My heart stopped.
Thankfully, my feet missed the memo and kept moving. I reached the open doorway to find a man, impossibly broad-shouldered and perfect, wearing a not-torn blue uniform shirt that clung to his chest like a sports bra on a size-D tennis player.
Pecs and nipples were visible.
The headlights were on bright.
I couldn’t look away.
“Hey there, princess,” Jeremiah said to Debbie, his voice warm and familiar, like a grandmother’s blanket, handed down through generations of love and fabric softener. He reached out and tousled her already messy hair, just like he had that first day, his large hand gentle against her small head. “How’s my favorite pasta expert?”
Debbie giggled, preening under the attention. “Daddy and I were dancing! Want to see?”
“Absolutely.” His face lit up like a Las Vegas sign. “I love to dance.”
I became aware I was still slightly out of breath from our impromptu session, my cardigan askew. I was pretty sure I had flour on my cheek, and I likely smelled like the chaos that was currently my kitchen.
“Maybe later,” I said, placing a hand on Debbie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go clean up for dinner? It’s almost ready.”
That was a lie. The boiling water had probably evaporated—sans pasta—but I needed an excuse to face Jeremiah without prying eyes. I didn’t quite know why, but I felt it.
That’s when I noticed the package in his hand—small, rectangular, wrapped in brown paper that looked far too fancy to be from any delivery service I knew.
And there wasn’t a shipping label.
I looked closer.
There was definitely no label.
Jeremiah’s expression did something complicated.
“Hey you,” he said. His eyes landed on me, flitted away, returned, then fled again. He looked nervous, which was odd. He was a delivery guy. He was delivering a package. Nerves weren’t part of the gig.
“Hi,” I managed back.
He looked even better than I remembered. His uniform was perfectly pressed, his blond hair catching the afternoon light likea halo in one of those medieval religious tapestries, and when he smiled at me, I forgot how to breathe.
“I, uh,” he started, holding up the package. “I brought you something. To replace the, um, the pasta thing from last week.”
My face went nuclear. Like seriously. Redder than red. Lava from a Hawaiian island-producing volcano red. Okay, fine, technically lava wasn’t red, but it was really hot, and that’s exactly how I felt. On my face. And neck. And arms. And chest.
Damn it. Everywhere.
“Oh, you didn’t have to—”
“What is it?” Debbie interrupted, reappearing a blur of unruly hair and disheveled pajamas. She bounced on her toes to see over the package. “Is it another Willie Wee? Can I open it? Pleeeeeeeeeeeease?”
I wanted to slam the door, crawl under the couch, and die.
Jeremiah’s face went slightly pink, but he was grinning as he held the package toward me. “It’s definitely not a Willie Wee, but itisfor making pasta. Real pasta this time, not the whoopie pasta from before.”
Before I could protest or even properly take hold of the proffered box, Debbie had somehow launched herself up and snatched the package from between us like some kind of tiny, demented pirate.
“Willie Wee! Willie Wee! Willie Wee!” she declared, tearing at the brown paper with the enthusiasm of a starving hyena who’d just found dinner.
“Debbie, wait—” I started, but she was already halfway to the living room, the package clutched against her chest.
Which left Jeremiah and me standing in the doorway, staring at each other.
