Page 45 of Peaches & Pistols

So, here I am, fighting my base urges when I should be able to take care of a sick woman without losing my head.

The giant sectional couch I splurged on is worth its weight in gold. It’s become their basecamp, only leaving to use the bathroom. Otherwise, I’m their guy.

Which means along with the kids, I’ve been touching Mia’s face to see if she’s cool, sweeping her hair from her forehead to take her temperature, and brushing fingers each time I return with fresh water, a dose of medicine, or something to eat.

I’ve taken care of Harper a hundred times when she’s sick, and before that, took care of Olivia, and myself.

But taking care of Mia is gratifying in a way I never expected.

When her tired eyes glimmer with appreciation, I want to work twice as hard. Knowing she’s getting to rest during an illness, maybe for the first time in her life, makes me feel a hundred feet tall.

Currently, the kids are engrossed in some princess movie they’ve seen a thousand times, and Mia’s fast asleep. Even pale and exhausted, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

She’s finally getting some rest, having crapped out after continuously trying to take care of the kids, meeting my refusal every time. But she needs her next dose of medicine if we’re going to stay on top of her symptoms.

“Hey,” I say softly, crouched beside her sleeping form. She doesn’t rouse, so I tuck the stray curls crossing her forehead behind her ear. Her skin’s cool, but clammy. At least the fever broke.

My touch has her heavy eyelids fighting to open, so I try again.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a car hit me. So, better than yesterday when it felt like a bus hit me.” Her lips tilt into the smallest smile. Even miserable, her sunlight shines through.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re funny?”

“Everly. But she thinks farts are funny, so her bar’s pretty low.”

Now that gets me to chuckle. She’s always funnier than I expect, and I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in laughter so often it’s like hamburger meat in there.

Well, I bite my cheek for more reasons than preventing laughter—also when she bends over to pick something up and her ass looks like a juicy peach, or when she comes through the hardware store and other men’s eyes are pulled to her like magnets.

“Sorry to wake you up, but it’s time for your medicine.” I grimace, helping her to a seated position to accept the gel caps and small glass of water. She takes them without complaint but doesn’t lay back down.

“Thank you.” She huffs a laugh. “I’m not used to being the one taken care of.” Neither was I, until you came around.

“I know the feeling. Parenting is painfully selfless and thankless.”

“You’ve got that right.” She sneaks a look at the little girls huddled under a sherpa blanket, transfixed on their movie. I don’t think Everly knows her mom’s awake.

“Think you could eat something?” I ask, holding out my hand to help her up.

She takes it without hesitation, and despite the clamminess of her palm, I’m flooded with heat from her offered touch.

“Have the girls eaten?” Of course, she thinks of them before herself.

“About a half hour ago, Harper managed some cinnamon-sugar toast and apple juice, and Everly had a small bowl of cereal.” She nods, satisfied with my answer.

“I think I could eat.” She walks to the kitchen and sits at the island. I round the counter and peruse the cabinets and refrigerator despite knowing their contents, just buying time to collect myself.

“Being the only person that’s been able to eat, I haven’t bothered cooking. Just been cleaning out the leftovers you stock us with.”

When she doesn’t answer, I look over my shoulder and find her looking over hers at the kids.

“Mia?” She whips back around.

“Sorry. Um, do we have any of those ramen instant noodle cups?”

We. Not do I have one in my pantry. But do we? That hits me across the face like a wet towel. She lives here, has for a few months, so of course everything is an amalgamation of two single-parent families blending.