Mara laughed. “Jack, it’s fine. I let my kids figure out when they’re done. Aspen was done at eleven months. He was too busy to sit and eat, and I can’t run around with a boob out.”
I laughed a little too loud and a little too hard. Why did it suddenly feel so hot in my kitchen? Was the thermostat acting up? It wasn’t the breastfeeding that was the issue. It was that I couldn’t stop thinking about Mara’s boobs, and I knew it was the wrong time to do that. This was entirely a me problem and not a Mara problem.
Was there an appropriate time to think about her boobs? Probably not.
“You know what? I’ll have some milk too.”
“From the tap?” Mara asked, pushing her shoulder forward to imply her breast was the tap.
I choked on my own spit and Mara cackled. I turned my back and with fumbly hands, I filled a glass with milk and finished filling a plate with food. I slammed the refrigerator door so hard it teetered like it’d fall down.
I wasn’t lying. I really do believe breastfeeding, chestfeeding, whatever the hell if you wanna tie a bottle to your armpit for all I care, is great. Normal. Fine. Do it if you want. Don’t do it if you don’t want. Fed is best. All that.
The problem was that this woman who was saved in the secret folder on my phone had her breasts out at my kitchen island and I was very certain they were wonderful breasts. I knew it was wrong to make her feel ogled when she was just feeding her kid.
Whatever you do, do not look at her breasts.
God, now where was I going to sit? Based on her position at the island, if I sat too far away it would be weird, like I was trying to avoid them.
So I sat right next to them.
Mara was already switching sides, meaning Hazel’s head was almost in my lap.
Totally. Fine.
I tried so fucking hard to mind my goddamn business and just eat my food, but I could feel Hazel’s eyes on me.
“You watching Mr. Jack?” Mara cooed.
Hazel was so fucking cute and I’m not a monster. I couldn’t help but entertain her.
“Hi, little girl,” I said, resisting the urge to swipe some of that downy strawberry-blonde hair off her forehead.
With a wide smile and a chuckle, Hazel popped off Mara’s breast.
And suddenly, my arm was getting sprayed by breastmilk.
“Oh, oh, shit, oh, no,” Mara said, trying to get Hazel back on. “Sorry, this side’s kind of a firehose once it gets going. Bit of a sprayer.”
I reached for a paper napkin off the counter and almost put it on Mara’s beautiful berry-colored nipple myself, but realized that was a bad idea and threw the napkin at it like it was a spider that startled me. “I’m trying not to look! Or touch you! But I’m trying to be helpful!” I yelped. “How can I help?”
And she wasn’t kidding about the firehose comment. The side of my dress shirt had a dotted line of breastmilk across it, and my arm was almost dripping. Hazel thought this whole scene was hysterical, laughing like I was doing some slapstick comedy bit.
Mara seemed to be holding back a laugh. “Just go change your shirt. Never expected you to be such a gentleman, Jack Leroy. Sorry I drenched you.”
“No, you have no reason to apologize. It’s just?—”
Mara was tittering, her face red. “You were so cute trying to fix it.”
“I’m not cute,” I said, affronted. Our eyes met, and then we both let it loose, laughing in that breathless way where you’re not sure if you’ll die from laughing. She was gorgeous, having an authentic belly laugh—and sharing it with me.
“Well,” she said as she recovered, “at least we got that out of the way.”
I started unbuttoning my shirt and standing to go change. Jace, Harper, and Aspen scurried into the room all ready for bed, Aspen even dressed in a pair of Harper’s pajamas. “Can we do the sleepover?”
I looked over at Mara. “Your call.”
Mara smirked next to me. “Sure!”
