God, that grin was so delicious. It didn’t even come with teeth, just a small pulling of his lips, and that was all it took to melt me.
He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, removing a piece of folded paper that he handed to me.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
I unfolded the paper, and inside was a drawing. Two exaggerated stick figures, the first a self-portrait of Ben semi-sitting on a couch, the other, me, kneeling in front of him, an oversize Fenway beside us. He even signed his name at the bottom. But it was the detail that captured me the most—the color of my hair, the design of my scrubs, the way he’d even remembered Fenway’s red collar.
I held the art against my chest. “I love it so much. Please thank him for me.” I refolded the drawing and carefully placed it into my scrubs pocket.
“He drew it this morning before school when I told him I was coming to see you. All on his own, I didn’t even tell him to. And he gave me strict instructions to make sure you got the drawing.” He laughed.
My eyes closed for a moment while I took this all in. “Best kid ever.”
“It’s his thank-you note for the cupcakes. You didn’t have to do that, but that gesture made my son so happy.”
“It’s no problem.” I shrugged. “Giving gifts is kinda my thing.”
“But it is a problem. After dinner wasn’t enough—he was asking to have one for breakfast too.” He smiled.
I laughed. “Did you let him have one?”
“Hell no.” He lifted his head, looking at me dead-on rather than through his lashes. “The last thing I need is his teacher calling, saying he’s on a sugar high and disrupting the whole class. My kid has enough energy he needs to get out. A cupcake for breakfast, he’d be bouncing from the floor to the ceiling.”
“Believe it or not, I can actually envision that.” My brow furrowed. “But did you have one? That’s the real question.”
“A cupcake?” When I nodded, he continued, “The night you delivered them I did, yeah.”
“Time for you to confess.” I grinned. “Are you a vanilla guy? Like your son?”
His chuckle was deep and breathy. “No. The cupcake was good ... but no.”
“If you’re not vanilla, what are you, then?”
He licked his lips. Very slowly. “We are talking about flavors, aren’t we?”
I wanted to strip this man naked and hurtle into his arms.
I drew in some air instead. “Of course.”
“Caramel, Oreo, chocolate, even peanut butter or coffee. I need a kick. Vanilla’s too plain for me.”
“Same.”
He nodded like he was listening to music. “I know you like a kick.”
With his gaze growing more intense, I was sure my face was getting redder by the second.
“Ha! You know nothing about me aside from the type of pizza I’ll eat—and that I’ll even eat pizza and that I’m not a fussy drinker.”
“Oh, I know a lot more than that.”
“Like what?”
“You really want to hear this?”
I didn’t need to think about his question, but I acted as though I did and finally responded, “I believe I do.”
