The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(61)

Which I won’t be telling Ingrid.

“After the store closes,” I say to her perplexed expression. “I’ll bring Giselle. She’ll make sure I stay up here and out of trouble. And if you get a free minute, maybe I can find more cheesecake.”

“You are seriously cutting into my reading time.” She smiles like she doesn’t mind, though. “Text me later. We’ve been picking up traffic, and restocking is taking longer than it usually does, plus Hudson’s class is doing a Thanksgiving pageant and I’m worried he’s going to try to take Skippy to play the part of the turkey.”

Like I said, Hudson and I could be total bro-mates.

She pokes me in the ribs, and I twitch and squirm. “Tickle spot!”

“Up and out, or I’ll really make you regret dilly-dallying.”

I shift to bring my face to hers, and I brush a kiss to her lips. “I like you, Ingrid Scott.”

Her blush is immediate. “I like you too, Levi Wilson. Now scoot. I also have to find a last-minute babysitter.”

My ears perk up. “For today?”

“The girls are off school, Hudson only has half a day, and my usual sitter has the flu.” She pulls back, wagging her tickle finger at me. “No distractions this morning. No time.”

“I can do it.”

“Distract me?”

“Watch your kids.”

Her face screws up so hard in comic disbelief that her eyes actually cross.

It’s fucking adorable.

“I watch Tripp’s kids all the time. They’re just people with less life experience.”

“Just people with less life experience tells me you have no idea what you’d be getting into.”

I grin. “I know. That’s the best part.”

“Absolutely not.”

“On my honor as a grown-up whose lead protection agent will be there to supervise, I will not wreck your children or your home.”

Yes, I do know exactly how not normal that sounds to Ingrid. The security part, I mean. Not the wreck your home or your children part. I know her well enough to know that’s probably a standard question she asks babysitters.

I add my most irresistible smile.

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Why?”

“Why won’t I wreck your house?”

She’s good. That’s the exact same look my mother has given me time and time again for thirty-odd years. “Why would you want to watch all three of my children all day today, from basically now until probably six tonight, cooped up in an apartment because there’s no way you’re taking any of them out in public, and—”

“How does Hudson get to preschool?”

“I walk him. It’s twenty minutes. Yasmin can handle the store and Holly’s good back-up. And how is it that you have nothing else on your calendar today?”

“I’m on vacation.” And I’m supposed to be helping Tripp with anything he needs before the wedding on Friday.

Considering he doesn’t need to be talked off a ledge, he’s had the rings for months, Lila’s terrifyingly organized, and they’re doing a small family thing at a reception hall that caters to Copper Valley’s more prominent citizens, I doubt he needs me for much.

Typical older brother.

Making me useless.

Ingrid’s still squinting at me like she doesn’t believe me. “Do you actually take real vacations?”

Legit question. I lift a pinky.

She smiles like I’m a total goofball. “I don’t think you actually told me your secret the last time you offered me a pinky.”

“There’s no one to hose us down this time.”

She laughs and hooks her pinky in mine.

Total excuse to touch her. Won’t apologize. I like touching her. “I have a secret phone that only Mom, Tripp, and my assistant know the number to. When I’m on vacation, the regular phone gets locked up, and I’m truly only reachable in an emergency.”

“So you’re not actually on vacation right now.”

“I’m one-hundred percent on Thanksgiving-family wedding vacation. And I’m one-hundred percent ignoring about sixty-eight messages from other wedding guests.”

“Mom?” a voice calls from below.

Ingrid’s eye twitches. “Coming, Zoe.”

“Hudson put a Pop-Tart in the microwave and it exploded.”

Her shoulders sag. “Okay. Be right there.”

“You have Pop-Tarts?” I whisper.

“Apparently not anymore.”

“Hey. Totally serious. I don’t have plans. If you need help, I’m here. And I can have Giselle pick up more Pop-Tarts on the way over.”

She studies me like she knows this isn’t normal behavior.

It’s not.

I’ve never offered to watch a girlfriend’s kids. Hell, I’ve never offered to find my girlfriend a babysitter for her kids either.

And Ingrid wouldn’t call herself my girlfriend.

I probably shouldn’t call her my girlfriend. I probably shouldn’t hang out with her kids. If they’re going to have someone in their lives, they deserve someone who can be in their lives.

Someone who can go to their Thanksgiving pageants and hockey games and gymnastics events, either because he’s actually in town, or because him showing up won’t be such a distraction that no one pays attention to the kids.