Just My Type(67)

“I pooped in my diaper!” Lincoln finishes with a laugh. “The original recipe is called a Pumpkin Dump Cake. Mom named this one Apple Lincoln Cake, because it made me dump.”

As Lincoln goes back to finishing his dessert, Baker decides to keep saying the word dump each time Lincoln brings his fork up to his mouth. This results in Lincoln busting out with more giggles every time, whipped cream, and nuts, and cakey apple pie filling constantly spraying all around his mouth.

My heart can’t even handle the two of them right now.

“Okay, pick up the dirty clothes in your room then shower time, dumpy,” I announce, pushing back from the table to start collecting all the dirty dishes.

“But I—”

“The faster you pick up your things and shower, the sooner we can start playing hide-and-seek,” Baker cuts Lincoln off.

I’m going to swoon if he keeps this up. He just eliminated my nightly chores and shower argument in less than three seconds.

Lincoln runs out of the kitchen without another word. Grabbing Ron Jeremy from his tiny table, I move through the kitchen and into the laundry room to put him back in his cage. Quietly, so no one can hear me and I can firmly deny it, I spend a few minutes baby-talking to R.J., telling him what good manners he had at dinner. By the time I walk back out into the kitchen, Baker has already cleared all the dishes from the table, and he’s standing at the sink, rinsing off the last one.

Oh, hell. I might have an orgasm from this alone.

Walking up next to him, my shoulder brushes up against his arm as I hold my hand out for the plate he just finished rinsing, when I hear the shower turn on in the back of the house. Baker sets the plate in my hand, and I turn and pull open the dishwasher on the other side of me, putting it on the bottom rack.

When I come back up and turn around, Baker’s eyes are down by my stomach, and they slowly move up to mine with a hungry look in them, which means he had just been staring at my ass. Knowing he was looking, I caught him looking, and he didn’t bother to hide how much he appreciates looking, is just hot as hell.

“How long will he be in the shower?” Baker asks casually as he hands me a drinking glass, but his face is anything but casual.

His eyes are on my mouth, and he’s running his tongue over his bottom lip, like he’s trying to see if he can still taste me from our kiss earlier. I grab the glass out of his hand, turn around, and shove it on the top rack of the dishwasher to stop myself from climbing him like a tree. I’m all for being creative and sneaky to get some alone time with him, but I know my son’s shower habits.

“Probably less than two minutes,” I reply, grabbing a handful of rinsed-off silverware out of Baker’s hand. “He’s an eight-year-old boy. It’s a miracle he’s showering at all. You should also know, he’ll probably come out, try to tell me he washed his hair, when it still smells like straight-up asshole and is only slightly damp because he splashed some water on it.”

Putting the last of the dishes in the washer, I close the door and face Baker, leaning my hip against the edge of the counter.

“Then, there will most likely be an argument, and probably a door slam when I go back and make him take another shower, where he actually washes his hair,” I finish.

He wanted to experience Friday night with a mom; well, here you go. And he’s in luck. Not only is this a Friday night experience, but it’s an experience that happens every night ending in Y. The night we got Ron Jeremy and he had pizza with us doesn’t count. Lincoln was too happy about having a pet that he didn’t put up a fight over anything. It’s a once-in-a-blue-moon experience.

Baker moves closer until there’s only a few inches of distance between us. He skims the tips of his fingers back and forth lightly, right above the low-rise, waistband of my jeans, against the exposed skin of my stomach under my belly button.

“Okay,” Baker replies with an easy smile. “That really was the best dessert I’ve ever had. Everyone must miss your baking back home.”

I try to focus on what he’s saying to me, instead of what he’s doing with his fingers. Each time he makes another swipe of his fingertips across my stomach, he dips them just the tiniest bit under the waistband of my jeans.

“I had a small staff to help me out after my brother expanded the farm. A few local teenagers who worked part-time and helped me do most of the grunt work,” I tell him. “They know all the recipes, but according to my brother, everything tasted like shit after I left. So, instead of having fresh-baked items you can take home with you, now they just order some things from a bakery a few towns over, like cookies and donuts. Easy things people can carry and eat while they walk around the farm.”

“Well, anytime you feel like flexing your baking skills, I’m available as a taste-tester.”

Baker’s hand flattens against my stomach, and he starts sliding it around my waist, leaning toward me as I push up on my toes.

“Mom! Come sniff my hair!”

Baker and I both laugh, breaking apart before our lips can touch.

“Go give him the smell test. I’ll get R.J. back out of his cage and get him in his hide-and-seek outfit,” Baker tells me, both of us walking backward away from each other, him toward the laundry room and me to the bathroom.

“He has a hide-and-seek outfit now? Don’t tell me you brought him something else tonight, on top of the tiny chair and table.”