The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(67)

She freezes.

Glances at the dining room, set for dinner.

Then into the living room, still sparkling in spots on the rug, with the squirrel sitting in the windowsill, nibbling on the corner of a picture frame.

Over at her kids, who share a guilty glance and then huddle together.

And finally at me, a single wrinkle between her brows, silently asking what in the world we did this afternoon. “I covered the pie after Skippy tried to eat it,” I blurt into the silence.

And then the kids unload.

“Zoe spilled glitter!”

“Only because Hudson bumped my arm!”

“Piper called me poop face!”

“Home sweet home,” Ingrid murmurs softly with a slight smile touching her lips.

I want to kiss her. I want to sweep her off her feet, fetch her a glass of wine, pour her a bath, and wash her hair for her.

In my entire life, I’ve never once wanted to wash a woman’s hair.

But I want to wash Ingrid’s.

I can’t do any of that while her kids are watching, so I shove my hands in my pockets and pretend I’m not watching for any sign that she wants to throw herself at me and kiss me the way I’d very much like to kiss her right now. “I tried to teach them some Von Trapp family songs, but they thought I was asking them to sing about alfredo sauce.”

She glances down at my crotch, and yeah, Mr. Superstar in my pants knows it, and he decides it’s time to show off, which is also not good when her kids are watching. Down, boy. Down. Think about your mom having sex with a used car dealer. Think about your mother having sex.

Okay.

I’m gonna make it.

And throw up in my mouth a little, but at least I won’t be having a birds-and-bees-and-boners discussion with Ingrid’s kids.

And after the tampon fiasco this morning, I’m convinced there would be questions. And Skippy’s setting the base for an invisible force shield probably wouldn’t work the same this time.

Her gaze lifts back to my eyes. “How is it that your hair makes you look like a vampire in the sunlight, but your freaking white jeans don’t have a speck of craft herpes on them?”

I almost choke at craft herpes, but manage to keep an almost straight face to reply. “Magic.”

Also, making eye contact with her is re-invigorating the boner situation.

Mom having sex. Mom having sex.

Nope. Not cutting it.

Beck having sex. Beck having sex.

Okay. Got it. I’m under control. You wouldn’t think that’d do it, but Beck insisted on practicing his O-face on us while we were trapped together on a tour bus in Montana not long after we started Bro Code, and I’ve never been more turned off.

Ingrid’s kids are still tattling on each other. But she’s smiling at me like I’m getting laid tonight.

For the record, what I’m about to tell her isn’t just so I could get laid. “There’s spaghetti sauce in your slow cooker and a pot of water ready to boil on the stove, plus garlic bread ready to go in the oven. And we tried to make cookie pie for dessert, and the squirrel did not get into the one we put in the fridge.”

Her eyes go shiny, and she blinks quickly. “Thank you.”

“I can’t guarantee there’s not glitter in the sauce. We had…an incident.”

“If you only had one, you had a good day.”

“I couldn’t find any wine.”

“Every time I drink by myself, Hudson needs the emergency room.”

“Right. Forgot. You’ve mentioned that.”

She’s smiling at me like I can do no wrong. “But thank you for the thought.” She claps her hands. “Zoe. Piper. Hudson. Tell Mr. Levi thank you for hanging out with you today.”

All three instantly morph from an arguing horde to a swarming mass of hugs wrapped around me and out-shouting each other with thank yous and Text my mom if Waverly replies and If you ever meet Ares Berger, tell him I’m JUST LIKE HIM, and My boogers have glitter.

I ruffle everyone‘s hair. “Be good for your mom, and sing good tonight, Hudson.”

“Thank you so much again,” Ingrid whispers after she’s disentangled me from her kids and shoved me out the door.

I get it. Tight timeline. “Sure. Anytime.”

Even Giselle can’t stay quiet at that one. She snorts to herself while Ingrid laughs. “If you say so. Also, if you have a secret magic trick to getting glitter out of your hair, I want to know what it is. And Hudson got a glitter booger on your white pants. You have no idea how much joy it gives me to know they don’t have actual magic and that you’re subject to normal human issues.”

“My pants definitely have magic,” I murmur.

Her eyes widen, then go dark, and she shoots a look three steps down at Giselle before turning her attention back to me. “That was not what I meant.”

I grin.

Her cheeks go pink. “And not what I should think about all through my preschooler’s Thanksgiving pageant…”

“Call me later.”

Her smile promises she will.

And that warm knot in my chest promises I’ll enjoy it more than I should.





Twenty-Four





Ingrid



I should not be here.