Chapter 6 #2
“Well, I think your family’s gonna want to throw you a damn shower, so get used to it, toots.” Just to goad her, I toss a box of something called Butt Paste into the cart.
“Don’t call me toots,” she mutters, but she doesn’t put back the Butt Paste.
We move to the next aisle, which seems to contain all manner of things pertaining to poop. “My sister recommends puppy pads.”
“Puppy pads?” Hazel looks at me oddly. “For what?”
“She says they’re great for covering changing tables in public restrooms. Way cheaper than whatever they make that’s actually meant for babies.”
“Oh.” Hazel tilts her head. “That’s a great idea.”
“I’ll tell Amy you said so.”
“Isn’t your sister married to an Oscar-winning billionaire?”
“Your point?”
“I wouldn’t think frugality would be a top priority.”
My hackles go up as we push the cart forward. “Not everyone thinks it’s okay to throw money away. Especially when you grew up without any.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine.”
She studies my face, sincere and contrite. “I know it’s a sensitive subject. How Regis Reaghan got off with a slap on the wrist because he threw money at the problem, while you rotted in prison? That wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry that happened.”
“It’s okay.” I’m honestly shocked she remembered those details. “You’re right, though. It’s a sore spot. The idea of people buying their way into something they might not deserve.”
“I get it, I do. After we talked, I told my father I’m not willing to speak to the judge about reducing his sentence.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She nibbles her lip. “But maybe I could help get him transferred to one of those minimum-security camps?”
A hot swell of anger rolls through my chest. She clearly doesn’t get it. It’s none of my business, but still. “Whatever you think is best.”
“Look, I’m sorry I brought it up. I thought maybe that could be a good compromise instead of—”
“Cedar,” I say. “That’s unisex, right? And let’s just throw in Acacia and Linden since I heard at least three sorrys come out of your mouth.”
Gritting her teeth, Hazel glares. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“I thought it wasn’t nice to insult people.”
With a soft little growl, she keeps pushing the cart.
I can’t resist teasing her more. “It seems especially bad to insult the father of your children. This Dead Sexy Daddy feels hurt and confused.” The blaze in her eyes keeps me going as she snatches some weird baby gadget from the shelf.
“And since you’re going to apologize anyway, let’s just put Iris on the table. Or maybe Daisy. Or what about—”
Shhh-shh-shh-shhh-shhh…
The sound isn’t coming from Hazel. It’s whatever she grabbed that she’s holding in front of my face.
Shhh-shh-shh-shhh-shhh…
“What the hell is that?” I try to grab it, but she tosses it into the cart.
“It’s a baby shusher. For when a parent can’t stand there all night shushing the baby back to sleep.” She starts pushing again, wheeling our stash toward the next aisle. “Maybe I’ll use it on you.”
“Touché,” I tell her, secretly pleased she can dish it out as well as she takes it. “What’s next on the list?”
Hazel looks down at the list on her phone. “A red light.”
“Okay, Roxanne. You’re turning tricks now?”
“Har-har.” Stopping the cart, she stares at a shelf piled with several red lightbulbs and rosy-pink lamps. “It’s for feeding the babies at night.”
“Still not grasping the connection here.” I pick up a box that reads A Mother’s Warm Embrace. “Are you basking your beautiful, glorious, spellbinding breasts in a warm, rosy glow to make them enticing to suck on?”
Her mouth falls open. “I—”
“Shit, sorry.” I put the box back on the shelf. “Didn’t mean to talk about your breasts like objects. And I also don’t want to assume you’re breastfeeding. I know that’s a personal choice.”
“Shush, Luke.” She darts a glance at the shusher, then decides she can scold me without it. “I’m still making up my mind about breastfeeding. My mother didn’t do it.”
“Huh.” Can’t say that surprises me.
“That’s maybe a point in favor of breastfeeding.” She nibbles her lip. “I’m hoping to have a closer relationship with my daughters.”
“You’re going to be a great mother no matter what you decide.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes pool with gratitude, then a faint spark of mischief. “Beautiful, glorious, spellbinding breasts, huh?”
Searching her face, I see no irritation. In fact, she looks flattered.
“Gotta be honest, babe.” Might as well run with it. “Your breasts are without a doubt the most perfect, stupendous, luscious mounds of flesh I’ve ever had the honor of touching. We’re talking gold-medal glorious breasts.”
“Really.” She sounds dry and disinterested, but that’s only a front. The spark in her eyes says she likes it.
“I’m not kidding. I can still picture them in my mind, and they’re divine. The perfect shape and size and texture.” God, I’m turning myself on now. “I’m serious, Hazel—you’ve got breasts other women would kill for. They are quite literally perfection.”
“Flatterer,” she mutters, but her voice ghosts out high and tight. She wants more, and I’m happy to give it to her.
“If somebody lined up one million pairs of breasts in a row, I could find yours with my eyes closed. Then I’d stand there worshiping them because honest to God, they’re magnificent. Majestic. Marvelous.” What’s another good M-word? “Mouthwatering.”
“Luke.” A delicate flush rolls up her throat to her cheeks. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“Why not? When people write poems about fair maidens’ bosoms, they’re imagining breasts just like yours. Angels weep, doves sing, and my dick gets instantly hard just remembering how it felt to touch you.”
Er, that might’ve been a step too far.
But her pupils flare as she licks her lips. “How do you do that?” she breathes.
“Do what?”
“Somehow manage to piss me off and turn me on all at once?”
“You’re turned on?” Because Christ, so am I. How did that happen here by a shopping cart loaded with baby gear?
“No,” she says softly, drawing a breath that sounds more like a gasp. “I—you—” She pauses, licking her lips again. “We can’t.” But she takes a step toward me, tipping her face up toward mine. “We shouldn’t.”
“Okay.”
“We promised we wouldn’t.”
“Okay.” Does she want me to argue?
“Kissing would be a terrible idea.”
“The worst.”
So why does she take another step toward me? “It’s just pregnancy hormones, right?”
I’m starting to sense she needs me to be the voice of rational thought. That if I give in right now, she’ll just hate me later. As much as I’d love to kiss Hazel senseless here on aisle six, I can’t bear the thought of her despising me. Not when we’re trying so hard to be good, platonic co-parents.
“Sure, blame the pregnancy hormones,” I murmur. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, babe.”
Hazel blinks like she’s just snapped out of a trance. It’s like watching the sanity sink through her skull and soak into her brain.
I hate fucking sanity.
“Right,” Hazel says, and takes a step back. “We should ask where the crib bedding is.”
“We should.” I can think of ten million things I’d rather do, all of them starting with kissing Hazel Spencer.
But instead, I move back. “Lead the way.”