“Okay.” I’m skeptical that he will want to play with me and not just keep fussing and whining for Mallory but I’m willing to try.
I sit on the floor with him and grab some of his toys. There’s a precarious moment where he ignores me and his head stays turned to the kitchen. But then, he turns to me and I hold up his favorite giraffe stuffie and he happily wraps his chubby hands around it, pulls it to him, and bites the head. I pick up the hippo stuffie and make it dance on the carpet in front of him and he giggles. Wildly. I made my son giggle and not cry and I might as well have scored a game-winning Stanley Cup goal because I feelthatelated.
I don’t know how much time passes, but suddenly I hear Mallory say, “Dinner is served.”
I look up and see her watching Dylan and me and the look on her face hits me like a hammer to the chest. It’s so soft and sweet and her smile could power the freaking hockey rink it’s so bright. God, she’s gorgeous. “You look beautiful right now.”
There. I said it. And the weird part is I said it without expecting anything. Usually, I compliment women in the throes of it. Like we're half naked already or well on our way to naked. I have an objective in mind and it's selfish. But tonight I said it only because I wanted Mallory to know how I felt.
She blushes and it makes her even more beautiful. “Get up here and eat,” she mutters, still smiling. “And bring your son.”
“Come on, son,” I say and lift Dylan. This time he squirms and lets out a squeak of protest. “I’m going to tell myself it’s just because you were really into the hippo dance moves and not take it personally.”
Mallory lets out a laugh. I put Dylan in his chair, which still freaks me out a little because it's just bars on the table holding him up. I need to get him a real highchair, even though Mallory swears these things are safe. I sit down across from Dylan and Mallory sits beside him and places some cut-up veggies and meat on a plate in front of him with a bottle of water.
We eat together, sitting down properly, for the first time since they got here and it feels really nice. Great, even. Mallory asks me what I like about living in Los Angeles and I go on and on about the weather the people the beaches and the way the town makes me feel, which is something I haven't told anyone. "There's this vibe in Los Angeles," I explain between mouthfuls of the best couscous I've ever eaten. "The whole town is buzzing with hopes and dreams, you know? And everyone who comes here wakes up every morning thinking their world could change at any second."
"Because they might be discovered and become the next superstar or because an earthquake could shake us right into the ocean?" Mallory asks me and she's dead serious.
“Both. But mostly the first thing.” I grin and then stop to drink some water. “The first earthquake is terrifying, not going to lie, but somehow you get used to them.”
“I don’t think I will.”
I smile. “I said the same thing and now, three years of occasional tremors and I don’t even blink.”
She doesn’t look convinced so I reach across the table and lay my hand over hers. “If there’s a quake, I’ll protect you. And Dyllie Bear, obviously.”
Her eyes light up. “You’ve started calling him Dyllie Bear too.”
“I’m not a huge fan of nicknames,” I admit with a sheepish grin. “Tater Tot still haunts me, but he does look like a little bear. And he certainly shits like a bear.”
She laughs and Dylan slaps the table like he thinks it's funny too. I grin, and for the first time in a long time, it's not forced or tinged with trepidation. In this little moment, I feel like maybe I've got this.
The rest of the night we clean up together bathe Dylan together and get him ready for bed. Then I ask Mallory if she wants to watch some Netflix with me and she, thankfully, says yes. While I pull it up on the TV she is in the kitchen and comes out with the most amazing-looking parfaits. "The dessert I promised. And I made them as health-conscious as possible."
She slips onto the couch beside me, and since it’s the one we fooled around on earlier I slide right over when I take the parfait from her so we’re touching. She doesn’t seem to mind. We both changed after Dylan went down. She’s in a lacy cotton tank top and some matching capri pajama bottoms. She looks sweet yet sultry all at the same time. I’m in my pajama bottoms and an old wrinkled concert T-shirt Tenley got me for Christmas as a joke. She always gets me bands or artists I would never go see because it makes her laugh. This one is a vintage Spice Girls European Tour shirt from nineteen ninety-nine.
I take one bite of the dessert and groan. “This is amazing. How can this be healthy?”
“Well, healthy might be a stretch, but it’s got lots of protein and is as fat-free as possible,” Mallory tells me. I watch her lift the spoon to her lips and into her mouth and I think about how my dick was her last treat. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment too, like they did when she was giving me head.
“What do you want to watch on Netflix?” I ask, and my voice is deeper than normal. I clear my throat and shovel more parfait into my mouth to distract myself from the hormones pinging around my insides like a ball in a pinball machine.
"Umm… I like rom-coms," she confesses and I roll my eyes. "And that's the exact reaction I expected. You pick it, tough guy. Something with no emotions and a lot of explosions I'm guessing."
“Sounds right,” I admit and scroll down to the action list. “How about this one with The Rock.”
"I actually don't mind The Rock," Mallory says as she puts her empty parfait dish on the coffee table. Then her eyes read the title and she slaps my chest with the flat of her hand. "No way! Tate Garrison, you are a jerk!"
“What?” I blink at her feigning innocence. “We can call it research.”
“I am not watching an earthquake action movie set in Los Angeles,” she barks and hits me again, only this time I grab her hand. “It’s tempting fate!”
“Well, then if you don’t want to watch the movie, we’ll have to do something else,” I say. Her hand still in mine, I move it to rest on my thigh. Her hazel eyes flicker with heat and then they leave my face and land on my shirt.
“If you were a Spice Girl you’d be Scary,” she whispers. “Because you scare me to death sometimes, Tate.”
I lean in, ghosting my lips against the side of her neck before pulling back and smiling at her. “You’d be Dream Spice. Because every time I watch you come it’s like a dream I don’t want to wake up from.”
