Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
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.