Something that makes me wonder how I’ll keep from throwing myself at him during these next few months.
* * *
It seems allmy worry about falling for the Sexiest Man Alive is for nothing.
You can’t fall for someone you never see, sexy or otherwise. Ronan has barely been home since I moved in over two weeks ago.
Every morning, I wake up a bundle of nerves about seeing him. I spend thirty minutes on makeup, only to wash it off again because I’m hopeless at anything besides mascara and a slick of gloss. Then I practice calmly and casually making morning small talk.
I can’t get over the idea that I might get to see Ronan Masters at breakfast. So, every morning, I show up in the kitchen, and…nothing.
On the first morning, he left me a note saying he had an early 5:00 a.m. call. He left detailed instructions on bedtimes, routines, and emergency information. He even listed a local doctor, the number for the hospital, and Belle’s blood type. I’m impressed by his organized thoroughness.
But then I remember his stringent workout and nutrition routine posted on the fridge and how his personal items are never out of order in the house. Beneath his quiet exterior, I suspect he’s a control freak, which I find hot, in a master-of-his-domain sort of way.
For almost two weeks, the trend of disappearing dad continues.
He’s up before I am in the morning and home after I go to bed. We communicate via notes on the kitchen table.
I doodle on mine.
He doesn’t.
He leaves spending money for incidentals.
I leave baked goods.
Belle leaves sweet notes and paintings we create together, telling him about all the things we do with our days. She tells him about how we’re baking our way through the101 Holiday Cookie Recipeswe found at a used book sale. About how Mr. Nguyen and Mrs. Peel from the senior center pretend to hate each other, but we think they are secretly in love. And about how much she likes being the star student when I take her to my art classes.
He writes her back with his own attempts at drawing that make us laugh and make my ovaries quiver, just a little.
He calls Belle every night to say good night.
And we text throughout the day. I share anecdotes and photos of us at home and around town. He shares updates from the set.
Despite the communication, Belle misses him more and more each day. In my mind, he’s gone from Hottest Dad Ever to Dissapearing Dad. Belle tries to keep up happy appearances, but I see the look in her eyes when it’s just me reading her a bedtime story. She had a meltdown last night when we couldn’t find her stuffed puppy Biscuit, and I know it’s not just her puppy she’s upset about.
I remind myself that it’s not my business. He knew his shooting schedule would be intense, which is why he hired me. But I admit to myself, it’s not just Belle who wishes he were here.
Luckily, keeping busy distracts me. So when Belle’s asleep, I try to catch up on my painting. And baking. Which is why, at 11:00 p.m. on a Friday night, I find myself perching on a step stool to reach the muffin pans for my next midnight baking session. Tonight, I’m making banana nut muffins.
I reach for the top shelf above the stove. Strong arms come around me.
“Eeeep!”
Large hands grip my waist, and I’m plucked from the stool and set on the floor as if I weigh no more than a toddler. Which is definitely not the case.
“Ronan!” I breathe.
My heart races in surprise that he appeared in the kitchen just as I was thinking of him, as if I conjured him up from one of my many daydreams.
Long blond hair falls around his razor slice of a jaw. His eyes are softened by faint lines of fatigue bracketing them. And the set of his shoulders, rounded slightly, is so unlike his usual stance. There’s a bone-deep weariness to him. A Nordic warrior returned from a long battle, needing the arms of a good woman to welcome, soothe, and make him believe in home. I volunteer as tribute!
“You’re going to kill yourself on that stool.” His low growl skates across my nerve endings. Equal parts soft and steel, it turns my stomach to quivering jelly.
“You’re home!” I exclaim. Okay, it’s closer to a squeal. It’s squeal-adjacent. I force myself to be too-cool-for-school, as the elementary kids say.
“The muffin tins won’t get down from the cupboard by themselves. It’s not my fault this house was designed for giants like you,” I say tartly. But I can’t hold back my wide smile.
