6. Chapter 6 #2
For the first time, she saw a true flicker of amusement break across his hard features. He glanced around, his eyes sweeping the playground, the street, the houses—always alert, always calculating—before settling back on her.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” he asked, his voice edged with a teasing note that startled her as much as it thrilled her.
Naomi pressed her lips together, heat rushing to her cheeks. Yes, she had. And to her own shock, she liked that he’d noticed.
For some reason, the flicker of amusement in his eyes made Naomi feel bolder—saucier, even. She smiled before she could think better of it. “Yeah,” she replied right back, matching his tone.
Her gaze dipped, trailing over the breadth of his chest, the way his black tee-shirt stretched across solid muscle, then back up to his eyes. His expression didn’t shift much, but she caught the faint narrowing of his gaze, the way his jaw flexed like he was trying not to smirk—or maybe growl.
“You might come across as some big, scary guy,” she murmured, her voice softening into a teasing lilt.
She leaned closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of clean soap and something darker, sharper, uniquely him.
Her pulse leapt, but she pressed on, whispering now as her lips curved into a mischievous smile.
“But I suspect that, underneath all of those muscles, you’re a marshmallow. ”
For one charged moment, his face didn’t move, but his nostrils flared slightly, and she swore she heard a low rumble of disapproval deep in his chest.
Naomi leaned back, deliberately casual, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her shorts as if she hadn’t just deliberately poked a tiger. She turned away, ignoring his soft growl. “So, you wouldn’t destroy your wife’s life if she caught you cheating. Good to know.”
“I would never cheat on my wife,” he vowed, his voice rougher, gruffer—each word bitten off with emphasis.
Naomi’s breath caught. There was no hesitation in his tone, no wavering, no glib deflection. Just absolute certainty. Was it stupid to believe him completely? Probably. But she did. Against every instinct of self-preservation, she believed him.
“I should get a bit more of the boys’ energy out before we head home,” she said finally, turning away from him, needing a moment’s reprieve from his intensity.
The air between them felt warmer, heavier, charged.
She needed space to breathe. “Whatever you said to the boys, thank you. They’ve been little gentlemen for the past thirty minutes.
” She grinned, her relief genuine. “That’s unprecedented. ”
“Good. If they give you any more trouble, let me know.”
She stared at him, unaware of her nose squinching up in confusion. “Uh…how?”
He’d already begun to turn away, but at her question, he stopped mid-step. Slowly, he pivoted back. “How…what?”
“How do I get in touch with you?” she clarified, suddenly wishing she could take the words back.
He studied her for a beat longer than necessary, his expression unreadable. Then he pointed toward the house directly across the street from the park. “Just knock on the door.”
No goodbye, no further explanation. He simply turned and walked away, his stride long, powerful, leaving the faint scent of soap and masculinity in his wake.
Naomi’s gaze lingered far too long. The ripple of muscles shifting beneath his tee-shirt. The defined lines of his back tapering to a narrow waist. The solid curve of his butt, the commanding length of his legs. He moved like a man who knew he owned any space he stepped into.
She sighed, dragging her eyes away. Impressive, she admitted silently. But men like him didn’t notice women like her. Not in any real way.
The ones who’d been attracted to her in the past were the nerdy types—sweet guys who preferred paved hiking trails, who debated video game scores, or dyed their hair neon blue to make a statement. Not bad men, not really. Just…nothing like Tony.
She’d had two long relationships—and several shorter ones—with computer geeks. And she’d always thought of herself as their kind of woman. She was the safe choice. The girl next door.
Not the type men like Tony glanced at more than once.
She wasn’t athletic. She wasn’t the type who turned heads when she entered a room.
Her hair—mousy brown and desperately in need of a trim—was usually pulled into a ponytail to keep it out of her face while she chased children.
Her wardrobe was jeans and sweatshirts in winter, shorts and tee-shirts in summer.
Work clothes. Clothes that could survive craft glue, fingerpaint, and grass stains.
Mini skirts? Dresses? Manicures? Not in her world. She hadn’t had a haircut in…what, six months? And if she painted her nails, they’d be chipped within a few hours, thanks to Play-Doh and peanut butter sandwiches.
