Page 26 of One Baby Daddy
My body tingles.
My fingers suddenly feeling numb.
Another glance to my lips.
Another inch forward.
Another lick to his lips.
He’s going to kiss me. Hayden Holmes is going to kiss me . . .
Chest rising and falling, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his thick pecs, I await the press of his lips to mine, but just when I think he’s going to close in on the final inches keeping us apart, he clears his throat and slowly pulls away leaving me . . . yearning.
Picking up his fork and knife, he stares at his plate and clears his throat again. “Sorry about that.”
Sorry?Why the hell is he sorry?
Looking frustrated, he sets his silverware back on the table and plants one of his hands firmly in his hair where he pulls on the messy strands. “There’s something about you, Adalyn.” Head dipped, he turns slightly to look at me. “You make me a little crazy with those lips of yours, so pink, so goddamn plump. I want to taste them.”
“Wh-what’s holding you back?” Why am I stuttering? When have I ever been nervous around men? It almost feels like this is the first time I’ve ever . . . cared about a man, truly cared to get to know him, to be with him.
Hands folded in my lap, I turn my attention to my pasta, nervous about his answer.
With his index finger, he hooks my chin so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “What’s holding me back?” He shakes his head as if he’s in disbelief. “Those lips are lethal, Adalyn, and I know the minute I get a taste of them I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“So . . . it’s not because you don’t want to?”
His brows pinch together. “You’re fucking kidding, right?”
Hating my question and the insecurity that slipped in there, I shrug my shoulders. “Forget that last question.” Picking up my fork, I say, “Let’s eat this delicious pasta.”
Swirling the pasta and sauce together, mixing in the parmesan cheese Hayden grated on top, I fork a few pasta spirals and bring the bite to my lips when I realize Hayden is still staring at me intently.
Fork poised mere inches from my mouth, I ask, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you can.” Reaching over to my lap, he takes my hand in his and fuses our palms together. Picking up his fork as well, he gathers some pasta and says, “There, that’s better.”
With the lights above, the sounds of the nightfall surrounding us, we hold hands and eat a meal I don’t think I’ll ever forget. And it’s not only because Hayden made it for me, but because it’s one of the first times I’ve ever felt self-worth from a man who wasn’t one of my brothers.
* * *
“Who taught you how to cook?” The dishes are in the kitchen, the wine has been consumed, maybe a little more than I expected to drink, and we’re now lounging in a glider on the deck, with Hayden setting a light sway with his foot propped against the coffee table in front of us.
“My mom. She made it her mission to make sure her sons knew how to cook before they left for college. So every Sunday and Monday, we were required to make a meal with my mom. At the time, I was kind of annoyed, because I was a teenage boy wanting to do anything but cook a proper spaghetti sauce, but now as I look back on the time I shared with my mom, I cherish those moments.”
“That’s really sweet.” Turned toward him, my feet tucked under me, one of my hands in his, I take a small sip of wine. His fingers dance along my palm occasionally, sending a tingling sensation up and down my spine and a nervous flutter in my stomach.
“I spent so much time with my dad in the driveway, taking shot after shot at him, that the only moments I had with my mom were when I was in the kitchen cooking with her. It was our time.”
“And do you still cook with her when you get a chance?”
Small dimples settle in the corner of his lips. “She puts me to work right away whenever I go home for a visit, and she still has the apron she got me when I was in middle school.”
“Does she make you wear it?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“What does it look like?”
