Empty.
Before the panic can even form, I spin toward my room.
And there she is.
Lore is sitting against the headboard, hair messy from sleep, shirt pushed up, nursing our daughter like she does every morning.
“Hey,” she whispers when she sees me. “Sorry… she was crying, and I didn’t want to mess up her feeding.”
I glance back down the hallway to make sure Milo isn’t wandering in, then close the door halfway.
Lore shifts, gently detaching Agnes. “I’m done,” she murmurs, and passes our daughter into my waiting hands. “Burp her?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice embarrassingly low.
I pat her shoulder in a lame attempt at casual… but my eyes betray me instantly.
Because Jesus Christ.
My wife’s bare breasts are right there.
For the first time in almost a year.
And they’re exactly as I remember. Actually, better. Fuller from breastfeeding, soft, unreal. My mouth literally dries.
And these are absolutelynotthoughts a man should have while his tiny daughter is draped over his shoulder, letting out a monstrous belch.
Agnes lets out a second one, louder.
Lore snorts softly. “Just like her daddy.”
“Not funny,” I mutter, shifting the baby and trying and failing to stop staring like a creep.
Lore smiles down at her shirt, pulling the fabric back into place. “You gonna survive over there?”
No. Not even a little.
But I force a shrug. “Totally.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lorelie
Shaking the water from my boots, I close the front door behind me.
God, we really need to sort out that stupid garage. And then I roll my eyes at myself because I say that every single time it rains and I have to sprint from my car to the front door like some drowned cat.
I turn around and stop dead.
Genesis is standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, foot tapping. “And where wereyou, young lady?”
I make a face and shoulder past her into the kitchen.
“Hello,” she says, trailing behind me like a shadow with opinions.
I pour myself some coffee. “You know where I was.”
She smirks. “Withyoung Patrickagain. I hope he has good intentions.”
