Raffi
I’m walking on air as we make our way back to Apollo’s SUV in the parking lot. So much so that I take my life in my hands and pull my firecracker flush against my chest and start singing at her.
Under my Skin by Nate Smith is the first song that comes to mind, and I croon it softly while we shuffle back and forth.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She’s clearly never been romanced, and that’s so far from being okay. She’s the mother of my kid. Sure, I’ve been an unknowingly absent father for the first two years of the kid’s life, but that’s about to change.
At the end of the day, she carried him, birthed him, and took care of him at great personal cost. She told me over dinner that she changed her degree to go into something that would set her up for a quicker income than what she originally planned to do.
While she was in the bathroom I messaged Apollo and asked him if there are any paid photography gigs going either for the team or any of his family businesses. She’ll kill me if she ever finds out I asked, but it’s the least I can do.
“I’m dancing with you in the parking lot, Firecracker.”
“But someone might see.” She glances over her shoulder, and I can’t stop the chuckle rumbling through my chest.
“You’re fine being fingered next to my car in the parking lot, but heaven forbid someone sees us dancing like this?”
For a hot minute she looks like she might head-butt me but then she puts her head on my shoulder and lets me lead. I’m not sure which is the bigger achievement, that she didn’t fight, or that she’s letting me lead.
Dancing isn’t my strong suit. We’re mostly just swaying in the cool night air as I sing low in her ear under the stars.
This might be the happiest I’ve ever felt in all my life, but since I can’t remember the first time we met, I can’t say for sure. There’s something about holding Victoria in my arms that makes everything feel just right.
When the song finishes, I’m mildly pissed off at Nate Smith for not writing a longer song. I don’t want to stop dancing with Victoria, but I kiss her on the forehead and ask her if she’s down for dessert.
She paid for dinner. Something that made me feel kinda like shit, but she insisted her mom wanted to treat us both. Apparently her mom’s so excited she’s going out on a date she handed her cash to cover dinner and told her not to come back before ten.
The fact her mom’s so excited to get her out of the house for an evening suggests she doesn’t do it often, and while we’ve talked a little about her, most everything that comes out of her mouth is about Wyatt. She lives and breathes that kid.
Tonight is a treat for her, a night out without parental responsibilities, which tugs at something deep in my chest. She’s missed out on so much.
“Where do you want for dessert?”
“Have you tried a Zookie at Zoey’s pizza place in Marion?”
She makes yummy noises. “I see your Zookie and raise you a flight of crème brûlée.”
Huh. “I’m listening.” I walk her back to her side of the car.
“Mom said it’s incredible, and we should try it.”
Holding both my hands up, I give her my best stern face. “I’d never pick a fight with your mom.”
She laughs. “In that case, we’re going to ChopHouse Downtown.”
It’s not even a ten minute drive to the ChopHouse which makes me inexplicably sad. Holding her hand, singing while I drive, or making small talk lights me up inside. It’s not enough time with her. I want it all. I want every second with this woman.
We sensibly share a flight of crème brûlée. It’s a selection of crème brûlées served on a tray, a trio of cotton candy crème brûlée, jalapeño crème brûlée, and espresso crème brûlée. There’s a party on my tongue with every fucking bite. Are there any jobs going in here so I can eat these every day? Sweet mother of God, they’re delicious.
“Raffi.” Victoria’s laughing, spoon poised near her mouth.
“Yeah?”
“People are staring at the sex noises you’re making.”
“You don’t know what my sex noises soun—Oh.” I almost drop my spoon at the raised eyebrow and shrewd look on Victoria’s face. She knows exactly what I sound like in the bedroom.
