Chapter 7 #2
As I’m drying my hands on the towel, I turn and nearly jump out of my skin. Elbows on the counter, Deacon Moretti is holding a cup of my freaking breast milk and has… a milk mustache.
“Hope you don’t mind, I helped myself.” He takes another sip. “Warm milk always helps me sleep.”
I slap my hands over my mouth and shake my head, unable to form words, hell, not even a syllable is coming out.
“It’s sweet. What did you put in it?”
I crush my eyes shut as Sofie’s and Noelle’s comments scream in my head.
“Come on, Doc, tell me your secret ingredient.” He lifts it again, and I somehow manage to unfreeze.
I reach forward and snatch it out of his hand, his brow arches, and then his freaking deep brown eyes drift to the other glass. If there were a poster man-child for menace, his face right now would be it.
I reach to snatch it away at the same time as he grabs it, and gets it first.
“Do not drink that, it’s… it’s… it’s. Just don’t.”
And what does he do? He shoots it back like a frat boy.
“Now you have to tell me the secret ingredient so that,” he closes one eye, groans, and lets his head hang down, and finishes his sentence. “I can make more.”
There is dried blood on the back of his head. “Your head hurts.”
“It’s been worse.”
“Yeah, well,” I nod to the bathroom. “I’m going to guess no one has even looked at it, let alone cleaned it up.”
He grins — that lazy, crooked grin that makes him look both infuriating and unfairly attractive. “You volunteering, Doc?”
“I’m making sure you don’t bleed all over Nalani’s floor,” I mutter, grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink. “Come on, before that thing gets infected.”
He follows, ducking into the narrow bathroom, the scent of soap and cedar following him. He sits on the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees, head bent so I can reach the back of his scalp.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” I say, inspecting the gash. “Could possibly use a stitch or two, but you’ll live.”
“Didn’t doubt it,” he says, that smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
I soak a cloth, place it on his head, clean him up a bit, then use another with antiseptic and press it gently against the cut. He flinches, breath hissing through his teeth.
“Yeah, it burns,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “That’s how you know it’s getting disinfected.”
“Thought you shrinks were supposed to be nurturing.”
“I’m a psychologist, not a preschool teacher.”
He laughs, a deep sound that fills the tiny space. “Fair point. Though you do make warm milk.”
I freeze mid-motion, cloth still in hand. “We’re really doing this now?”
He glances up, eyes bright with mischief. “I said I needed to know the secret ingredient.”
“I said you shouldn’t drink it.”
“And yet I did.” He holds up two fingers. “Twice.” I exhale, long and slow, pressing the cloth against his wound a little harder than necessary. He winces. “Ow.”
“Serves you right,” I mutter. Then, after a beat, tell him, “It’s breast milk.”
His head jerks up, and for the first time tonight, Deacon Moretti looks utterly stunned. “You’re joking.”
I cross my arms. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
He blinks once. Twice. Then his lips twitch. “Well,” he says, leaning back a little, “I did say it was sweet.”
I cover my face with one hand. “You are....” I shake my head.
He chuckles low. “You fed me your milk, Doc. Kind of intimate for our first date.”
I drop my hand and glare. “Oh, please. If this were a date, you’d be unconscious by now — and not from the punch to the head.”
That earns a quiet, genuine laugh from him, the kind that makes his shoulders shake. “Okay, fair. But in my defense, you didn’t label it.”
“In my defense, I had one glass of champagne at the game and pumped and needed to dump, but there were dishes to be done. You shouldn’t drink something when you don’t know what it is.”
He raises a brow. “You’d be surprised what hockey players consume on instinct.”
“Clearly not,” I mutter, cleaning the last of the blood and pressing a bandage to the wound.
When I’m done, I step back, folding my arms. “Try not to reopen it. You need rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then what should I call you?”
“Claudia.”
“Claudia,” he repeats it like he’s testing the taste of it. “Claudia,” he says again, slower this time. “Goes better with warm milk than I expected.”
“Get out,” I say, but I’m smiling, despite myself.
“I may exit this room, but Doc, you and I have unfinished business. I’m not gonna let you get away that easy this time.
” I feel my face catch fire, and I do not embarrass easily.
He stands, “Looking at your girl, can’t say you made the wrong choice, because that would feel a lot like wishing that little one away, and that’s never gonna happen. ”
“I need you to just,” I shake my head. “Not.”
“You think I’ve forgotten those messages? Videos? Nights we got off to each other?”
I stand straighter. “I’m not that girl anymore.”
“No, Doc, you’re a fucking woman.” He steps toward me, and I step back out of the bathroom altogether. “You just need to be reminded how good that can feel.”
My pulse spikes before my brain even catches up. The space between us shrinks too fast — the bathroom feels too small, the air too thick. His voice rolls over me, low and certain, the kind that vibrates more than it sounds.
He’s not coy about it, not cute — both of which are types of manipulation all on their own.
The practiced charm, the too-sweet smiles, plenty of us women fall for, and I learned the hard way what it looks like when a man hides arrogance behind confidence.
Kyle was that man. Conceited. Controlling. All air and no weight.
But Deacon Moretti isn’t that. He’s not performing or pretending. He’s just… male. Solid. Heat and muscle and quiet dominance wrapped in the calm of someone who doesn’t need to prove a damn thing. And that? That might be the most dangerous kind of man there is.
I should say something to shut it down, something that cuts through the tension and reminds him who he’s talking to. I’m a mother, a good one. But all that comes out is a shaky exhale that betrays me completely.
Every rational thought screams don’t, but my body is already reacting.
Heart racing, breath shallow, skin prickling in awareness and need.
I know that he sees it. Acutely aware that he knows.
Because for one heartbeat, before I stepped out of that bathroom, before sense drags me back into the hallway, I remember what it feels like to want.
To be wanted. And that scares the hell out of me.
He steps forward and places his palms flat against the wall, on either side of my shoulders, “I need you to let me be the man who shows you how good that can feel.”
“Clearly I’m no virgin,” I say, but it doesn’t come out as intended; it’s too breathy and not steady enough to sound like the warning it’s supposed to be. My voice shakes, caught somewhere between defiance and a plea.
He’s too close, his breath warm against my temple, the scent of soap and darker notes, like ice, leather, and heat.
I tell myself to move, to push past him, to reclaim the space he’s stolen with nothing more than proximity, but my fingers curl against the wall instead, gripping air.
“Doesn’t mean you know what it’s supposed to feel like,” he murmurs, bending his head, his hair tickling my neck, as he inhales up my neck, lips so close I feel their shadow, “And after tasting what comes out of you perfect tits,” he groans.
“I can’t wait to taste what I can pump out of the rest of your hot as hell body. ”
And then, he steps back, turns, and heads to the couch.