Flint glances over his shoulder. “Wash your hands, Harrison.”
“They didn’t pee on me.”
“I’m glad. Wash your hands.”
I bite my lips together.
“I read that rats spend most of their waking hours cleaning themselves or each other. More so than cats.” Harry rocks back and forth on his feet, wringing his hands together.
“It’s good to know you’re spending your spare time researching rats. Did you happen to see how they clean themselves? In a bathtub? In a shower with hot water and soap? Or do they lick themselves?” Flint asks.
“They lick themselves.”
“So if I lick your hands, will you feel the need to wash them before you eat?”
“That’s gross. Why would you lick my hands?”
“I wouldn’t. Just go wash them.”
I take the ladle, nudging Flint aside with my hip. “We swapped saliva in the hallway. Is that going to ruin your dinner?”
“Only if you tell Harrison and get me in trouble.”
“I would never.” I fill the bowls with soup, and Flint takes them to the table. “And for your information … I do bathe my rats.”
He looks over his shoulder at me. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Is this gluten-free?” Harry asks, taking a seat at the table.
“Yes.” I smile, sitting next to him, forcing Flint to sit across from us.
“No dairy?”
“No dairy.”
“Nuts?”
“No nuts. It’s all been approved by your dad.”
“He thinks the things I eat affect my brain.”
“What do you think?” I sip the steamy soup from my spoon.
“I don’t know. Grandma said it’s his job to be overprotective. Weird job.”
Flint smirks, placing the napkin on his knee.
“I’ve met some parents who need to be more protective of their children, so it’s a good thing that your dad cares about you so much.”
Harry shrugs, blowing on his soup. “Are you going to ask Ellen on a date?”
Flint stirs his soup, a slight shake to his head. “Oh, Harrison, you’re quite the wingman.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asks.
“You’re quite the helper when it comes to getting me a date.”
I watch the commentary between them, amused with where this might be going.
“I’m not helping you get a date. I just asked if you were going to ask.” Harry gives me a quick glance. “He wants to ask you on a date. No sex. No kissing. Dinner and a movie. And I can’t go with you.”
I cover my mouth with my napkin, but I can feel the red flush working up my face into my cheeks and nose.
Flint takes a spoonful of soup, eyes rolling up to glance at me.
“Sounds like fun. I haven’t been to a movie in a long time.”
“Just don’t go see the new Spiderman movie because I want to see it.”
“Well, your dad hasn’t asked me on a date yet, so we don’t have to worry about picking out a movie.”
“Are you going to ask her?”
I tap the toe of my boot against Flint’s shoe. He eyes me while taking a drink of water.
“Maybe,” he says. “But let’s talk about this new Spiderman movie.”
And with that, the next half hour turns into a thorough comparison of all the superheroes. I confess my favorite superhero is Superman, specifically played by Henry Cavill. I don’t mention that Flint’s body and sexy smile bears an uncanny resemblance to Henry. Something tells me Harry would not like that comparison.
After dessert, which earns me two thumbs up from Flint and Harry, Flint shoos me off to play rat games with Harry while he washes the dishes. If it weren’t for the seven rating and eviction notice, he’d be the perfect guy.
“Oh my god … they play basketball.”
I adore the excitement on Harry’s face when I show him how Bach and Chopin play basketball with their tiny hoop and ball. Then I teach him how to set up an obstacle course they can do—except my diva Gaga—and hand him treats to give them as rewards.
“I’m going to go make sure your dad doesn’t need help in the kitchen. He won’t know where my dishes belong.”
“K.” Harry mumbles, too enthralled with my rat pack to even look up at me.
I slide up onto the kitchen counter next to my Superman. “I didn’t think I could like you more than I do in a suit.” I cross my legs, eliciting a quick glance from my dishwasher. “But when you roll up your sleeves and get all domestic on me, it’s kinda hot. Like Gardener Flint, the dirtier you get, the dirtier my thoughts get.”
He tips his chin down, staying focused on the pan and sink of sudsy water, his teeth digging gently into his lower lip.
“I have him set up with obstacle courses and snacks for my babies. I bet we don’t see him for a while. What do you think about a quickie in the bathroom?”
He gives me the slightest chuckle, handing me the pan to dry. “You think this is fun?”
“Dishes?” I rub the towel over the pan. “No. I hate doing dishes. But I think a quickie in the bathroom could be quite fun.” I hop off the counter and take the pan to the drawer under my stove top. “Ouch!” I drop the pan in the drawer with a clunk and straighten my back, my hand reaching for the back of my leg, just below my butt cheek. There’s a stinging welt.
Flint holds the end of the twisted damp towel in his hand like a whip.
“Oh my gosh! Did you seriously just whip me with a towel?” I say in a loud whisper. “There’s a welt. You marked me.”
“Your skirt is too short. When you bent over to put that pan in the drawer, I could see black lace.”
“So you whipped me?”
He stalks toward me until I’m forced to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. “No,” he whispers. “I whipped you because you’re a fucking tease.”
“You’re a terrible role model. Would you want Harry whipping some poor unsuspecting woman on the ass?”
His eyes focus on my cleavage for a few seconds before returning to meet my gaze. No signs of apology that I just caught him staring at my boobs. “He’s twelve. So I think that might not be a good idea at this point in his life, but if the day comes that he finds a feisty, sexy, playful woman in need of a little reprimanding, then I’d have to say the idea of him giving her a little nip on the backside would make me pretty proud. Much more proud than whispering to rats.”
“You’re stubborn and infuriating.” I narrow my eyes.
He glances in the direction of the bedrooms and presses his lips to his middle and index fingers. Bending over, he slides his hand up my leg until the fingers he just kissed cover my welt. “And you’re the first breath of oxygen that’s touched my lungs in ten years,” he whispers in my ear.
Tears instantly sting my eyes. I thought I’d forgiven Alex. But when Flint says things like this to me, I feel this surge of pain all over again, stirring the anger to life. I should have always been the oxygen in Alex’s lungs.
Flint’s hand slides out as slowly and seductively as it slid to my welted leg. His brows draw together. “It hurts that bad?”