Chapter Twelve
Willa
“Wait,” Gracie’s voice called from my phone, which was sitting on the changing table as I frantically shoved another onesie into the diaper bag.
There were already four in there. Along with ten diapers, cream, powder, a snot-sucker, two blankets, a bottle, my pump, wipes, medicine, half a dozen burp cloths, mittens, socks, and hats.
I’d bought the largest, but sleekest, diaper bag I could find when I’d been looking. It was almost bursting.
“What do you mean you’re going to Owen’s house for dinner?”
“Don’t get all high and squeaky,” I demanded, finding a changing mat and shoving it in the bag before I tugged uselessly at the zipper that refused to cinch around the mass.
“You conveniently forgot to mention this, and I’ve talked to you every day.”
“Not conveniently. It just… slipped my mind.”
And by ‘slipped my mind,’ I meant it was right there at the forefront of it every waking moment of the day. Not when I was sleeping, because those dreams had suddenly become plagued with vivid sex dreams about Owen that left me sweaty, aching, and frustrated when I woke.
Which was crazy, considering everything I heard and read about claimed my libido would be next to nonexistent when I was breastfeeding.
“You remembered to tell me about the hunt for Addy’s missing sock, your new nipple cream, and the documentary on chimpanzees you watched, but a date with your hot contractor slipped your mind?”
“It’s not a date. It’s dinner.”
That distinction had been vitally important for me to keep reminding myself ever since Owen had extended the invitation.
Because there was a small part of me—the sliver that wasn’t completely over men and relationships—that was thrilled at the idea of a date, of some male attention, of having someone in my bed, at my side, of not having to do everything on my own.
“A dinner… at his house… that he’s cooking.”
“Speaking slowly doesn’t make it a date. We were just talking about food. He asked if I liked to cook; I asked if he did. Then we batted meal ideas, and he said he was going to make it. Then I said he couldn’t just steal my meal idea. Then he invited me over. That’s it.”
“Oh, my God. That’s the cutest. Was he all smiley when he said it? He’s got a great smile.”
He did. But that was beside the point.
“We were in the stacks, calling you.”
“In the stacks? That could be super sexy.”
It kind of was.
More than once, I wondered what it would be like if he pressed me up against the wall and kissed me with us both knowing there were tons of people just a few rows away.
“My coworkers and my clients were all nearby.”
“Which kind of makes it hotter.”
“You’re reading too much into this. We talked to coworkers and clients, ate some food, did more schmoozing, danced, then—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you can’t just breeze past that. You danced? As in slow danced?”
“Yes, Mom,” I said with an eye roll.
“Was he a good dancer?”
“Yes.”
“Gosh, he’s the perfect man, isn’t he? Good with his hands, can fix anything, strong, gorgeous, laid-back, capable, can dance, can cook, wears a tux like no one’s business, has a cute dog…”
“I sense you’re about two minutes away from doodling our names in a heart, so I’m hanging up.”
“Wear something cute! A dress! And keep your hair down. And—”
“Goodbye, Gracie,” I called over her before hanging up.
But I was smiling. And wasn’t as frazzled as I’d been a few minutes before.
“It’s no big deal, right?” I asked Adeline, who was settled in her swing, rocking gently side to side. “Just dinner. Nothing crazy. I don’t have to get all dressed up.”
Adelaide blew little bubbles and pinched her brows as if to say, “Then why’d you dress me up?”
I had.
She was wearing one of those sets that was a little dress with a diaper cover—all white with a sweet little daisy print.
“I mean, if you’re dressed up, maybe I can put on a dress too. Besides, a sundress is usually easy to pull down in the front.”
With that, I made my way into my closet, passing the majority of my wardrobe—which was basically smart pantsuits or work dresses and athleisure. But back in a nearly forgotten corner were the clothes I used to wear on dates or to go out with friends.
There I found rompers, cute sets, and, yes, dresses. My hand went automatically toward the white dress in the back. The one I’d never worn. The one Gracie had convinced me to buy when they were trending, right before I got pregnant.
A white milkmaid dress with a midi-length A-line skirt, cinched waist, and ruching across the bodice that, well, made your breasts really pop.
It simultaneously managed to look innocent and unbearably sexy at the same time.
But that wasn’t why I picked it. I didn’t want to look sexy. It was just the only thing I owned that would let me match with Adelaide.
At least, that was what I was telling myself as I took it into my spare bathroom to get myself together.
