“—and then I’m gonna build the biggest fort ever withallthe couch cushions, and maybe I’ll catch seventeen butterflies, or maybe just three because seventeen might be too many for one jar, and oh! I need to finish coloring my picture of the dragon princess who has purple hair like a mermaid but prettier, and—”
I pulled eggs from the refrigerator and began cracking them into a bowl. The familiar rhythm of cooking grounded me and washed away the last vestiges of sleep. I reached for the whisk, the metal cool against my palm.
Debbie’s prattling stilled. And then—
“Daddy, are you using the Willie Wee to stir the eggs?” Debbie asked, pointing at the whisk with barely contained giggles. “The mailman said it works great for mixing things.”
My hand stilled.
Willie Wee.
What could Ipossiblysay in response to that name?
My mind spiraled backward, to my front door, to ripped fabric and sun-kissed skin and eyes that seemed to see right through me. My dream returned, minus Cuddles and her death-defying chase, minus the package and confusion of the wrong address. All I could see was Jeremiah, his torn shirt, and the perkiest nipples ever to grace a man-boob.
Jeremiah.
And the way he’d looked at me like . . . like what?
Like I was something worth looking at?
“Daddy?” Debbie’s voice snapped me back to the present. “You’re making a funny face, like when you have to poop but it won’t come out. Do you need to potty? Please don’t poop while you’re making pancakes.”
I blinked, realizing I’d been frozen, whisk in hand, staring at nothing.
“Sorry, kiddo. I was . . . just thinking about . . . breakfast.” I began whisking the eggs with the vigor of a pissed-off lesbian in the return aisle at Home Depot.
The batter came together smoothly, and soon I had the first pancake sizzling in the pan. The familiar sounds of breakfast—oil popping, Debbie’s endless chatter—should have kept me in the moment. She’d moved on from fort-building to a detailedexplanation of why chocolate chips were better than blueberries (“because chocolate is happy food and blueberries are just okay food”), and then somehow to her latest crayon masterpiece.
“I drew a picture of you and me and Mr. Biscuits yesterday, but I made Mr. Biscuits purple because regular cat colors are boring. Do you think cats can be purple in real life? Maybe if they eat too many grapes?”
Instead of focusing on grape-gnawing felines, my mind again wandered back to the way Jeremiah’s shoulders had filled the doorframe, how his torn shirt had revealed the solid plane of his chest, how his short blond hair had caught the afternoon light.
And that smile.
God, that smile when he’d crouched down to Debbie’s level, his whole face transforming from apologetic to genuinely delighted . . . the way he’d listened to her chatter about her drawings like it was the most important conversation in the world.
When was the last time someone had looked at my daughter—at both of us—with such genuine warmth?
Everyone loved Debbie. Her “adorable level” was off the charts, especially when her dimpled smile turned up the wattage to blinding levels.
But Jeremiah smiled at me, too.
Or had I just imagined that?
He didn’t really have a reason to. Sure, he was technically working, and he thought I was a customer. Maybe he smiled at all his delivery recipients like that. He seemed like a friendly guy.
A friendly guy covered in muscles.
Slathered in muscles.
Drenched in muscles.
I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.
Fine. He was hot.
And with his shirt ripped and hanging open no matter how hard he tried to grip it closed?
