Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Elliott narrowed his eyes like he was concentrating hard and tossed the ring—it caught the horn this time. He pumped his fists in the air. “Yes!”
“Good job,” I said, moving farther into the room. Mr. Weaver was dozing on one couch, DiMaggio next to him. I sat down on the other and pulled a pillow onto my lap.
Beckett got to his feet. “All right, I think this unicorn should retire now.”
“Elliott, put the game away, okay?” I made eye contact with my son and made sure he knew not to argue. “And thank you for getting ready for bed like I asked.”
“Beckett said he’d only play the game if I put my pajamas on at eight o’clock,” Elliott said with a shrug. “So I did.”
I looked at Beckett. “Smart.”
He tapped his temple, grabbed his beer off the coffee table, and took a quick drink. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to put Elliott to bed in a sec. How’s the ball game?”
“Good.” Beckett looked at the TV. “Tigers are up by two. Dad was a little miffed by a call in the third inning, and he was pretty sure he saw Cynthia Mae in the stands at one point, but overall, he’s had a good night.”
“I’m glad.” But instead of looking at the screen, I watched Beckett help Elliott put the game away. He wore a dark gray T-shirt that hugged his arms and chest. His jeans were faded and frayed at the hems. His hair was slightly mussed from the headband, and I wanted to smooth it with my fingers.
When the game was back in the box, he picked up his beer bottle again. As he tipped it back, I watched the muscles in his throat move and imagined pressing my lips to the skin just beneath his sharply angled jaw. My stomach tightened, and I crossed my legs tighter, gripping the pillow hard. There were so many places on his body I wanted to touch. Places I’d glimpsed yesterday when he’d come to the door in a towel—abs and chest and shoulders—but also places I’d never seen.
The backs of his muscular thighs.
That round, firm ass.
Those V lines—surely he had those V lines.
Without thinking, I brought my fingertips to my mouth. Of course, that was the exact moment he chose to look over at me, and there I was groping a pillow and fondling my bottom lip.
Embarrassed, I jumped off the couch, tossing the pillow aside. “Come on, Elliott. Time for bed.”
“Five more minutes?” he asked, clasping his hands under his chin.
I shook my head. “Nope. This is late enough, and you were up very early. I can’t even believe you’re still awake.”
“We go to bed early around here, champ,” said Beckett. “Those goats will be looking for you come five-thirty.”
“Okay.” Easy as that, he hurried for the stairs with his quirky little walk.
I gave Beckett a grateful look. “Thanks for the assist.”
“No problem. I need to get Dad to bed now anyway. He’s been asleep for almost an hour.” He glanced behind me, toward the kitchen, and spoke a little quieter. “I saved you a piece of pie.”
I laughed, raising my eyebrows. “So you did decide to be a gentleman.”
He shrugged. “Old habits die hard.”
“Well, thank you. I think I’m too full to enjoy it tonight, but I’ll try some tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He reached for the remote and switched off the television. “Time for bed, Dad.”
Mr. Weaver’s eyes flew open. “Is it over?”
“Yep,” he lied.
“Did we win?”
“Yep.”
“Good.”
Beckett helped his father to his feet and herded him and DiMaggio toward the bedroom. “Night,” he called to me over one shoulder.
“Night,” I said softly, disappointed the evening couldn’t end another way.
Which was ridiculous, really, I thought as I went up the stairs. Despite what the girls had said tonight, what could come of things getting hot and heavy with Beckett anyway, other than a very awkward scene at the breakfast table tomorrow morning? Would the orgasm be worth it?
Wait, I told myself as my core muscles clenched at the thought of Beckett in that towel, and I grabbed the handrail. Don’t answer that.
“Did you have a fun time tonight?” I asked Elliott, tucking him in tight.
“Yes. Can we call Dad tomorrow? I want to tell him about my home run.”
“Sure.” I kissed my fingers and touched his cheek. “Night, buddy. I love you.”
“Night, Mom. I love you too.”
I was just leaving his room when I decided that I wanted to try Blair’s apple pie after all. Granted, it was a distant second to tracing Beckett’s V lines with my tongue, but good pie was good pie.
After ditching my sandals in my closet, I tiptoed back down the stairs and into the darkened kitchen. Finding the pie in the fridge, I pulled it from the box and sliced myself a small piece. In the pantry, I hunted for some tea, happy to discover a box of lemon chamomile. I filled the kettle and turned on the burner beneath it, then selected a mug from the cupboard that said Cloverleigh Farms on it.