10. Finger Lickin’ Good
Finger Lickin’ Good
C harlotte ate three slices, then stopped herself from reaching for a fourth.
She almost looks drunk with food, her body sinking deeper into the chair, lips parted in a lazy kind of satisfaction.
I doubt she ever feels this way—full, content, at peace with her stomach.
A selfish part of me wishes I had been the one to feed her, to be the reason for this rare kind of bliss.
But I can’t bring myself to be sad when she looks this happy.
From upstairs, Sadie’s voice carries over, her excited chatter echoing against the walls.
“So...” Charlotte’s gaze flicks to my left hand. “Your wife doesn’t live here.”
The words barely register before I correct her automatically. “Ex-wife.”
“Really?” She points at my hand, at the ring that still sits there. “So what’s with that?”
My fingers flex on instinct. I should take it off, but every time I try, it feels too final, like pulling out the last thread holding something fragile together. The final step toward admitting my biggest failure.
Now, for the first time, I really wish I had.
“Uh...I don’t know. The divorce only became official this week, and Sadie just found out.”
“But she knows now, right?”
I reach for my water, the condensation slick against my fingers. “My ex-wife...she’s in rehab. So the whole divorce thing has been complicated.”
“I’m sorry.”
I nod once and look away, my jaw tight.
“That must be hard for Sadie,” she adds after a beat.
“It is.”
She hesitates, then, “And for you.”
I glance at her. Most people don’t say that. They focus on Sadie, or on Josie, or on the logistics of it all. But me ? I’m the one who fucked up. The one who caused this situation. I’m the one who was in love with Josie when she belonged to someone else.
“Losing your wife and your co-parent at once...it can’t be easy.”
I clear my throat. “No,” I admit quietly. “No, it’s not.”
She doesn’t respond right away, just watches me, her gaze steady, and I offer a small smile, trying to defuse the sudden tension. “Don’t feel too bad for me. This is kind of...my fault. All of it.”
She stills, thoughtful. “Really? All of it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you cheated.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. The answer isn’t a simple yes or no , and I don’t think the truth paints me in a much better light.
“You could say I cheated, yes, but not on my wife.” Her forehead creases, and I continue. “I fell in love with Josie when we were kids, but I never did anything about it. My brother, on the other hand, isn’t as slow as me. And he didn’t know about my feelings.”
Charlotte’s lips part slightly. “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah.” I stare at Tony’s logo on the pizza box. “They started dating, grew up, and, of course, they had issues. Mid-twenties, figuring out their lives. Normal stuff.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Is that when you swooped in?”
My eyes dart to her as she masks her amusement with a sip of water.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” she says, setting the bottle down. “Brothers fighting over the same girl? A classic . I love the drama.”
“Oh, it was some drama all right,” I muse. “Because when I... swooped in , Josie got pregnant with Sadie.”
Charlotte gasps, her eyes widening. If this wasn’t one of the most painful chapters of my life, I’d almost enjoy her reaction.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” I take a deep breath. “And...Josie decided to stick with me. I guess my little brother seemed like the least smart decision. Kind of a hothead, that one. Which turned out to be wrong, since he’s successful, just had twins, and is getting married in a month.”
She hums, tilting her head like she’s piecing together a puzzle. “As opposed to...”
I shrug, pointing a thumb at myself. “Uh...a single father and divorcé with an alcoholic ex who’s restarting his career from scratch and is approaching his forties?”
Who visits an erotic website to jerk off to a cam girl fourteen years his junior?
Her grin spreads, bright and genuine, like seeing what a mess I am somehow makes me more interesting. “You know,” she says, tearing off a piece of crust, “I think having your life together is grossly overrated.”
“Really?”
“Yes. All the best people only figured it out later in life. They explored, made mistakes, hit a wall a million times before they found their thing.”
“Yeah? Like who?”
She waves a hand dramatically. “Vera Wang didn’t design her first dress until she was forty. Christian Dior was an art dealer before he even thought about fashion. And Anna Wintour got fired before she became the editor-in-chief of Vogue .”
I smirk. “So modeling’s your true calling.”
For a moment, she hesitates. Then she shifts in her chair, arching her back just enough to be provocative, her eyes locked onto mine. “What do you think, Chef ?”
My throat goes dry.
Jesus.
I look away, pretending to study the corkboard hanging crooked on the wall that leads to the kitchen—pinned with old to-do lists, postcards, and a couple of sun-bleached Polaroids. “Yeah, no. Absolutely.”
