Chapter 8 #2
Mason chuckles. “I just meant she got named to some big-shot boss lady list. Can’t remember what it’s called. Thought you might’ve heard about it, since you work for Spencer Development and all.”
“Hadn’t heard, but we don’t work that closely together.”
“Gotcha.” He’s wearing his regular, casual smile, but curiosity lights his eyes. “Erika says she’s been kinda scarce lately. Came back from Croatia and basically locked herself in her office. Guess she’s been working long hours. Hope everything’s okay.”
If he’s looking to me for the gossip, he’ll go home emptyhanded. My guess is that Hazel’s avoiding situations where someone might notice she’s starting to show. “I’m sure she’s fine. Those tater tots ready?”
“Lemme go check.” He wanders off into the kitchen and comes back a few minutes later with a big paper bag. “We threw in some extras, since I know how you love ‘em.”
“Thanks. Could I get some ranch?”
Mason lifts one sandy brow. “Usually you’re a ketchup guy.”
“Some of that, too.” God, it’s a small town. I need to get out of here before I give something away. “Tell Erika hey for me.”
“Will do.” He throws all my condiments into the bag and passes it over the bar. “Tell the boss lady congrats when you see her.”
Am I imagining things, or did Mason just wink?
There’s no time to think about that, since I need to get Hazel her tots before they’re cold.
It takes less than ten minutes to drive to her house, and I spend the whole time wondering how long it’ll be before our secret gets out.
So far she’s a master at disguising her figure, and she’s right that her tall stature works in her favor. But she can’t hold out forever.
I park at an angle in front of the mansion, then hop out and sling on my toolbelt. Grabbing the bag of food, I take her steps two at a time. I’m ringing the bell when a sleek ginger cat hops up beside me and starts twisting itself around my ankles.
“Hey, kitty.” I stoop down to pet it. “Waiting for the lady of the manor to let you back in?”
That cat gives a plaintive meow and headbutts my shin. Cute little thing. I didn’t even know Hazel had a cat.
The door swings open, and the cat sprints through it as Hazel’s eyes fix on the brown paper bag in my arms. “You’re a lifesaver, Luke.”
“Here.” I hand her the bag and step through the door, socked in the gut by memories of my last time in this foyer. “You get the rambutan later, but only if you’re nice to me.”
“Oh my God, I love you.” She snatches a tot from the bag and stuffs it in her mouth. “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”
The passion in her voice spears me right through the chest. So do the words she just said.
I love you?
But I know that’s not what she meant. “You’re looking…flushed.”
“Ugh, it’s this furnace. Come in, I’m so sor—” Biting her lip, she steps to the side and waves me through. “It’s hot in here, so I’m not exactly dressed for company.”
“Call the authorities.” I grin as I survey her outfit. “Hazel’s not wearing a bra.”
“I am too,” she retorts, clutching the tater tot bag to her chest. “It’s a shelf bra built into the tank top.”
“If you say so.” Good Lord, she looks sexy. Her full, rounded belly fills out the front of the red cotton tank top. Gorgeous breasts spill from the neckline, straining the sexy spaghetti straps. I don’t mean to stare, but her breasts look fuller than I remember.
“Luke.” She snaps her fingers in front of my nose. “Yes, I know I’m turning into a dairy cow. Could you focus on my face for a second?”
It’s my turn to apologize now. “Sorry,” I mutter, assessing the rest of her getup. Her ass looks amazing in those gray cotton boxers. “Should I have worn shorts?”
As my gaze swivels back to her middle, a fierce burst of pride flares in the pit of my stomach. There’s no hiding the swell of her belly in such a snug shirt.
Mine.
It’s such a caveman thing to think, which is why I don’t say it out loud.
“I think you’ll be fine in jeans,” she says, reminding me I just asked a question. “I could probably round up a pair of my father’s old gym shorts if it’s too hot in here.”
“I’ll be fine.” I try not to stare at her ass as she leads me up a long, winding staircase and down a bright hallway tiled in white marble. Wide windows frame the lake as Hazel turns through the fifth door on the left. “I cracked a window in the nursery, so the heat’s not as bad in here.”
“Uh, yeah it is.” The room’s not just hot, but huge.
It’s at least three times the size of my primary bedroom.
A vase of fresh flowers sits on a table next to a basket of white cloth diapers.
There’s an antique changing table in the corner, along with a teddy bear taller than me. “This is the nursery, huh?”
“My father used it as his study before I took over the house.” She watches me peer out the window to the shimmering lake below. “I had it smudged to clear out any bad energy.”
“Huh?”
