The next Thursday after Brody’s christening and Thomas’s weird snuggle maneuver, I’m standing half-dressed in a Nordstrom changing room when Mia drapes yet another dress that I could never afford—let alone need—over the top of the door.
“Mia, since when do you need my help buying a dress?” I ask, still confused as to why I’m her real life Barbie doll for the day.
“Because it’s a special dress and it has to be right,” she announces matter-of-factly.
“Is Matt taking you somewhere? Did I forget your anniversary or something?” I swear it wasn’t that long ago they got married. Or was it . . .
“No, nothing like that. Can you just hurry up? It’s weird yelling through a wall at you. Come show Mama what you’re made of.”
“I feel weird trying on a dress that you’re going to wear. I don’t understand this at all.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve said that already. Just get your butt out here.”
I pop my head out of the changing room to where she’s sitting outside waiting for me to model a dress she demanded I try on for her.
“It’s shark week. I can’t try on clothes when I’m feeling fat and bloated.” Quirking a brow, I’m beginning to wonder what drugs she might be on and where I can get some.
“You’re the smallest I’ve seen since you had Emma.”
“Look,” she says, putting one hand on her hip. “I’m good at hiding the monthly bloat. Just go with it.”
“Fine,” I huff, taking one last look at the mirror and smoothing my hands down the front of the dress Mia threw in my arms the minute she saw it on the rack.
Granted, this is the third shop she’s dragged me into and the sixth dress she’s made me try on ‘for her.’ But I think this is definitely the one. It’s a chiffon wrap-around dress that falls down into a floaty skirt that sits about three inches above my knees, the soft dusty pink fabric showing off my newfound curves—thanks, Brody—and hiding the small jiggly pouch I have in my abdomen. To be honest, it’s the type of dress I’d love to own, or more aptly, have a reason to own.
It’s the perfect dress for a date, and I know Mia will look spectacular in it.
I draw back the curtain and step out into the changing room at large, standing flat footed in front of Mia and a sleeping Brody in his stroller. “So?” I ask.
Mia tilts her head and scans me head to toe, a slow smile growing on her lips the more she studies me. “It’s perfect,” she whispers, sounding almost choked up.
“Meems? Are you all right?”
“It’s perfect. It’s the most perfect dress.”
“Meems. . . . What’s going on?” I say warily.
She opens her mouth but then snaps it shut, her eyes going from soft and warm to almost shuttered and cagey. What the fuck is up with that?
“This dress is the one,” she announces and I grin at her.
“It’s so swishy,” I say, giggling as I sway my hips from side to side.
“And clingy,” she adds, taking a step back and scanning me again.
“I bet Matt will love it on you.” Her eyes going wide before she blinks and nods.
“Great! Let’s go. We’ve still got lingerie and shoes to buy yet.”
“What?” I ask to thin air because in the blink of an eye both Mia and my son have disappeared and I’m left standing in a pretty dress—no a beautiful dress—in an empty changing room.
With nothing left to do and obviously needing to go rescue my son from a crazy woman, I shrug and go back behind the curtain. Reverently taking off the perfect pretty pink dress, I cross my fingers that one day I too will have a reason to wear something so beautiful and more so, that I’ll have someone worth wearing it for.
Having slept through most of the day’s shopping shenanigans, Brody is still wide-eyed and bushy-tailed by the time Thomas arrives for Takeout Thursday. I open the door, my phone hooked between my head and my shoulder as I answer the phone.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, sweeping my arm out as Thomas walks through the door, food bags in hand.
“Hey, pumpkin. How’s my favorite girl and boy doing?” God, I love my Dad.
“We’re good. How are you guys?” I say as I study Thomas’s ass as he moves into the living room.
He places the takeout bags on the coffee table before dropping to the ground and lying down beside Brody.
“You know us, busy, busy.”
I giggle. “Yes, retirement must be so hard.”
“You watch it, missy, or else I’ll sic Kristy onto you.”
“That’s not much of a warning, Dad. I love her.”
His voice goes soft. “We’ve got that in common then.”
“Yep. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Well, I was wondering if you had any plans for Saturday night.”
I frown, walking while talking. “Not at this stage. Why?” I ask, suspiciously.
“Kristy and I were talking and it’s time you had a night out, sans baby.” My eyes widen and if my father was standing right in front of me, I know my mouth would be gaping. This is the last thing I expected him to say.
That’s not to say I’m adverse to the idea though because I promised myself before Brody was born that I would always be a mom first and foremost, but I’d also always make time for me.
“Dad, that would be awesome. But I have no plans and it’s kinda short notice.”
He’s quiet for a while, so much so that I’m about to check that he’s still on the line when he replies. “I’m sure you’ll find something to do.”
I watch Thomas and Brody out of the corner of my eye as I contemplate my options. Worst case scenario, I could always go to a movie by myself. Or see if Thomas wanted to do something.
Not a date of course, just as friends. Friends go to movies, or drinks, or dinner . . . wait, that’s going into date territory.
Abort. Abort.
“Okay. Sounds good. Brody does a good six-hour stretch at night right now so he’ll be asleep most of the time, and I can feed him before I go.”