She laughs, delighted. “Stop getting all squirmy.”
“I’m not?—”
“Oh, please .” She grins. “Seriously, if you want to pretend you’re not ridiculously attracted to me, you’ll need a better poker face.”
I press my palm against the back of my neck. “I’m not...” My fingers feel damp. Great. My hands are actually sweating . “A better poker face, huh?”
“Yes.” She gestures between us. “Do you think I’m attracted to you ?”
I study her, my head shaking. “You called me pretty but...did you mean it? Or were you fucking with my head? No idea.”
“Exactly.” She looks entirely too pleased with herself. “Poker face.”
Does that mean she is attracted to me? Or does it work both ways? A poker face to hide attraction and one to fake it? “So if I have no poker face, does it mean that on Tuesday, uh, you...”
“Did I know you were lying when you said Beatrice texted you that she was on her way?” I swear her eyes sparkle. “Yes. And I don’t appreciate a man trying to dictate who should or shouldn’t enter my bedroom, but, if I’m being honest, you kinda did me a favor. Peter is...”
“The worst?” I offer. Not the kind of man she should let into her bedroom—or her bed? Someone who undoubtedly doesn’t deserve her? “I can’t say that I regret it, but...I am sorry I overstepped.”
She grins, shrugging. “I have to say, now that you told me your whole...situation,” she says, wiping her fingers on a napkin, “it makes more sense.”
“What does?”
“How you ended up on TOP.”
“Oh, that.” I blush, staring at a faded scratch on the wooden table, suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.
“Freshly divorced, probably haven’t so much as touched a woman in months, maybe years?
” Charlotte muses, her voice low, teasing.
I can feel her watching me, waiting for a reaction.
When I continue avoiding her gaze, her fingers find my chin, the warmth of her skin a slow burn against mine as she tilts my face up.
My breath stutters.
Her touch is featherlight, her fingertips pressing just enough to send a current of heat rolling down my body, making every nerve hyperaware of her.
“How long, Chef?” she purrs, her eyes sharp on me.
“I...” My throat is suddenly too dry, my voice hoarse as I force the words out. “A couple of years.”
“ Oof . That’s a long time.” Her finger drags over my bottom lip, the kind of touch that teases more than it soothes. My lips part involuntarily, my body betraying me, craving more.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth just as the tip of my tongue slips out, brushing the pad of her finger.
“Careful,” she says, like it’s a game she wants me to lose. “You keep doing that, you’ll crave an actual bite.”
Fuck me, I do. I want a whole meal. The appetizer, the main course, the decadent dessert. I want slow tastes and fast bites. I can’t. I absolutely can’t, but I’m past hungry.
I’m ravenous.
“Did I make you come? When you visited me on TOP?”
Heat rushes south, so tight and insistent that it fucking hurts.
“Yes,” I rasp.
What the fuck is happening to me?
She’s got me spilling my guts like she pressed some cheat code. One touch and I’m in full confession mode.
“Good.”
“ Charlotte . . . ” I warn.
“ Aaron ...” she murmurs, leaning forward just enough that her arms press against the swell of her tits, pushing them up. My eyes drop of their own accord, and her lips twitch in amusement.
Fuck.
“We can’t.”
With a giggle, she lets my chin go. I mourn the loss of her touch instantly. “Oh, come on. We’re just talking.”
“We can’t talk about this stuff.”
She shrugs. “ I can. If you can’t, just listen.”
“I can’t listen either.”
She rolls her eyes. “All right then.” Tugging at my hand, she says, “No more talking.”
I tense, but she pulls gently, coaxing my arm to relax until she holds it in front of her on the table.
Her head tilts forward, her lips parting ever so slightly. A flicker of mischief lights up her eyes, and she takes my finger into her mouth.
Heat shoots through me, pooling low in my stomach as her plump lips wrap around my digit, a warm, wet slide that weakens my knees.
My world narrows to this single point of contact, to her mouth tightening around my knuckle before she slides back up with a languid pull, and a guttural sound rumbles in my throat, something between a groan and a plea.
She hums, her tongue flicking ever so slightly as she releases me. Still watching me, she lifts her hand to her mouth and, with a deliberate motion, removes my wedding band from between her lips. My breath catches as she holds it up for a moment, her gaze locked onto mine.
Did she suck it off my finger?
“Feels lighter, doesn’t it?” She slips it into the front pocket of my jeans, fingers tracing down my thigh. “Maybe you should leave it in the past.”
“Mommy says hi!”