She sighed again, forcing her eyes away from where he’d vanished, and turned back just in time to see Jacob and Mark walking toward her. Their faces were serious, their steps measured, but there was a glow in their cheeks, the soft evidence of play.
“Hey, guys,” she said warmly, crouching a little to meet them. “You’ve been so good today. Thank you.”
They didn’t say anything, just stared up at her with oddly solemn faces. That was strange. So Naomi crouched, dug into the bag she’d dropped at her feet, and pulled out the bright red frisbee she always carried “just in case.”
Waving it in the air, she asked lightly, “What do you think? Are you up for a bit of chase?”
Both boys lit up, their eyes sparking with excitement. “Yeah!” Jacob shouted. Mark bounced in place, clapping his hands together. For the first time that afternoon, their bodies vibrated with anticipation instead of menace or obedience.
Naomi grinned and launched the frisbee across the park. The boys tore after it, legs pumping furiously, their laughter carrying back to her on the warm breeze. They dove, collided, scrambled back to their feet, and tried again, giggles spilling from them each time one tumbled into the grass.
They weren’t very good at throwing it back—Mark’s tosses veered wildly to the left, and Jacob’s throws wobbled like drunken birds. Their little arms strained, their small hands clutched the plastic disk with all the determination in the world, and their faces shone with the joy of trying.
She threw again and again, watching them chase until their cheeks became flushed and their hair stuck damply to their foreheads. They tripped, rolled, tackled each other, and then collapsed in giggling heaps before springing up for more.
If their father were here, he would probably berate them for being so clumsy, for not mastering the perfect throw on their first try.
But Naomi knew the truth. The point wasn’t to perfect a skill—it was to run, to laugh, to feel the stretch of their growing legs and the pull of breath in their lungs. It was to let them be children.
For almost an hour, the boys played like that—pure joy, pure energy, burning off the pent-up chaos that always seemed to gnaw at them.
And for almost an hour, Melissa Peterson sat quietly on the far bench, her shoulders hunched, her eyes hungrily fixed on her sons.
From where Naomi stood, she couldn’t miss the mother’s expression—pained, wistful, but softened by the joyous sound of her boys’ laughter echoing through the park.
Eventually, Jacob launched himself into the air after one of Naomi’s throws, missing spectacularly and landing flat on his back in the grass. He laughed so hard tears filled his eyes, and Mark flopped down beside him, both of them kicking their legs and clutching their sides with helpless giggles.
Naomi wandered over and dropped to her knees, smiling down at them. They were a mess—grass stains on their shorts, dirt smudged across their cheeks, their eyes glowing with happiness. “Okay, okay,” she laughed, “I think the frisbee won this round.”
Catching their breath, the boys stretched out on their backs at her feet, staring up at the sky. Naomi stretched out between them, and on a whim, pointed at a puff of cloud drifting overhead. “That one looks like a dragon,” she said.
Normally, they would have scoffed—too “babyish,” too “dumb.” But today? Today, they leaned into it. Mark jabbed a finger upward, shouting, “That one looks like a race car!” Jacob pointed to another, insisting it was “totally a dinosaur.”
Naomi played along, laughing with them, marveling that whatever Tony had said had cracked something open in these boys. For the first time since she’d started working with them, they weren’t posturing, weren’t mimicking their father’s swagger. They were simply…being kids.
It felt like magic.
Overall, it was a wonderful, unexpected day—one that gave her the most precious thing of all: hope. Hope for the boys. Hope for herself. Hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a future where their sweetness could survive and thrive.
Much later that night, still warmed from the glow of the afternoon and desperate to thank Tony—and maybe, hopefully, find out exactly what he’d said to her little charges—Naomi baked.
“Just a thank you,” she murmured as she pulled the tray of cupcakes from the oven.
They were perfectly browned, the scent of vanilla filling the small space like comfort itself.
She’d chosen vanilla because she hated chocolate cake, but she made an exception for the frosting.
Her buttercream was rich, whipped light, and swirled with melted chocolate before she piped it in soft peaks over the cooled cakes.
Carefully, she set each finished cupcake into a container.
It wasn’t much. But it was something.