Real close. His breath, warm and slightly smelling of chocolate, moves across the nape of my neck.
“Let me get the pizza.” The word pizza against my skin has my thighs instinctively clenching. Confirmed: I’m ovulating. Also hungry.
Without argument, I stagger out of the way and attempt to regain composure by busying myself in the kitchen, grabbing plates and napkins and ranch dip.
When he flings two large pizza boxes onto the counter, I want to tell him how unnecessary all of this is.
I should be hosting an entire pizza party for him after everything he’s done in the month we’ve known him.
Before I can insist on plates or sitting down, both boys are inhaling slices while standing at the island. Jonas is eyeballing their paused game as if it’ll up and disappear the second he looks away.
Fuck it.
I reach for a slice and let my hip rest against the counter’s edge. “Let me pay you back for the pizza. You bought it last time.”
“Nah,” he says around a bite. “I invited myself over. Least I can do is supply dinner.”
“Well…thank you.” For everything.
An embarrassing moan echoes in my throat when I take the first bite, cheese and meat and sauce overloading my taste buds. It has Colt raising an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” I say, swallowing the hot morsel in my mouth. “I haven’t eaten all day, and this is good.”
“I always have them add parmesan. It costs an extra dollar, and I’m pretty sure it comes from that parmesan shaker you buy at the grocery store, but it feels fancy.” He bites down, creating the most glorious cheese pull I’ve ever seen. “Extra cheese, too.”
“You really pulled out all the stops tonight.”
“What can I say? I came to impress. Nothin’ but the best candy and fancy pizza for you two.”
I laugh, and fuck, does it feel good. When Colt’s around, I’m not walking on eggshells for fear of Jonas getting an attitude, hating that I can’t give my kid a normal family dinner experience, or questioning if I need to set aside my own feelings about Alex and invite him around more often.
Colt’s pop can tings against the quartz counter. “So, I discovered Jonas’s name isn’t Jonas Poopsie McFartsalot. I’ll admit that was a letdown. It got me thinking—is Whit short for something?”
Jonas inhales his bite of food quickly to blurt out, “It’s short for Whitey because her butt’s so pasty.”
Colt bites back a smile, trying and failing to hide it behind a crumpled napkin. My cheeks burn, and I give Jonas a look.
“Whitney. It’s short for Whitney. But it’s always felt too pretty and preppy for me, so I’ve gone by Whit since I was about Jonas’s age.”
“I was hoping you’d come back and say your name was Whittaker or something crazy.”
“Yeah, or Witch,” Jonas says. Kid is on thin ice tonight.
And Colt, the asshole, nods before hurriedly adding, “The good witch, though. That pink-dress-wearing one who rides around in a bubble.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, but my name isn’t Witch.”
“The evil look you’re currently giving me isn’t doing anything to help your case.” Colt leans forward into my personal space, resting his elbows on the counter and smiling innocently at me.
I haven’t noticed how blue his irises are before now.
They’re dark and expansive, holding the depth of an entire ocean.
I could slide my hand around the back of his neck and pull him even closer.
Search his eyes until our lips inevitably touch.
It would be delicate at first. Maybe we’d both question if it even happened.
Then we’d kiss again, deeper. Unmistakable.
He’d reach across and pull my entire body onto the counter, bringing me into his chiseled arms.
Colt jumps, breaking my trance, when Jonas jabs a finger into his side. “Eat faster so we can get back to the race.”
“Sheesh. Yes, boss.” Maintaining wide, unwavering eye contact with Jonas, Colt chews impossibly fast. The muscles along his sharp jawline tick with each exaggerated chomp. With a swallow, he turns to me and hooks a thumb toward my son. “Is it your fault he’s so damn pushy all the time?”
“Mom’s super bossy,” Jonas offers up, reaching for his pop.
Colt’s searing gaze moves over my skin. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
Before I can form a response that won’t come off flirtatious, Jonas has Colt by the arm, dragging him back to the couch. And I can breathe normally again.
All I need is for Jonas to keep interfering until my body and brain get back on the same page. The whole-body ache and the nervous fluttering need to stop so I can go back to feeling nothing when I look at him. For so many reasons, Colt is firmly off-limits.