“Smudging. It’s a process where you burn sage or sacred herbs like palo santo and then open the windows to let the smoke carry out the negative energy. I had it done professionally.”
“Oh, good,” I mutter, reminding myself I’m not a bad dad for failing to think of these things. “Wouldn’t want an unprofessional smudger.”
“Don’t be a jerk, Luke.”
I grunt in response, which earns me an eyeroll. If I were an eye-rolling guy, I might toss her one of my own for the carpet in here. It’s so plush my feet sink in past the soles. Should I have taken off my boots?
“Can I get you something to drink?” Hazel moves past me and leans on the window ledge. “I swear the heat’s getting worse in here.”
All the blood leaves my brain as she bends over in front of me to open the window. Those tiny gray shorts ride up the backs of her thighs, revealing a scrumptious expanse of bare flesh.
“I’m not thirsty.” Not unless we mean thirsty in a colloquial way.
“Let me know if you change your mind. I have La Croix in six different flavors, plus freshly squeezed orange juice. That’s something else I’ve been craving.”
“You don’t say.” Tearing my gaze off her ass, I survey the crib parts. “Okay, what are we working with here?” I peer at the crib box and frown. “I thought you were joking about the Portuguese.”
Hazel sits on the floor and reclaims her tots. She pops one in her mouth and chews as I drop down beside her on the carpet. “When have you known me to joke?”
“When you referred to me as the mixer of batter for the bun in your oven.” I know she’s had other zingers. “When you made that joke about conception not occurring when somebody’s down on their knees.”
She snickers and stuffs in another tot. “You put it in me.”
“What?”
“Ugh.” She squeezes her eyes shut, still chewing a tater tot. “I meant, ‘you bring it out in me.’ I swear these babies are sucking my brain cells through a tiny straw.”
Chuckling, I pick up a smooth length of railing, turning it over in my hands. “What kind of wood is this, anyway? Feels like some sort of pine.”
“Brazilian pine, sustainably sourced.” She watches me stroking the wood, biting her lip as she stares. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got great hands.”
“How would I take that the wrong way?”
“I don’t know. Like I’m objectifying you or something.”
“Objectify all you want.” Flexing my fingers, I watch her cheeks go a bit pinker. “My sister says we should do one of those newborn photo shoots where I’m cradling the baby in my hands. Probably couldn’t pull it off with two of ‘em at once, though.”
“I think you could do it.” Her voice sounds breathy and high. “Twins tend to be small, and your hands are really, really, really big.” Her throat clicks as she swallows a bite. “That’s just a clinical observation.”
“Observe, objectify—any other O things you want to do to me?”
Hazel’s eyes flash. “Uh—”
“Shit, I didn’t mean it like that.” She thought I meant oral, didn’t she? “I was thinking more like—” My mind goes blank as I fumble for more O verbs.
“Oblige?” she suggests. “Obey?”
“Um.” I get distracted watching Hazel lick salt from her fingers. “Sure.”
“Overwhelm, overflow, overcome…lots of great words start with O.”
“Right.” I go back to scanning the crib parts, since that feels safer than contemplating my new favorite letter of the alphabet. Less chance of touching Hazel when I’m gripping two thick hunks of wood. The pieces are well made, but there are a lot of them. “How’d you choose these cribs anyway?”
“They’re supposed to be the nicest ones money can buy.”
“Huh.” Gripping a smooth length of pine, I position it near the railing it’s meant to connect to. “You know, I might have liked the chance to build these by hand without a kit. I’ve done a fair bit of woodworking. Woulda been nice to make a real heirloom piece for the girls.”
Hazel blinks. “I had no idea.” She looks down at the wood in my hands. “I can donate these to charity and let you create something instead.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got plans to do something else at my place.”
“Right. I forget sometimes we’ll have two different nurseries. That feels strange.”
“Yeah.” At least I’m not the only one. I focus on figuring out how the crib parts fit together. “These are really sturdy. Could you toss me the instructions?”
“They’re in Portuguese,” she reminds me, handing them over. “I’ve got an app on my phone that can translate the—”
“N?o há problema.”
Her mouth hinges open. “You speak Portuguese.”
“Falo um pauco de português.” My vocab’s not great, but my accent is solid. “Você está surpreso?”
All I’ve just said is that I do speak a little; then I asked if she’s surprised.
But the way she just shivered reminds me of what Enzo used to say through our long hours of Portuguese lessons.
Girls love guys who speak a Latin-based language. He grinned when he said it, jabbing me in the ribs. Rolling your Rs gets ‘em wondering what else you can do with your tongue.
Hazel sits speechless, her jaw hanging open, blue eyes fixed on my mouth. Maybe Enzo had a point.