Thankfully, Adelaide was in a phase where she loved being in her swing, so long as it kept rocking, she would give me time to shower, shave, lotion, and do my hair.
I’d just finished my makeup when she started to grumble. And judging by the weight and discomfort in my breasts, it was past time for a feeding.
I took the next twenty minutes to nurse and admire the perfect little creature I’d created before changing her and putting her into her pumpkin seat before finally finishing getting myself ready.
Anticipation fluttered in my belly as I grabbed my purse, diaper bag, and Adelaide’s carrier and made my way to the car. We made a quick stop at the bakery before continuing to the address Owen had sent me earlier that morning, before I could ask.
He lived in one of the older parts of Navesink Bank that was full of charming ranches, capes, and craftsman houses, mature trees, and well-maintained, colorful gardens.
“This is nice, huh?” I called back to Adelaide, who’d been too fascinated watching out the window to take the nap we both knew she needed. “It’s so welcoming.”
I had to admit that my own real estate choice had been a bit on the cold side: lots of dark woods, black, and marble. The neighborhood was more of the same—small mansions with boring, ornamental gardening, tall, gleaming windows, and cold stone.
“Here we are,” I said as the navigation told me to turn right. “Oh, wow.”
Of course, he lived in a storybook house. Everything about the man felt borderline mystical.
He had a two-and-a-half-story craftsman home with a brick front, a front porch, pillars leading to the overhanging shingle roof, then the second floor of large windows. Above that was what appeared to be one room in the peak of the house.
There was a neat stone front path, a perfect lawn, and simple, somewhat masculine landscaping—lots of green, no flowers.
It was charming.
And as if it wasn’t perfect enough, seeing us pull into the driveway, Tuna came from where he was hiding to the side of the porch and sat on the steps, tail wagging.
It was the kind of house you could easily imagine hosting Christmas, or having kids running around the backyard, of having big barbecues for family and friends in the summer, of setting down roots and letting them dig deep.
“Hey, Tuna!” I called as I climbed out of the car and moved around to the backseat.
He must have been trained not to step off the porch because he waggled and whined but stayed put until I had the diaper bag and the pumpkin seat and made it to the steps.
Then he was all over me—rubbing himself against my legs, sniffing the carrier, and licking my hand.
“Yes, hello to you too. Did your dad leave you out here to greet us?” I asked, petting his head.
Behind him, the door pulled open.
And there was Owen.
In jeans and a soft, heathered gray shirt that hugged his body and showed off his strong arms. A dish towel was casually thrown over his shoulder.
I wasn’t sure he’d ever looked better.
“I thought I heard him whining.” Owen’s gaze swept quickly over me, pausing for the briefest of seconds on my chest before forcing it back up to my face.
“He’s quite the welcoming committee.”
“His favorite people are here,” he said, shrugging that off as he reached for Adelaide’s car seat. “Come on in.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but the interior was just as warm as the exterior.
We stepped into the living room with its medium-toned wood floors, molding, ceiling beams, and built-in half bookshelves that divided the living room from the dining room.
The windows spilled golden light in on two of the walls, but above them were the stained glass features Owen had mentioned—making little rainbows stripes across the two beige couches.
They sat on a red, brown, black, and beige plaid carpet, lamps sitting on each end table, a distressed coffee table, and a framed TV over a brick fireplace on the wall across from the seating.
And those bookshelves? Loaded with books.
I was itching to get over there to see what he was into reading.
There was something about Owen’s house that made me feel oddly safe. But not the way my security system or locked doors made me feel safe. This was something warmer. Something like shelter from a storm. Like a place you could cozy up and relax.
“Your house is gorgeous,” I told him. “It just begs you to get cozy.”
“Thanks. That was what I was going for with it. I’ll give you a quick tour.”
From there, he led me through to the dining room that featured more of those big windows, warm wood built-ins, and coffered ceiling.
In my mind, I could suddenly see myself sitting up at the table full of kids, of family, of friends.
The warm wood spilled into the kitchen cabinets, trim, and ceiling accents as well. The backsplash and countertops were black, and he had a deep farmhouse-style sink, top-of-the-line appliances—including a double oven—and a walk-in pantry.
“Is all this original?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, no. The previous owners had gutted the place and gone full white-on-white modern. It took me a long time and research to get it back to what it likely originally looked like. Plus some better appliances.”