Page 47 of Something Like Shelter

“Wait,” Gracie’s voice called from my phone, which was sitting on the changing table as I frantically shoved another onesie into the diaper bag.

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—”