Not that Nash has noticed.
He seems only to have eyes for us. For Felicity and for me, the pretend family he treats with more care than my ex ever did.
“So how did it go?” I ask as he settles Felicity into her highchair and moves her toys back within reach. She’s been amazingly good so far, gumming on pieces of our food and playing with her toys like she dines at fancy restaurants every night of the week.
“Dirty to clean in thirty seconds flat.” Nash eases into his seat beside me, casually resting his arm on the back of my chair. “Haven’t lost my touch,” he adds with a grin before leaning over and pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder that makes me shiver.
Shiver, and my nipples tighten with awareness of the man so very, very close to me.
Silently, I thank God for padded bras and curse my incorrigible libido.
Nash is just too good at pretending. He’s made tonight feel so real, like we’re really in love, really a family. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe it myself.
“What are you thinking?” Nash drawls in a husky voice that makes things low in my belly twist.
“I was…” I blink, fighting to keep the way he affects me from showing on my face. “I was thinking that you have eyelashes like a baby llama.”
Nash smiles so hard his dimple pops.
Adorable dimple. I want to kiss it. A lot.
A whole lot.
“No, I meant about dessert,” he says, glancing at the small, rectangular menu in front of us. “Chocolate cake and ice cream, or the three sorbets?”
I clear my throat, but I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from his face. “I don’t care. I’m easy.”
“Is that right?” He arches a teasing brow.
“Ha, very funny,” I say, slapping him playfully on the chest.
Rock hard chest. I want to kiss it, too.
“I’m easy when it comes to choosing dessert, pervert,” I add, smiling when Nash chuckles beneath his breath before turning to the waiter who has appeared by the table.
“We’ll have the flourless chocolate cake,” he says, “and an extra cup of vanilla ice cream for the baby.”
The waiter departs with a nod, and Nash turns back to me.
“So, I have lashes like a llama and arms like a boa constrictor,” he says. “I didn’t realize I was so…animalistic.”
I arch a dubious brow. “You’re the biggest man in this room by at least fifty or sixty pounds of pure muscle.” He leans closer and I reach for my ice water, hoping it will help cool me down. “That’s pretty animalistic in my book.”
Nash watches me drink, his eyes lingering on my lips. “I look at it differently.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“I think of the muscle as a deterrent to other people who might be inclined to indulge their animalistic sides.”
I gaze deep into his eyes, those steady green eyes that haven’t given off a single spark of anger or irritation in days, not even when enduring hours of Felicity screaming her lungs out in the middle of the night. Nash is a giant for sure, but he’s gentle through and through.
“Is that why you started working out so much?” I ask. “Someone’s animalistic side?”
“You could say that.” Nash glances over at Felicity, the edges of his mouth lifting as he watches her babble to the sugar packets while gnawing on her toy hammer. “My grandpa had a drinking problem, ever since my mom was a kid. I think that’s why she married my dad so young; she wanted out of Grandpa’s house.” His smile fades. “Gramps would come by our place when I was little, asking Mom for money. Sometimes, if he didn’t get it, he’d get violent.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
He turns back to me, an intensity in his gaze that makes it impossible to look away. “I was five the first time I saw him hit her. Dad was at work and Gramps hit my mom so hard she fell down. Then, when my sister, Raleigh, tried to go to her, he picked her up and threw her across the yard.”
My breath rushes out. “Bastard.”
Nash inclines his head in agreement. “That’s when I decided that someday I was going to be big and strong enough to stop all the bad guys.”
“But some bad guys have guns,” I remind him, the worry that’s been plaguing me all week rising to the surface again. Around Tuesday morning, the fact that Nash deals with criminals every day for a living hit my brain full force, and I’ve been troubled by it ever since.
“They do,” he admits. “But you’d be surprised how much size can intimidate a man, even one with a gun in his hand. And being in shape makes me feel more…in control.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Lifting has become such a habit now. I probably couldn’t stop if I tried.”