“Yes, thank you.”
I watched as she painted carful strokes of polish over my buffed toes and my thoughts drifted to Greyson again.
The longer he came over to our place, the more normal it had felt. At first, I'd only let him play with Maple while I watched, eagle-eyed, skeptical that a never-married soldier boy could handle a toddler. But eventually I let his duties expand: feeding her at dinner, brushing her hair, wiping her face, entertaining her while I relaxed in a hot bath. And in return, our routine expanded to include him. I started taking it for granted that he'd show up twice a week, like clockwork, bearing dinner and a few precious hours of respite.
Before I knew it, three weeks had passed. Six visits. Dozens of deli boxes of mac 'n cheese for all of us, countless bedtime stories and peekaboo games for Maple...and then, at last, one bottle of Merlot. For me.
This arrangement wasn't supposed to be about me. The only way I could swallow my pride and let myself accept Grey's help was by making it all about Maple. Her learning to say his name had been the straw that broke my back. Oh, screw it, I'd thought, Maple likes the bastard for some reason, and I shouldn't deprive her of a father figure just because she's got terrible taste in men. She deserved a better childhood than the one I could give her on my own. And it was only for a little while, just until I could get on my feet. I furiously denied that my choice had anything to do with Grey himself—his handsome face, his broad shoulders and tight ass, his gentle but firm insistence on taking care of us. The most I'd ever admit was how refreshing it was to talk with someone who knew more than three words.
So I'd let him into our life. We didn't talk directly to each other much, apart from quick questions like “where's the paper towels?” But the atmosphere was still comfortably domestic. I'd never expected to feel that way again. With any man, let alone Greyson fucking Archer.
I almost wished I could feel more awkward. I was practically playing house with my husband's executioner. So why did the sight of him bring a smile to my face and loosen the tension in my shoulders? He made me feel like everything was going to be okay. Even though he'd been the one who made my life not-okay in the first place.
But when he brought the wine and Chinese takeout, I'd been shocked to find my pride still dormant. It all seemed so...natural. This was just the next step, something that came as easily as exhale followed inhale.
Usually Grey showed himself out as soon as Maple's bedtime rolled around—or I kicked him out. But late night, while Maple slept, we'd lingered together. Less than an hour on my ratty sofa. No big deal, I'd convinced myself. After almost a month of visits, Greyson was something like a friend, and friends shared a glass of wine all the time. Right? And I hadn't exactly been nice to him up until that point. I'd figured I should stop freezing him out and try to meet him halfway.
And then...
I had no idea what the hell had happened. One moment, we'd been sitting at a polite distance, and then we were kissing. And it happened again at the door—so much more than a chaste goodbye kiss. Just the memory made heat flutter between my thighs. His erection had ground into me and I had responded so shamelessly, rubbing against him. I hadn't felt like that in years. Like a real live woman. Like when I danced on stage, flying free, music flowing vibrant through my veins—only so much better. I'd almost forgotten that my body could bring me such pleasure.
But dammit, why did it have to be with him? How could I let myself do that? All the guilt and confusion I'd felt about Grey playing father to Maple...now it was a hundred times worse. I was cheating on Marcus's memory.
Now that he'd touched me, though, I couldn't stand the idea of never feeling him again. Our little makeout session had been more than hot—it had felt right. I couldn't deny that Grey woke me up in ways that I'd thought were long dead. Buried right along with Marcus. Even now, I wanted him.
So what the hell was I going to do? Could I bring myself to nip this in the bud? Or...
I tried to clear my head and focus on the pedicure. It almost worked.
*
When I returned, the table was full – a steaming plate of hot dogs, a bowl of baked beans, and a salad for two. Grey was in the process of wrangling Maple into her high chair. Her pink princess plate was already on the tray and loaded with a cut-up hot dog and a dollop of beans.
“You made this?” I asked as I took off my shoes.
His mouth quirked. “What, you think a grown man can't cook hot dogs?”