More Than I Could (12)

“I was expecting a Michael Myers situation with the cornfields,” I say, laughing. “But I was pleasantly surprised to discover it was a total hottie.”

“Really? A hottie, huh?”

“Let’s just say I wasn’t mad about watching him work on my rental car.”

Maggie laughs, clearly smitten with my story.

“I don’t know what it is about grumpy men, but I think his broodiness made him even hotter,” I say.

“You’re right. Grumpy men can be very attractive.”

I smile, imagining my mom and Maggie prowling for guys back in the day.

“He wasn’t mean, was he?” she asks, her features sobering.

“Not at all. I think he wanted to be nice, maybe even sweet. He was all …” I pause to think of an analogy that is PG-rated enough to share with Maggie and one that she’ll understand. “He was a grumpy cat. Scowly and moody, but deep down, he just wanted to be petted.”

Her face lights up as she walks toward me. “Ha!”

“I just enjoyed the arm porn and overlooked the irritation.”

A coy smile plays on her lips as she stops in front of the mudroom door. “Smart move. I would’ve done the same.”

My heart begins to pound again as I anticipate … something. I’m not sure what’s about to happen, but a definite undercurrent ripples through the room.

“Maggie?”

“Come here,” she says, motioning for me to join her beside the mudroom door.

Once I’m standing beside her, she smiles. And throws the door open.

My.

Jaw.

Drops.

A man with incredible green eyes and broad shoulders stands in front of me in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.

His gaze snaps to mine and locks into place. The aforementioned scowl covers his lips.

What in the hell is happening here?

I suck in a haggard breath as my eyes nearly pop out of my head. I grip the doorframe to steady myself.

Holy freaking hell.

My brain screams at me not to ogle him—not in front of his mother. Oh my gosh, Maggie is his mother? Diesel Man is Maggie’s son?—and try to process this situation. But my body overrides the logic.

His body is a freaking playground.

Strong arms. A thick chest. Narrow waist.

He’s muscled and proportioned perfectly as if his strength comes from physical labor and not just hours at a gym.

Don’t drool, Megan.

His underwear hugs the lines of his thighs and gives a not-so-vague idea of what he’s packing between his legs.

I gulp. Lord, have mercy.

“Chase, meet your new nanny,” Maggie chirps.

Her words sling me back to reality.

No. No, no. no. This can’t be happening.

Chase doesn’t look at his mother. He doesn’t acknowledge that he hears a word she’s saying. Instead, he stares at me as if I’ve somehow overstepped my bounds.

“Megan, this is my son, Chase,” Maggie says as if she’s all too happy to make the introduction. “Kennedy’s dad.”

I gulp again. At the same time, my brain explodes with the weight of this information.

How is this possible?

How is Diesel Man the single dad?

Did he hear me say I thought he was hot?

I force a swallow down my very constricted throat.

Is Maggie going to put two and two together?

A silent wail echoes through my brain.

Kill me now. Someone, please put me out of my misery.

Chase lifts his chin, exposing the long lines of his throat. It’s entirely hotter than it should be, and I wonder somewhere in the back of my mind if he knows it and is doing it intentionally.

“A grumpy cat?” he asks, his brows lifting to the ceiling in displeasure mixed with surprise.

He heard me.

My cheeks flush as my conversation with Maggie replays in my head. Just as I’m about to excuse myself and flee, the corner of his lips twitch into a hint of a grin. It’s as if a button is pressed, and my shoulders fall.

“Yes, Chase,” I say, lifting a brow. “A grumpy cat.”

I grin, watching him try his best not to react to me. It’s a decent attempt. Too bad for him that I see right through it.

“Megan also said you were a total hottie,” Maggie says, nodding emphatically.

My cheeks burn from embarrassment. Guess she put it all together.

“Really, Maggie?” I ask.

“What?” she asks, her arms stretched out to her sides in a show of innocence. “You did say that, didn’t you?”

Chase crosses his arms across his chest. “Mother,” he says, his voice cool and calm. “Would you mind giving me a minute to get dressed?”

“Why are you standing in your skivvies anyway?” she asks.

He looks at her like he can’t believe they’re having this conversation. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not. We’ll be in the kitchen. Take your time, dear.”

I turn to leave the room when my gaze slams into Chase’s again. His eyes nearly burn holes into mine. They’re so intense—yet so absolutely unreadable—that I freeze.

The gold I saw in his icy greens last night reappear one fleck at a time. It brings a light to his face, a slight approachability, that I know how to work.