The moment shatters like glass as Sadie bursts down the stairs, her little socked feet pattering against the hardwood floor as she practically throws herself into the living room.
Charlotte leans back, and I try to shake off the heat clinging to my skin, then turn to my daughter as she climbs onto the chair.
“No pepperoni?” I ask when she grabs a slice of cheese pizza from the open box.
She shrugs, taking a big bite. “Maybe later.”
Charlotte’s lips curl up, and it feels like my ring’s digging a hole in my pocket. There’s a part of me that’s still pretending this can stop. That it has to stop. But, fuck me, it’s getting quieter by the second.
“Daddy! Daddy! ”
The frantic cry jolts me awake, yanking me from the depths of sleep into a disorienting blur of darkness and Sadie’s trembling voice.
My heart pounds as my eyes snap open, zeroing in on her tear-streaked face beside me. Her hair is a tangle of curls, her chest rising and falling too fast, her wide eyes brimming with fear.
I push up on my elbow and croak, “What is it, baby?”
She hiccups as she wipes her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her pajama shirt. “There was a monster,” she sobs, her voice wobbly. “And it took Mom, and—and it was gonna take you next, and?—”
“Shh. Come here.”
I shift, making space for her in the bed, and the second I do, she scrambles up, burrowing into my side like she’s afraid something might snatch me away.
I pull the blanket over her, cocooning her in warmth. “It was just a dream, love,” I murmur, pressing my lips to the crown of her head. Her curls tickle my nose, smelling faintly of the strawberry-scented shampoo she insisted on picking out last week. “A nightmare. It’s not real.”
Her sobs shake her small frame, but as I rub soothing circles on her back, her fear starts to dull, and her fingers let go of my shirt. She sniffles, shifting just enough to peek up at me. Her lashes are clumped together with tears, her lips quivering as she hesitates. “Can we call Mom?”
I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. The numbers glow 3:58 a.m.
“No, baby,” I say gently. “She’s sleeping right now, and so should we. But she’ll call tomorrow night, just like she did today.”
Sadie doesn’t answer, the rise and fall of her body growing steadier. I almost drift off, thinking she’s asleep, when she says, “Mom doesn’t love me anymore.”
The exhaustion that had been dragging me under vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sharp, sinking weight in my chest.
“Of course she does, Sadie. She loves you more than anything in the world.”
She stares at the fabric of my shirt as she picks at it with fidgeting fingers. “What if you stop loving me too?”
A knot forms in my throat.
“Hey.” I tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at me. Her big, tearful eyes meet mine, desperate for reassurance. “You listen to me right now,” I say, my voice firm and sure. “I will always love you. Always. And so will Mom. She can’t wait to come back to you.”
Sadie sniffles again, her bottom lip wobbling. “She didn’t want to talk to me,” she whines. “I heard you.”
My mind races back to my phone call to Josie’s rehab—I stepped out to the backyard, lowered my voice so Sadie wouldn’t hear the clipped tension in my words. But she heard.
Fuck .
“N-no, you misunderstood,” I try, but the damage is already done.
Sadie pulls the blanket higher, burying half her face in it. “What if she left us forever? Willow’s daddy never came back.”
I blink hard, forcing down the lump in my throat.
She’s six. She shouldn’t have to worry about shit like this. She shouldn’t have to lie awake at night, wondering if her mother will come back to her.
I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Do you trust me?”
She hesitates before she nods.
“Do I ever lie to you?”
She shakes her head.
“Then please believe me when I tell you Mom loves you. She will come back to you, and nothing’s going to stop her.”
A long, shaky breath escapes her, then she tucks her head under my chin. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, love?”
“We started practicing for Mom Day.”
I pause. “Mom Day?”
She nods against my chest. “At school. Mommies are supposed to come. We’re making a show for them.”
Fucking hell— Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day is less than three weeks away.
“Willow’s mommy and Jason’s mommy and Lisa’s mommy are coming,” she stutters. “But...what if mine doesn’t?”
I close my eyes for a second, trying to claw myself out of the helplessness that comes with knowing I can’t give her what she wants most. “I could come.”
“You?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you’re not a mommy.”
Hard to argue with that. I think for a few seconds. “What about Auntie Primrose? I’m sure she’d love to come.”
“But she’s not my mommy.”
“You really want Mom to come, huh?”
She nods, snuggling closer, then pops her thumb in her mouth.
“I’ll talk to her,” I murmur.
And just like that, she finally drifts off while I stare at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to keep my promise.