Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Her hand pauses mid-reach for another kernel. “Are we still hypothetically speaking?”
“No,” I say. “This is me asking you for real.”
She sighs. “I don’t know. I used to think I didn’t. Then I was sure I did. Now I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.”
She eyes me warily. “Do you?”
I’m awesome. “Yeah. I think I’d be good at it.”
She shakes her head, but her smile lingers. “You’d really want all that? Sleepless nights? Diaper blowouts? Sippy cups leaking in your car?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say quietly. “Eventually.”
Her face softens.
“Not because I want to tick some box, or because I think I’m supposed to. I like the idea of building something with someone. A family. It’s what my parents have,” I say. “They’re still together after.”
She glances over, eyebrows raised. “A rarity these days.”
I nod. “Met in high school. My dad was a total dipshit—still is—and my mom swears she only went on a date with him because he only stuttered when she was around and she thought it was adorable.”
“Is he tall too?”
I shrug. “Nah, I’m the beast in my family. My brother Parker is tall but not as tall as I am.” I puff out my chest as I brag about my height. I pick up a kernel and toss it into the air, catch it in my mouth. “They fought, sure. Sometimes loud. Sometimes not talking for days. But they always showed up for each other. Always chose each other again and again.”
She leans her head against the back of the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I didn’t really grow up with that—I feel like my parents never spent time together because they were always working.”
I let that sit for a beat. “That sounds lonesome for a kid.”
“It was. I didn’t notice it at the time, but now I look back and realize I never actually saw what a relationship was supposed to look like. They’re basically like roommates at this point.”
I shift, turning so I can look at her. “That’s heavy, babe.”
“It is what it is.” She pulls the blanket tighter around her legs, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching. “You, on the other hand, seem like you’d be the kind of dad who packs snacks for everyone.”
“For sure.”
“And brings the wrong diaper bag to day care.”
“Obviously.” I smile.
“And cries at kindergarten graduation.”
“I’d cry during the application process.”
She studies me before announcing, “You’d be a good dad.”
Damn right I would. “Thanks. I don’t need it to happen tomorrow or anything. Just . . . someday. And only if the person I’m doing it with wants it too.”
She looks at me for a long second. “What if that person doesn’t know what they want?”
“Then they don’t know what they want.”
Annabelle is quiet a few more seconds. “How did we get on this topic?”
“I’m capable of depth.”
She rolls her eyes, the front of her robe parting in the most delicious, mouthwatering way. I do my best to keep my eyes on her face and not her tits, but it’s, like, kind of hard.
They’re right there, smug and soft and ruining my ability to form coherent thoughts.
Focus. Eye contact. Respectful, grown-up behavior.
“Depth? You spent the first minute of this conversation naming fake babies . . .”
“Hypothetical babies,” I joke. “And I stand by all of them. Especially Maverick Junior.”
She snorts. “Hell no. I’m vetoing Maverick Junior immediately.”
Rude. “You’d really rob our imaginary child of such a majestic legacy?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I clutch my chest. “You wound me.”
She’s thinking about something. I can see the wheels turning in her head. The way her fingers twitch in the popcorn bowl, the way she suddenly won’t meet my gaze. And for a second, I wonder if she’s going to say something—maybe confess to the test I already know about.
But she doesn’t.
And I don’t push.
Instead, I let the silence stretch comfortably as I lean back into the couch. “I could totally see us with a kid who makes their own costumes for Halloween and insists on being a traffic cone or a toaster.”
She chuckles. “You would want to raise a tiny weirdo.”
“Nothing wrong with being a traffic cone.”
Annabelle hums beside me, low and amused, but her eyes are anything but playful. They’re dark. Methodical. And they sucker punch me in the gut, because I know what that look is. Where this is headed.
My pulse quickens, excited.
“True, there isn’t,” she says in a velvety tone. “But I think I prefer this look instead.”
Then she moves—no rush but not hesitant.
Calculated.
The robe slides open as she climbs into my lap, one knee bracing on either side of me. Bare skin. Bare thighs. Thong underwear, no bra.
My hands roam instinctively to her hips before my brain completely short-circuits, unthinking and automatic.
“What’s going on?” My mouth has gone dry as my palms gently skim over her backside . . . over her round ass. “Are you hitting on me?”