“This was faster.”
I peel my sleeping girl from her nanny and tuck her head onto my own shoulder. The warm weight of her settles me the rest of the way. Without another word, I descend the stairs to her bedroom, change her into fresh pajamas, and cover her with her blanket all without waking her.
For a moment, I take in her stillness. The peace on her sleeping face. The pink juice mustache and red mouth. The matted, tangled curls. This night could have ended a hundred different ways, not all of them good. I knew that when I let them go. I also feel it in my gut that there’s only one person to thank for taking care of my little girl.
Leaving the hall light on in case she wakes, I jog up the steps two at a time. The kitchen is empty, and the snacks on the table are untouched.
A nervous jolt tightens my gut.
I sweep them all in my arms and begin a search.
“Ms. Thompson?”
“I’m in here,” she calls back quietly from the living room.
As I round the corner, her head pops up from the couch, easing some of my increasing tension.
“These fucking shoes are killing me.” How she can see beyond the mass of tulle is beyond me. The dress seems to swallow her whole. She lifts one knee to her chest and fiddles with the dainty straps. “The buckles are so damn tiny.”
Depositing my armful of loot on the coffee table, I sit beside it. The wood creaks ominously beneath my ass.
“Did you eat anything on the way?”
“Not yet.”
I pull out my phone and open the CGM app. “You’re at 71.”
“I’ve got it. I had some juice before we left.”
Worry pulls the corners of my lips down. I glance at the numbers again. “You’re trending down.”
“Fuck!” She capitulates to the tiny straps.
I brush her hands away. “Your fingers are shaking. Let me help.”
She leans up on her elbows and sends me a glare, presumably at my demanding tone. “Can you grab my glucometer from the car?”
The question barely leaves her mouth before I’m out the door to retrieve her supplies. I wait patiently while she verifies her blood sugar.
She grimaces. “It’s 62.”
Finding her ankle buried in the mountain of lace, I encircle it and tug, bringing her foot to my thigh. Her skin is soft and warm beneath my fingertips. I have to fight to keep my palm still and not trace up the back of her calf. “Pick a snack.”
“Can you hand me the juice box and a pack of fruit snacks?”
“Anything else?” I ask as I hand them over, eyeing her as if she’s about to give me a real emergency to deal with.
“Not yet.” She unwraps the straw and stabs it into the metallic circle. In five seconds, she sucks the entire juice box flat, then tosses the empty packaging onto the table. “You’re staring.”
Her voice brings me back to my body, reminding me I’m still clutching her foot, and her heel is still on. I quickly unhook the buckle and peel the shoe off. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman that the simple act of removing her shoes affects me in ways I’d rather not think about. “Sorry.”
“Like my party trick, Officer Sunny?”
Avoiding her eyes, I pick up her other foot. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen someone suck something so vigorously.”
“That’s a damn shame.”
Only when I drop her second shoe on my hardwood floors do I realize what I said. What it sounded like. The unintentionalinnuendo sends blood rushing to my cheeks and to my dick. Both unseen in the cover of darkness.
