I tilt my head at her. “Nothing to be dishonest about here. I love Poppy and Owen.”
She glances between us and looks hesitant. “Okay. Do either of you have any questions?”
“What’s going to happen with Sully?” Poppy asks.
“The state is filing charges for parental abandonment. The state recognizes that a minor took over the parental obligations, and we want to make note of that.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means he may owe restitution and have that on his record,” she says.
After she leaves, Poppy calls Weston and puts him onspeaker. We quickly fill him in on everything Monica said when she was here.
“That’s great,” Weston says. “I’m working on some paperwork on my end, too. We’re getting there.”
We thank him profusely before hanging up.
Owen crashes hard that night, exhausted in the way only happy kids get. I watch him sleep for a second longer than necessary before closing his door, thankful that they’re both here and safe.
Poppy’s exhausted, too. She’s in the shower, and I close my eyes and plop down on the couch, trying not to picture her in the shower. This is killing me.
She steps out, wrapped in a towel, and the image hits me anyway of the other morning. The split second where there was no towel, no warning, no space to look away fast enough. I remember everything. The smooth pale line of her skin. The curves she hides under denim and grease and layers meant to keep the world at arm’s length. The way my brain short circuited while my body very much did not.
I know what’s under there.
That knowledge sits heavy and relentless in my chest now, makes my pulse jump, makes the air feel thicker than it has any right to be. I drag my eyes up, force myself to focus on her face instead of the towel clutched tight at her middle.
I inwardly groan, because this is torture of the highest order.
So, I keep my hands to myself. I keep my expression neutral.
And I pretend the memory isn’t burning a hole straight through my self-control.
“Sorry, I forgot my clothes,” she murmurs as she steps into the bedroom and closes the door.
A few minutes later, the door opens and she comes back out wearing an off the shoulder T-shirt, the fabric slipping low on one side and baring a hint of collarbone. Soft gray sweats hangloose on her hips, worn thin and comfortable, like she didn’t bother changing for anyone but herself. Socks pad quietly across the floor as she crosses the room.
She looks beautiful and relaxed in a way she rarely lets herself be.
She sits next to me on the couch, close enough that our knees touch, and we turn toward each other like this is exactly where we’re meant to be.
“Tell me everything about your first day,” I say softly.
I reach for her feet and tug them gently into my lap. She doesn’t hesitate. Just lets me. I peel her socks off one by one, slowly and carefully, setting them aside before grabbing the lotion from the table next to us.
Her skin is warm under my hands as I start rubbing her feet, thumbs pressing into tired arches, working out the ache she’s been carrying since morning. She exhales, a quiet sound that tells me how long it’s been since anyone took care of her like this.
I keep my eyes on her face, the way her shoulders slowly drop, the tension easing bit by bit.
“Start at the beginning,” I murmur.
And as she does, talking softly, smiling more than she realizes, I think about how easy this feels. How natural. How dangerous that is.
She leans back and moans a little, which makes my cock go hard against her foot, and I know she has to feel it.
“I can’t tell you that while you’re doing this,” she says, leaning back, relaxed.
“Were you on your feet all day?” I ask, rubbing stronger.
