“Well, if someone made a movie about killer chickens, it would be terrifying. All of that clucking and those icy little stares.” He kisses the back of my neck as I serve his breakfast. Goose bumps break out on my arms, and I drop my head to the side as he nibbles his way to my ear. “But I’d protect you from those scary-ass birds.”
I want to laugh again, but it’s hard when his mouth is on my skin, so all I do is mumble something unintelligible.
“How much longer before the baby wakes up?” he growls in my ear before he pushes me against the counter and presses himself to my rear.
“Hmm.” I can’t think. I just tilt my head back until it rests on his chest. His hand slides under my shirt and palms my breast. I arch against his erection and contemplate stripping naked in the kitchen when the baby starts babbling on the monitor.
“Seriously?”
I laugh again. “Get used to it, big guy.” Turning in his arms, I lean up to kiss him. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I snuggle close and let his mouth ravish mine.
I feel it too. The urgency to be closer. To forget all of the heartache that’s hung over this farm for the last several weeks and just be together before he goes back to Boston.
Finally, I break away, a little out of breath. “Good morning to you too.” I straighten my shirt and glance down at his tented sweat pants.
He groans and drops his head to my shoulder. I thread my fingers through his hair, loving that he wants me like this. “How about we grab a quickie when she goes down for her nap?”
His laughter rumbles in my ear. “I like how you think.”
Unfortunately, we don’t get time for a quickie.
When Izzy goes down for her nap, Brady has to take a conference call from one of his contractors in Boston. When he gets off the call, I’m making dinner. In between all of that we're cleaning the house for the social worker's visit tomorrow, which forces us to brave going into Cal and Mel’s bedroom to figure out how to organize their belongings. It’s rough, but with Brady by my side, we somehow get through it.
And when I collapse in bed at night, exhausted and emotionally drained, he’s right there to hold me tight. Almost like he needs the contact as much as I do.
40
Brady
It feels wrong to have this meeting before I've broken the news to my parents that I'm adopting Izzy, but today is the only opening the social worker has for five weeks, and I don't think I should wait. Kat keeps telling me to relax, that it's not official until the late January court date, but I know I need to have that conversation as soon as possible.
But my father’s heart surgeon warned me privately that I shouldn’t drop any bombs on my dad until his next doctor’s appointment, so I’ve just assured my parents that I’ve spoken to our attorney about adoption and gotten the paperwork rolling. I need to tell them soon, though. For my own sanity.
My nerves are shot. Between going through Cal’s bedroom last night and worrying about the adoption process and my family’s finances, I could use a time out.
Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, I watch Mrs. Gonzalez, the social worker, as she scribbles on her form.
Kat places a cup of coffee next to the woman and returns to her seat next to me at the kitchen table. I hold Izzy, who munches on a banana.
The older woman waves her pen toward us. “So you and the baby live here by yourself with Ms. Duran?”
I'm suddenly worried about how to explain our situation. Do I say Kat's my employee or do I explain that we're… We're what? Dating? After I gave Kat that whole song and dance about how this has to stay casual, it seems wrong to use that term now. Even though, yeah, I'm enjoying the time we spend together. Way more than any other woman I've dated.
But Kat once again comes to the rescue. “I'm the nanny. I knew Brady's brother and sister-in-law so I've come to help until Brady can get on his feet.”
Mrs. Gonzalez nods and begins writing again. “That's kind of you.”
“What are friends for?” She catches my eye and winks, and just like that, the worry in my gut starts to wane.
I smile back, so grateful for this girl. She looks completely relaxed as she helps me field the questions, and within ten minutes, she and Mrs. Gonzalez are chatting in Spanish. I have no clue what they're saying, but judging by how the social worker turns to me several times to smile, I'm guessing it's going well.
A few minutes later, she asks to take a tour of the house that ends up taking all of three minutes, and then she's out the door.
Kat, Izzy and I stand on the porch and watch the Honda Civic tear down the driveway.
“That was fast,” I mumble as I peek at the clock on my phone. “She was here, what, forty minutes? What if I was a psycho? What if I collected my nail clippings in a little jar or made voodoo dolls out of hair? Shouldn't she suss that out?”
Kat snorts. “You can be really weird sometimes.” She rolls her eyes. “Mrs. Gonzalez liked you and how you were with Izzy. Said you seemed like a hard worker.”