Page 96 of Sweet Redemption

“With whipped cream?” the little voice asks, angling for more sweets. Whipped cream and chocolate chips—a kid after my own heart. “Do we have strawberries?”

I chance a quick peek and catch Bodhi taking a flying leap into his father’s arms as Hendrix looks over the little boy’s curly, blond bedhead and winks at me. “Do we have strawberries . . . ? Of course we do. We have raspberries and bananas too.”

“Will she be scared to wake up alone? Maybe I should stay with her and turn on the TV.”

Hendrix ruffles Bodhi’s hair and kisses his temple. “Nice try, bud. No TV until after breakfast. You know the rules.”

“Fine,” the little guy pouts.

“Serena is more a play with a ball kind of princess than a watch TV kind anyway.”

Once upon a time, maybe.

“Like a football?” Bodhi asks Hendrix as he carries him out of the room, and I catch the faint sound of Hendrix’s voice moving down the hall.

“More like soccer.”

I wait until his footsteps fade before throwing the blanket back and padding into the en suite bathroom, frightened to look at myself in the mirror. I doubt standing in the rain last night did me any favors. And when I do look, I realize I was right. Definitely not a good look.

I debate how long I think it’s going to take Hendrix to make pancakes.

Long enough to shower?

Let’s hope.

I turn on the hot water and step under the scalding spray, stretching sore muscles that haven’t been worked in a very, very long time. Very different muscles from the ones I was using on a soccer field a little over a year ago or in rehab more recently. But my goodness, it hurts so good.

I grab Hendrix’s body wash, the same one he’s used for as long as I’ve known him, and scrub my skin until it’s soft and pink, then wash my hair with the shampoo and conditioner combo sitting on his ledge. It’ll have to do. Once I’m done and dried off, I realize I don’t have clothes to wear, unless a wet dress thrown in a ball on his floor counts.

Umm . . . Okay, this is fixable.

Quickly, I look around his room, hoping to find something to throw on without going through his drawers, and eventually open his closet, relieved when I find a laundry basket full of folded laundry. Score. Sweats and a Kroydon Hills University tee for the win.

Or maybe just the tee.

After rolling over the waistband of the sweatpants in an attempt to get them to stay up, the damn thing still falls down. Time to give up and grab a pair of his boxers instead. It’s not like I can go commando around Bodhi, and his father legitimately shredded my panties last night.

Fuck, that was hot.

Is it okay for me to go downstairs in a T-shirt?

I look at myself in a mirror propped against the wall of the closet and shake my head. Hendrix’s tee is longer than the dress I had on last night, so I’m pretty sure it’s fine. I’m also pretty sure I’m stalling like a queen right now as my anxiety levels rise to an uncomfortable new high.

What if last night was a mistake?

I don’t think it was, but what if he does?

Or what if he doesn’t but Bodhi doesn’t like me?

Oh, God. What if Bodhi hates me?

What if everyone thinks I’m a homewrecking whore trying to take his mother’s place? Or that I’m preying on a widower? What if they think he cheated?

Shit.

None of this is doing me any good.

What would Octavia say?