“Yeah, let’s not talk about nursing. I may be a down to earth, hip grandpa but I still don’t want to think about that. Deal?”
Now that definitely makes me laugh. “Sure. No breast milk talk.”
“Amy . . .” he says in his well-practiced ‘dad’ voice.
“You’re so easy to wind up, old man.”
“And you’re a brat.”
“Always have been, always will be,” I muse. “Dad, can I call you tomorrow to sort out the details? It’s just that Thomas has arrived with dinner and I need to get Brody settled for bed.”
“Sure, pumpkin. We’ll talk tomorrow. Say hi to Thomas from me.” Okay, now that’s weird.
“Will do. See ya, Dad.”
“Bye. And remember, make some plans for Saturday.”
“Yes, Dad. Bye,” I say before hanging up, a goofy grin on my face. I really got lucky with my dad. When Mom passed away fifteen years ago, Dad had to step up and play the role of both parents, something he totally rocked.
When he met Kristy six years ago, he was worried about how I’d take it. But Kristy was exactly what Dad needed at that time in his life. For a man who’s always given me everything I ever needed and worked his ass off to make sure of it, I was over the moon that he met someone who wanted to do exactly the same thing for him.
Kinda helps that Kristy is awesome too.
“Hey,” I say, dropping the phone on the table. “Sorry about that, Dad called just as you arrived.”
“No problem. I was just having an enthralling conversation with Brodz here about a new client I met today. Year-long contract, performance bonus, and a real challenge for me. It’s going to be great, isn’t that right, buddy,” he says, rubbing his hand on Brody’s tummy.
“This is totally turning into a boys’ club,” I muse, walking past them to grab some plates from the kitchen.
“I can’t help it if your son is as irresistible as his mother.”
Try as I might to ignore the fluttering butterflies in my stomach, I’m still wearing a goofy grin when I return to the living room.
“Irresistible, huh?” I say, tapping his shoulder with my foot as I pass them on the floor, Thomas lying on his side and Brody lying on his back underneath his activity gym.
Lifting his head up, he shoots me a devilish grin. “Yep. Totally.”
“I’m starting to think you only like me for my baby,” I tease.
He rolls onto his back and folds his arms behind his head, his eyes locking with mine. “Nah, I have a thing for his mom too.”
Alert the media. My ovaries are set to detonate in 3, 2, 1 . . .
Needing a diversion to stop myself from acting on my first instinct which is to jump him then and there, I decide a subject change is in order. “So . . . ready to eat?”
His lips twitch and I know he can see straight through me. Thankfully, he lets it slide and pushes himself up to standing. “It wouldn’t be Takeout Thursday if we didn’t actually eat.”
“Then it would just be a normal Thursday, and I kind of like our new tradition,” I say, shooting him a wink and bending down to grab the baby.
“I could’ve done that for you, you know?”
“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have gotten bubba cuddles,” I say, burrowing Brody into me.
“I see I’m not the only one who likes cuddling.” And as if I could ever forget, I’m reminded of just how good it felt to wake up in Thomas’s arms two weeks ago.
I open my mouth but snap it shut again. I mean, what can I say to that?
“Ah yeah,” I murmur. Why is he acting weirder than normal? Not weird, per se. Maybe more . . . comfortable. Yes, totally comfortable like he comes to my house every night to lie down on my floor with my son.
Dinner eaten, mindless television on in the background, and I’m giving Brody a last top up of the night before putting him down to bed.
My comfort level around this man continues to surprise me, as does his nonchalance to the fact that I’m sitting here with my boob out, nursing my son. A son that isn’t his but amazingly is more his than anyone else’s.
It’s one of the things that freaks me out about my rapidly growing feelings for Thomas. I don’t just have to think about me anymore, I have Brody. At seven weeks old, he’s already connecting with Thomas—maybe even as much as I am—and it’s obvious that Thomas has a bond with him too. Maybe it’s that same link that he’s forged with me, although ours was born from a shared experience, the bond he has with Brody has been nurtured. And fuck do I love that he wanted to do that.
When Brody is milk drunk enough for my liking, I pull him off, quickly tucking my boob away.
“Let me put him down and you can choose the movie,” Thomas says, closer to me than he was before. I nod as he gently slides his arms against me and underneath Brody.
“Say good night, Mommy,” Thomas says softly, bending down to lean over the two of us, looking down at my son.
Dipping my head to kiss Brody’s cheek, I nuzzle my nose against his temple before one last quick peck on his forehead. It takes everything in me to avoid thinking about how close Thomas is to me right now and acknowledging the heat that I can feel coming from him.
When he lifts the baby up, the scent of his aftershave surrounds me, threatening to send me into an instant orgasm-inducing haze and suddenly I’m penciling in plans to buy it in bulk. Other than the smell of my baby boy’s skin and maybe donuts fresh out of the oven, I can’t think of anything better.
If it was at all possible, I could definitely fall in love with this man. Part of me is cursing the STD that friend-zoned me all those months ago.
Then the pregnancy bump clam-jammed any chance of anything happening between us.
Oh and his abstinence, that also would’ve been a thorn in the side of any potential anything too.
