The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(91)

I’m a mom.

It’s what I do.

“Whoa, hey, slow down.” Warm hands grip my arms, and I force my eyes to focus on my favorite pair of blue eyes in the entire universe.

“Kids,” I croak.

“Fed, dressed, and at the park a couple blocks away with my mom and Giselle.” Levi guides me to a dining room chair and squats as he helps me sit, then presses a warm cup of coffee into my hands. “You okay?”

Am I okay? “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yasmin and Holly have everything under control downstairs, and after you arm-wrestled Davis last night, he agreed to be on standby if things get out of control.”

“Oh my god again.” I wince. Then take a big gulp of the coffee, which is sweeter than I usually take mine, and definitely has some cream in it, and it might not actually be coffee, but it’s warm.

Like my memories of last night.

They’re warm. I think I remember the arm-wrestling. It happened sometime after the squirrel thing and before—oh god. “Did I really walk in on Cash Rivers completely naked in the bathroom last night, or was that a very, very bad dream?”

“He’s sending apology cheesecake later. And basically every day for the next year. He strips and showers when he’s drunk. But honestly, I haven’t seen him that drunk in years.”

“Oh my god.” I take another gulp of the warm magic liquid.

Levi chuckles. “If you want, I can strip so you can think of me naked instead.”

“Yes, please. Also, I might need a bucket.”

“Not what a guy wants to hear when he offers to strip for his girlfriend.”

“Oh my god.”

“Kidding, Ingrid. Kidding.”

“How much did I have to drink?”

“Ah, Superwoman, I don’t think this is a hangover.”

“I’m pregnant?”

He wraps his arms around me. “No. I mean, I’m not telling you that. Are you telling me that?”

“No!” Am I freaking out? Am I sitting down? Am I breathing? “I need more life juice. Why do I feel like I was hit by a truck?”

“Ingrid.” He kisses my temple and strokes my back, and the nausea starts to fade. “Hudson spilled your second margarita and you didn’t finish the replacement. You’re not drunk or hungover. I think this is called a burnout crash.”

“Or the flu?”

“You are hot, but you’re not feverish.”

“Did you stay all night?”

“Yep.”

“Did the kids freak this morning?”

“Nope.”

“Did you freak?”

“Nope.”

“Is the squirrel back?”

“He’s staring at the open window and laughing like a cartoon villain.”

“Is he really our squirrel?”

“Tripp looked him over good last night and said that their family squirrel has one more stripe on its tail, so yes, that’s really our squirrel.”

His shoulder is so comfortable. And his hands are so warm. And— “What’s that smell?”

“Cinnamon rolls.”

“We didn’t have any cans.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say you eat canned cinnamon rolls when my homemade cinnamon rolls are basically the next best thing to orgasms or listening to me sing on stage.”

I laugh, because I can’t help it. “Oh my god, I love you.”

And then nothing’s funny.

I just said that.

Out loud.

To a man I dumped a month ago because he’s never around, except he is around, even when he’s not.

He calls.

He texts.

He sees all the little things that need to be done that make so much of a difference. He doesn’t say my kids are too loud, or complain when one of them interrupts us when we’re having grown-up time on the couch after they’re supposed to be in bed.

And right now, he’s sucking in a surprised breath and gripping me tighter and pressing a kiss to my forehead, and then my cheeks, and then to my morning breath, and there’s a solid possibility I’m spilling this coffee or tea or whatever it is all over both of us, because my leg is suddenly wet and warm, and I’m ninety-eight percent certain I didn’t just wet myself.

Which is a lot easier to think about than what I just said.

Except I mean it.

“I love you,” I say again against his lips. “I keep trying not to, but I do. I love you. You’re so damn easy to love, and I’m so hard and—”

“God, Ingrid, I love you too. I do. So much. You’re not hard. You’re cotton candy under all those layers of responsibility. You’re heart. You’re compassion. You’re joy. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, and I miss you like crazy when I’m not here.”

“You keep saying that. And I keep trying to believe it. And there’s so much to work out. You can’t move in here with us. We don’t have room. But I’m so scared of leaving, and—”

“And we don’t have to change anything today.” He pulls me tight again, kissing my temple and then my hair. “We’re okay. Right here. Just like this.”