There’s wistfulness in his voice. It’s a sound I rarely hear from him. He’s usually so playful and upbeat. But now and then, he reveals the things that seem to weigh on him. This definitely seems to.
“But I also really like taking my daughter to school, and teaching her to read, and letting her sneak-polish my toes when I conk out on the couch when her friends are over. I love seeing her as often as I can, and I don’t love spending every weekend from August to December pretty much unavailable. Know what I mean?”
My heart catches in my throat and thunders there. A man who wants to be there for his kid is so damn appealing. His affection for parenting makes me all kinds of mushy. Makes me think about things I haven’t thought about in ages. “I don’t have kids, but I can imagine.” I say it casually; I’m not opening a kid convo, and I doubt he wants to have one. That’s not what today is about.
He sighs, his brow knitting. Sounds like he’s gearing up to say something hard. “Did you want to? With your ex?”
Or maybe that is what today is about. The question of kids pushes me out of my comfort zone, and I answer with another question. “Have kids?” It comes out a little squeaky. “With Silvio?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
The intensity of his gaze says he’s genuinely interested. I’m not sure why it matters what I wanted with my ex when he’s so far in the rearview mirror. “We never talked about it,” I answer honestly.
“Hmm.”
He leaves it at that, but I don’t drop the subject yet. With time and distance from my ex, I’ve learned more about myself. What I want. What I hope for. And kids are part of that. An unanswered question, but still a part.
“I suspect that was yet another reason why it didn’t work out with him,” I say. “Looking back, we didn’t have a lot in common. We didn’t talk as much as we should have. I suppose I wasn’t sure how to tell him the truth.”
“That you don’t want to have kids?” Harlan asks, his voice speckled with nerves.
A stone wedges in my chest. This is hard to say. I do want kids, if the timing is right, if the relationship is right, if I’m with someone who feels like my forever. But that sounds so fairy tale, so I answer more plainly. “I worry that the opportunity has passed me by. I’m thirty-five. I don’t know if I’ll have the chance.” I glance around the park, not sure what I’m searching for. Maybe just the courage to voice the rest. His vulnerable eyes give me that strength. “I’m still single. So I don’t know if it’ll happen, and that’s the truth.” I hold up my hands in surrender.
To time.
“Do you want it to happen?” he asks.
“If it’s right. The right man. The right relationship. I won’t force it. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life comes at you on its own terms, in all sorts of unexpected ways. You have to roll with the punches.”
He takes another bite, nods like he’s absorbing what I said. When he’s done chewing, he says, “That is definitely true. The key is to adapt.”
“Like you did when your daughter was born,” I say, returning to the center of his world. “It must be hard when you can’t see her as much as you’d like.”
He takes a steadying breath. “It is, but hey, we make it work. I don’t get to see her on weekends during the season, but when I do, we have a blast together.” He flashes me a smile, almost like he needs to slap it on for bravado. “But hey, my weekend job isn’t too shabby. I’m hanging in there at thirty-six.”
I want to ask him more about Abby.
About being a dad.
But he’s returned to football now, and that seems where he wants to stay. Maybe wise for me too, given the way my heart flips when he talks about being a dad.
So, I keep the conversation in that zone.
“I’d say you’re doing more than hanging in there.” I tap my temple. “You have all the advantages up here. You have wisdom and insight. You have instincts. As well as moves on the field,” I say. “Hello! Did you see your game last weekend? You had that gorgeous twenty-five-yard catch at the end of the half. And how about the fifty-six-yard catch when you were nearly out of bounds?” I lift my arms high in the air, then stretch to the side, doing my damnedest to imitate his grace and power on the field. “And you grabbed it before it hit the ground, then you spun around and ran into the end zone.” My voice pitches higher, my excitement spilling over as the instant replay flashes before my eyes. “It was glorious, and my friends and I were shouting your name in my living room.”
I pick up my fork and dive into the salad again.
Harlan’s eyebrows rise and his brown eyes glimmer with . . . delight.
Utter delight.
And pride too, it seems. “You liked that? My play? You cheered hard?”
“The hardest,” I say emphatically.
“The hardest, you say?” It comes out a little dirty, a touch suggestive.
“Yes, you sexy beast. I cheered the hardest.”
Oops, I objectified him again.
And he seems to love it, judging from the sly smile gracing those full, gorgeous lips.
Lips I want to taste desperately.
Harlan’s eyes never stray from mine. He stares at me darkly. Speaks seductively. “And did your friends want to know why you were cheering so hard?”
That rumbly voice sends a shiver down my spine. “They know I’m working for the team,” I say, teasing him, playing it coy.
“That’s the only reason they think you cheered hard?”
“Fine, fine. They know you’re an orgasm dealer,” I add, with an over-the-top huff and a puff.
A laugh bursts from him. “That’s what you called me?”
“That’s what you are,” I say, squaring my shoulders, owning it. “Wait. Am I objectifying you for being spectacular in bed? They also know you’re a sweetie-pie, a funny guy, and a good dad.”
He waves a hand dismissively “Back it up to spectacular between the sheets.”
“Ha. Is that all you care about?”
With utter intensity in his eyes, he nods. “At the moment, yes. I’m into this nickname. A lot.”
A flush races across my chest. “Well, it’s the truth. I speak the truth. And I also got a wicked thrill watching you use those hands so expertly on the field, knowing what those hands had done to me.” I take a beat, let my eyes drift down his chest. “Your whole body.”
Oh hell, I’m terrible at not flirting.
Harlan leans closer across the table. “Do you have any idea how much I want to take you home, toss you on my bed, and make you feel incredible?”
A pulse beats between my legs. I ache for him.
So much for arugula’s help.
“As much as I want you to?” I toss back, since flirting with him is too fun.
“That much,” he says, then we stare at each other, a lot heated, and all kinds of heady. The air crackles, and I want to forget the rest of the world, screw the day, and spend the afternoon in his bed.
In his arms.
But I’ve got to have some self-control.
Deep breath.
I take a bite of my salad.
Trying to let the lettuce do the trick.