He offers them those easy smiles that split his face in two, crinkling up the corners of his eyes; and every time that he laughs, his fingers flex around my thigh, sending a bolt of heat up my spine. I meet his touch with my hand wrapped around the back of his neck, gently scratching at his skin, and every now and then I move my fingers up into his hair.
“The specific!” Macie shouts, getting frustrated that neither of us have guessed her word yet. “There’s sharks and,” she checks her card again for the list of taboo words, “turtles.”
“Finding Nemo?” Eric asks, and the little girl runs her hand over her face. “The aquarium!”
“No!” She shouts. “Thespecific!”
“Oh!” I slap my palms together. “Ocean!”
“Yes!” She throws the card down and runs past the table to wrap her arms around my neck, pulling a loud laugh out of me.
Eric picks the card up and practically doubles over with laughter of his own, the other adults joining in with him. “Darlin’, that’s thepa-cific.”
“Alright,” Emmett says, standing to grab a card of his own. “Move over, kid.” He turns to face his teammates - Colt and Rowan - and he flips the timer over, running through a series of hints while they shout out their guesses.
We play family-friendly games until it’s time for the younger kids to go to bed, which the older of the two puts up a fight about – a fight that she inevitably loses, carted off to her bedroom by Eric, followed closely by her parents.
I smile, watching the scene play out. The little girl beats her tiny, ineffectual hands against Eric’s back in protest while he carries her out of the living room and past where I can see them, but I can hear him laughing long after they’re gone from my sight.
Ilovehis laugh.
After what happened on the way here, hearing it is like a beacon of warmth and peace.
Hours more pass while the adults play games together, mostly dissolving into gossip, and where Eric is concerned, vulgar humor that has us all howling in laughter.
As the night winds down, all of the guys disappear into some far-off part of the house that I have no idea how any of them navigate, and I stay behind with Rowan to help pick up some of the dishes we’ve dirtied, carting them into the kitchen. I use my foot to open the dishwasher – probably not the most elegant thing to do when you’re in a mansion, but oh well – and I start loading them up.
“So what do you think of our little patchwork family?” Rowan asks as she reaches for some tupperware containers in a tall cabinet.
“You guys are great.”
“Good, because we like you too,” she says with a nod. “I expect to see you around more, then, you know. You have our big man child pretty smitten.”
“I don’t think I’d say—”
“Smitten,” she emphasizes. “Cloud nine, heart eyes, kissy face emoji, head over heels.”
I laugh, trying to ignore the blush heating my cheeks, while I drop the last of the plates into the dishwasher rack and close the door. “Thank you for having me tonight,” I tell her. “I had a lot of fun.”
“Here,” she says, grabbing one of the cell phones from the counter – I assume hers. She taps in a password and hands the phone to me. “Put in your number and we can text without the guys being around. Only so much we can say in front of all that testosterone, right?”
“Right.” I punch my information in and hand her phone back to her with a smile, offering my phone in return so she can give me hers.
“Alright, Sugar,” Eric says, stretching his back as he walks into the kitchen. “It’s past old man Fowler’s bedtime, we ought to haul off.”
He moves toward Rowan, sharing a hug with her that ends in a peck on the cheek, and he tells her that he loves her. It comes so easily for his family that I almost second-guess myself, and my own confession to him earlier tonight. I stuff the thought down with the confidence that I know what he’s been telling me. I knowhim.
As we walk out of the front door, heading for his Silverado, he bends down behind me and drapes his arms around my shoulders.
I smile under his warmth and ask him, “Your place or mine?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Davis
Sophia makes herself right at home when we walk into my apartment, setting her purse onto the sideboard near the door, and I follow with my keys like I always do. We walk through the living room and I stop at the coffee table in front of the couch to grab the TV remote.
“Leave it off,” she tells me, crossing her arms across her front to pull her sweater over her head. She walks backward toward my bedroom, unbuttoning her denim shorts, and she slides them down her legs, kicking them away from her. “You don’t need it.”
