Hazel looks down at the list on her phone. “A red light.”
“Okay, Roxanne. You’re turning tricks now?”
“Har-har.” Stopping the cart, she stares at a shelf piled with several red lightbulbs and rosy-pink lamps. “It’s for feeding the babies at night.”
“Still not grasping the connection here.” I pick up a box that reads A Mother’s Warm Embrace. “Are you basking your beautiful, glorious, spellbinding breasts in a warm, rosy glow to make them enticing to suck on?”
Her mouth falls open. “I?—”
“Shit, sorry.” I put the box back on the shelf. “Didn’t mean to talk about your breasts like objects. And I also don’t want to assume you’re breastfeeding. I know that’s a personal choice.”
“Shush, Luke.” She darts a glance at the shusher, then decides she can scold me without it. “I’m still making up my mind about breastfeeding. My mother didn’t do it.”
“Huh.” Can’t say that surprises me.
“That’s maybe a point in favor of breastfeeding.” She nibbles her lip. “I’m hoping to have a closer relationship with my daughters.”
“You’re going to be a great mother no matter what you decide.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes pool with gratitude, then a faint spark of mischief. “Beautiful, glorious, spellbinding breasts, huh?”
Searching her face, I see no irritation. In fact, she looks flattered.
“Gotta be honest, babe.” Might as well run with it. “Your breasts are without a doubt the most perfect, stupendous, luscious mounds of flesh I’ve ever had the honor of touching. We’re talking gold-medal glorious breasts.”
“Really.” She sounds dry and disinterested, but that’s only a front. The spark in her eyes says she likes it.
“I’m not kidding. I can still picture them in my mind, and they’re divine. The perfect shape and size and texture.” God, I’m turning myself on now. “I’m serious, Hazel—you’ve got breasts other women would kill for. They are quite literally perfection.”
“Flatterer,” she mutters, but her voice ghosts out high and tight. She wants more, and I’m happy to give it to her.
“If somebody lined up one million pairs of breasts in a row, I could find yours with my eyes closed. Then I’d stand there worshiping them because honest to God, they’re magnificent. Majestic. Marvelous.” What’s another good M-word? “Mouthwatering.”
“Luke.” A delicate flush rolls up her throat to her cheeks. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“Why not? When people write poems about fair maidens’ bosoms, they’re imagining breasts just like yours. Angels weep, doves sing, and my dick gets instantly hard just remembering how it felt to touch you.”
Er, that might’ve been a step too far.
But her pupils flare as she licks her lips. “How do you do that?” she breathes.
“Do what?”
“Somehow manage to piss me off and turn me on all at once?”
“You’re turned on?” Because Christ, so am I. How did that happen here by a shopping cart loaded with baby gear?
“No,” she says softly, drawing a breath that sounds more like a gasp. “I—you—” She pauses, licking her lips again. “We can’t.” But she takes a step toward me, tipping her face up toward mine. “We shouldn’t.”
“Okay.”
“We promised we wouldn’t.”
“Okay.” Does she want me to argue?
“Kissing would be a terrible idea.”
“The worst.”
