By the time I get myself together, tears leak from my eyes and my stomach burns. Ben stands there, hands on hips, a grudging smirk on his face, watching me laugh.
“I know you’ve got to be tired,” I say, “and it probably isn’t funny to you, but—”
I burst out laughing again. The more I laugh, the funnier it becomes. Then Ben takes one big step toward me, closing the distance, and frames my face in his hands. He’s smiling when he kisses me.
My humor melts into something that I can only describe as joy. It’s warm, sweet, and happy, and it fills my whole heart. After kissing me a few times, he pulls back. “Are you done?”
The question brings the humor back, and I sag against him, catching my breath and wiping my eyes. He’s got a firm hold on my waist, and his hard body feels good against mine. “I haven’t laughed that hard in so long. Your girls are too damn cute, I have no idea how you ever get mad at them.”
He releases me with a sigh, and, together, we finish soaking up the water. “I’m usually pretty patient, especially for true mistakes or accidents, but Violet, man, she’s pushing my buttons lately.”
“She’s quietly smart and cunningly crafty.”
“Exactly.” He looks at the pile of wet towels on the sink. “Leave them, I’ll get it later.” He reaches behind my head and pulls my ponytail gently through his hand. “I hate to give in to Violet’s sneaky plan, but I’d love it if you’d stay for dinner.”
“Mmm, I don’t know. What are you having?” He opens his mouth to tell me, but I jump in. “Oh, what do you know, that’s my favorite. I guess I can stay, not long, you know, because well, places to go, people to see, and I may or may not have been to the grocery store in over a week and may or may not have nothing but peanut butter and jelly in my fridge—”
He kisses me, still half laughing. Until he’s not. Until he slides his tongue across my bottom lip, begging me to open to him. And I do, because he’s irresistible. The next thing I know, I’ve got my hands under his scrub top, tracing his muscles. He’s got my back against the wall, his hands in my hair and an erection pressed against my hip.
“Daddy?” Jazz calls down the steps. “I’m hungry.”
He exhales and slumps, then turns his head and calls, “Dinner’s not ready. Go read a book.”
I snort a half laugh. “Like that’s gonna happen.” I take his earlobe between my teeth and murmur, “We really should just have sex and get it out of the way.”
He refocuses on me. “When we have sex, it’s not going to be to get it out of the way.”
“When, not if. We’re headed in the right direction.” I scrape my nails along the small of his back. “When can we make that happen, Dr. Latham?”
“As soon as I can install exterior locks on their bedroom doors.”
I give an as-if laugh. “Since that will never happen, it’s definitely not soon enough for me.”
8
Ben
I pry myself away from her, take her hand, and pull her from the bathroom and into the main living area before letting go to head toward the kitchen.
I flip on the oven, open the fridge, and pull out bowls and bags and Tupperware.
KT slides onto a barstool, props her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hand. “I could get used to this.”
“But this isn’t the real deal. The girls always help me make dinner. It takes twice as long, but I’m hoping it will pay off when I’m old and they’re taking care of me. At least they’ll be able to feed me well.”
That makes her laugh.
“And, as you told Violet, if you’re gonna stay, I’m putting you to work.”
“You might want to rethink that. I’m a master at peanut butter and jelly, but that’s about it. I was always fed by the chefs on the ship. I haven’t cooked since my dad died.”
I put a bowl in front of her and pile of salad ingredients on the counter—lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, carrot, cheese, raisins, sunflower seeds, croutons, chia seeds, hemp hearts. Then put out a cutting board and a knife. “You really can’t mess up a salad.”
“Good God, you’re serious.”
“Those three will be whining for food in fifteen minutes.” I usually start dinner right when I get home, and having the girls cook with me distracts them from being hungry.
KT stares at the ingredients in horror. “What happened to the ones where you open a bag and dump it in a bowl?” Then she slides off the stool and moves to the sink to wash her hands. “You’ll be sorry. Just sayin’.”
This probably wasn’t my best idea. She looks good in my kitchen. I stop what I’m doing to slide up behind her, wrap her in my arms, and kiss her neck. The woman makes me crazy. I feel things for her that I never felt for the other women I’ve dated.
KT shuts off the water and dries her hands on a kitchen towel, then reaches back to run a hand through my hair. “I like this kind of dinner way better.”
God, this woman. She makes me want things I was beginning to believe I’d never feel again.
I press my face to the hollow between her shoulder and neck and breathe deep of her natural scent. She’s intoxicating. I want to sink into her and rest. Until the heat kicks up too high to ignore. Then I want to let that fire rage until the flames are doused, then bask in the embers.
But I’ve got too much responsibility on my shoulders for any of that. So, I let her go and start making lasagna from the ingredients I prepared yesterday. I layer precooked noodles, sausage, and marinara with cheese and spinach. In seven minutes flat, I slide the pan into the oven.
KT’s still working on tearing up the lettuce for the salad. “I’ve never seen anyone move so fast in the kitchen.”
“It’s all in the prep.” I pull a loaf of sourdough from the fridge for garlic bread. “I use my days off to get ninety percent of dinner prepped for the coming week. Tell me about your day.”
“It was so exciting,” she says with mock enthusiasm. “All things mechanical and a break to work out. Scintillating, I tell you.”
“Where do you work out?”
“The shop. I have all my weights and mats set up in there.”
I think back. “I didn’t see them.”
She gets that hot little grin. “We were a little busy.” She finishes with the lettuce and starts cutting the tomato. “But with the work I do, it’s a necessary evil. What happened for you today?”
“It seemed like kid day—baby projectile vomiting, boy with a bump the size of an egg on his head, little girl with croup, another boy who needed a few stitches. That kind of stuff.”
She nods. “So tell me about your babysitter.”
That seems like an odd subject shift. “Isabel?” I shrug. “She’s a girl my sister found when I first got to town. I have a service looking for a nanny, but my schedule makes it hard to find a good fit. My mom and sister help out when they can, and Jackie said she was going to keep an eye out for another potential backup babysitter.”
KT nods but doesn’t comment.