“Can I get you something to drink?” Hazel moves past me and leans on the window ledge. “I swear the heat’s getting worse in here.”
All the blood leaves my brain as she bends over in front of me to open the window. Those tiny gray shorts ride up the backs of her thighs, revealing a scrumptious expanse of bare flesh.
“I’m not thirsty.” Not unless we mean thirsty in a colloquial way.
“Let me know if you change your mind. I have La Croix in six different flavors, plus freshly squeezed orange juice. That’s something else I’ve been craving.”
“You don’t say.” Tearing my gaze off her ass, I survey the crib parts. “Okay, what are we working with here?” I peer at the crib box and frown. “I thought you were joking about the Portuguese.”
Hazel sits on the floor and reclaims her tots. She pops one in her mouth and chews as I drop down beside her on the carpet. “When have you known me to joke?”
“When you referred to me as the mixer of batter for the bun in your oven.” I know she’s had other zingers. “When you made that joke about conception not occurring when somebody’s down on their knees.”
She snickers and stuffs in another tot. “You put it in me.”
“What?”
“Ugh.” She squeezes her eyes shut, still chewing a tater tot. “I meant, ‘you bring it out in me.’ I swear these babies are sucking my brain cells through a tiny straw.”
Chuckling, I pick up a smooth length of railing, turning it over in my hands. “What kind of wood is this, anyway? Feels like some sort of pine.”
“Brazilian pine, sustainably sourced.” She watches me stroking the wood, biting her lip as she stares. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got great hands.”
“How would I take that the wrong way?”
“I don’t know. Like I’m objectifying you or something.”
“Objectify all you want.” Flexing my fingers, I watch her cheeks go a bit pinker. “My sister says we should do one of those newborn photo shoots where I’m cradling the baby in my hands. Probably couldn’t pull it off with two of ‘em at once, though.”
“I think you could do it.” Her voice sounds breathy and high. “Twins tend to be small, and your hands are really, really, really big.” Her throat clicks as she swallows a bite. “That’s just a clinical observation.”
“Observe, objectify—any other O things you want to do to me?”
Hazel’s eyes flash. “Uh?—”
“Shit, I didn’t mean it like that.” She thought I meant oral, didn’t she? “I was thinking more like—” My mind goes blank as I fumble for more O verbs.
“Oblige?” she suggests. “Obey?”
“Um.” I get distracted watching Hazel lick salt from her fingers. “Sure.”
“Overwhelm, overflow, overcome…lots of great words start with O.”
“Right.” I go back to scanning the crib parts, since that feels safer than contemplating my new favorite letter of the alphabet. Less chance of touching Hazel when I’m gripping two thick hunks of wood. The pieces are well made, but there are a lot of them. “How’d you choose these cribs anyway?”
“They’re supposed to be the nicest ones money can buy.”
“Huh.” Gripping a smooth length of pine, I position it near the railing it’s meant to connect to. “You know, I might have liked the chance to build these by hand without a kit. I’ve done a fair bit of woodworking. Woulda been nice to make a real heirloom piece for the girls.”
Hazel blinks. “I had no idea.” She looks down at the wood in my hands. “I can donate these to charity and let you create something instead.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got plans to do something else at my place.”
“Right. I forget sometimes we’ll have two different nurseries. That feels strange.”
“Yeah.” At least I’m not the only one. I focus on figuring out how the crib parts fit together. “These are really sturdy. Could you toss me the instructions?”
“They’re in Portuguese,” she reminds me, handing them over. “I’ve got an app on my phone that can translate the?—”
