Instead, I ask, “when you go out without him, how does he eat?”
Her lips twitch like her first reaction is to laugh, but she stifles it. I chuckle. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any siblings. I’ve never been around babies.”
She nods. “I kinda got that.” I watch intently as she slides a finger down her breast, wiggling it around out of my sight. “Popping him off,” she says, and my eyes drop guiltily to the floor, finding my favorite knot in the wood once again.
“You can look; I’m decent,” she says after a moment.
The thing is, I really wanted to look when shewasn’tdecent, and that urge has me feeling really fucking pervy.
Smiling, I watch as she lowers Jett to the ground. He spins on his ass and faces me, aware that someone else is in the room, but didn’t care until he got the tit.
Iget you on so many levels, Jetpack, I think to myself.
“Hey buddy,” I wave, and he grins. Throwing a chubby finger in my direction, he shouts, “Bo!”
Beck’s gaze tamps down on mine, and our eyes idle together midair for a moment.
“That’s a coincidence?” I ask, hoping that her answer is no.
She shakes her head. “When I pick you up in the morning, I tell him what we’re doing. I say we’re going to go get Beau. And when I pick you up after work, I say we’re getting Beau again.” She acts like it’s nothing, like this little boy recognizing me,knowing me,isn’t ruining my heart right now. “You’re lucky your name is one syllable.”
I nod, holding my jaw tight in a controlled smile, not wanting her to see just how goddamn much I like that boy saying that one syllable.
“And I pump into bottles,” she says, rising from the chair. Her skirt is a little wrinkled, and her feet are still bare, and it takes every ounce of energy to reroute my brain from envisioning me fucking her with that skirt around her waist to going on a proper date in public.
She tips her head toward the diaper bag she loaded a few minutes ago. “They’re already loaded up.”
I nod. “Got it.”
A few minutes later, she’s changed into a pair of very form-fitting dark jeans, a flowy blouse the color of a setting sun, and boots… the same color as mine. She smells sweet, like she spritzed on some perfume, and she’s got the bag slung over her shoulder. “Ready? My parents just live a street over, so I promise dropping him off won’t take long.”
I scratch the back of my head. “I don’t have a car seat in my car.”
Her lips twist to the side. Neither of us had considered this leg of the date. “I could switch it to your car but… it’s only a street over; you wanna walk?”
“If you let me carry the bag. You can’t carry Jett and the bag.”
“I can carry the bag, Jett, the stroller,andtwo bags of groceries.” She raises her arm, forcing her bicep to flex. “Mom muscle.”
She’s lived an entire life before we met. Fell in love, wore a white dress, and gave birth to a beautiful baby. And yet, the idea that she has to do everything alone makes me so goddamn irritated that I really struggle to hide it.
“What?” she asks, brows pinched together as she adjusts the bag strap on her shoulder.
“Nothing.” It feels smart to lie about this because what business do I have getting irritated that she lives her life alone? Hell, it’s not even that she’s doing it alone. It’s that heleft herto do it alone. That part I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with. “Ready? Hand me everything you absolutely can’t part with, and I’ll carry it.” I flex my own arm. “Wrench Kings muscle.”
“Yeah?” she asks, her eyes hovering on my flexed bicep. I’m not fucking ripped or anything, but I’m lean; therefore my muscle comes off far more impressive than it really is. I can lift what I need to, and that’s really all that matters. “Well, being a mechanic is working for you.”
A compliment,barely, but her words trip down my spine leaving heat in their wake.
We walk to her parents’ house, and while we do, she clues me in to Jett’s routine. I’m not sure why. Maybe it's a nervous conversation but I’m glad to hear it. I like imagining every moment she describes.
“He’s an early riser. So he wakes around six, eats, plays a little, eats breakfast shortly after, then takes his nap.” She pats his bottom as he keeps his blue eyes trained on me.
“Bo!” he shouts.
I point at him, wiggling my finger into his little belly. “Jetpack!”
It’s then I realize I’ve slipped and used a nickname for him that I really feel embarrassed about. It’s too soon for that, and I’m afraid Beck will think I’m getting too attached and therefore, creeped out.