“I’ll be back,” he says quietly, moving Brody to his shoulder. “I dare you to choose a movie that isn’t superhero or superhuman related,” he says with a grin.
“So chick flick it is then,” I tease.
“Whatever you want, sweetness.” And I watch with no small amount of admiration as he walks my son out of the room and down the hall.
I’m in soooooo much trouble.
It’s after watching The Notebook—I did warn him he’d have to watch a chick flick—that everything I thought I knew about Thomas and the ‘friend-zone’ between us is blown to smithereens.
“So,” he says, turning toward me on the couch, his knee nudging mine. “When was the last time you were taken out on a date?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, mirroring his position.
“How long has it been since you went out with a man,” he says softly, his voice as smooth as melted chocolate. “On a date. Dinner, drinks, conversation, flirting, and the anticipation of potential groping at the end of the night?”
Whoa. Hold up. Did he just say what I think he just said? Surely I’ve fallen asleep during the movie again and this is a dream.
“Amy?”
Remember when I said I wanted the whoosh? Well, that right there got me a big whoosh, a tidal wave whoosh, possibly between my legs . . . Just to be safe, I clench my Kegels for safe measure.
I take a moment to think about it. The last date I went on was with a customer from the bar. He seemed nice, good looking, well-dressed with a dazzling smile that had an unspoken promise of wickedness.
Unfortunately for me, it was all for show. He was actually dull as dishwater and in no way as interesting as the first impression led me to believe. When he asked to split the bill, despite wearing a two thousand dollar tailored suit, I was out of there faster than Brody’s sperm donor when I told him I was pregnant.
“Maybe a year and a half,” I reply on a whisper, my eyes locking with his, trapped in his sexy force field, not ever wanting to escape.
Isn’t it amazing how a few months and a very public loss of dignity can change a girl’s perspective on life?
“That’s a damn shame, sweetness, because you deserve dinner, drinks, good conversation, and flirting.”
“What? No groping?” I ask, one hand instinctively going to my hip as I quirk an eyebrow at him.
He leans his body as close as it can be without touching me but God how I wish it were. I remember how warm he was on Sunday at Noah’s and there’s no way I’ve forgotten how comfy he is to sleep on.
“A woman like you would get more than groping. But not until at least the third or fourth date.” He dips his head so he’s all I can see, his voice low and gravelly and talking to places on my body I’d almost forgotten existed.
“A hand pressing on your back as you’re led into the restaurant, a little-too-long squeeze of your fingers across the table while you wait for your meal, a not-so-innocent brush of a leg against yours, and a gentle brush of the lips against your hand as you’re led to your front door, then a soft promising kiss . . .” his lips brush my cheek, his warm breath fanning across my skin, “ . . . that leaves you with a slow burning ache that lasts long into the night.”
Okay, it’s safe to say I’ve never had a date like that or known a man like that who’d ever want to do that with me and to me.
I’ve also never experienced anything close to the mini-orgasm I may have just had the moment Thomas Caldwell’s lips touched my skin.
Damn, he’s good.
“Are you asking me out on a date?” I ask.
“I want dinner, drinks, conversation and the potential for groping, yes.”
“But how will I—” he cuts me off by pressing his thumb against my lips. Unable to stop myself, I touch my tongue against his skin just to taste him.
“Babysitting? All sorted,” he says with a knowing grin and suddenly Dad’s phone call makes sense.
Sneaky bastard.
“Something to wear? Sorted.” Freaking hell, he even recruited Mia for his mission. No wonder she had me trying on ten million outfits.
“A few hours of pampering at Kate’s salon on Saturday afternoon? Also sorted.”
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
“The only thing that isn’t confirmed . . .” he says, leaning into the couch, even closer to me, “ . . . is whether you actually want to go out on a date with me.”
Dinner, drinks, adult conversation and the potential of being groped and having the opportunity to do the same to him?
Um . . . let me think on that . . .
“Let me get this straight. You’re really asking me out on a date?” My voice squeaks on the word date, my heart, my head, and my lady parts all bracing for him to say ‘psych’ and ruin all their days. Not giving him a chance to get a word in edgeways, I continue. “You think,” I say, my voice shaking, “that I’d say no after you’ve organized everything for me and already made it the best date I’ll ever go on, and it hasn’t even happened yet.”
Then the funniest—and most adorable—thing happens. The cocky and always-confident man beside me looks almost sheepish.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen this vulnerable, honest side of him but from everything I’ve heard about him, I think I’m one of the few people he allows to see it.
Then he seals the deal, reaching his hand up to cup my jaw, his thumb sweeping out across my cheek, his eyes trailing the movement before meeting mine.
“I was worried you’d say no.” Mega whoosh, woman down. I’m totally D.O.N.E, done for now.
I lift my hand to cover his on my face and decide the best way forward is total honesty. So, taking a deep breath, I let him know exactly where I stand on the subject.
“Thomas Caldwell, if you thought I’d say no, then you really haven’t been paying attention.”
Then the most gratifying thing happens. He stares at me wide-eyed for merely a second before dropping his head back as he bursts out laughing.
Job well done, Amy. Job well done.
All I have to do now is count down the forty-four hours until Saturday night.