Page 20 of Chasing Honor

I wanted what I’d just had. Honor waiting for me when I got home from work. A pretty smile on her face. My two best girls in the kitchen mashing ingredients together with their hands.

Flat-out—I wanted Honor.

6

Shit on a shingle. Ethan and Carson had come through the door, my heart had raced, and my mouth had gone dry. This morning, when we’d met at the coffee maker, his eyes had roamed my body with an appreciation I swore I could physically feel. And if he’d thought I couldn’t see his morning wood—he was mistaken. The thick outline was easy to see through the material of his sweats. Which begged the question, could he see my puckered nipples through the spandex of my sports bra? I was so embarrassed I’d holed up in my room until they’d left, reeling from our exchange in the kitchen. Which was a shame because it meant I’d missed seeing him in his uniform. Wowza. Ethan looked hot in the jean and a T-shirt or bare chested with a hard-on, but in his uniform, he was super-duper hot. I never knew I had a thing for men in uniforms but, apparently, I did. Or maybe it was just Ethan, who could wear a paper bag and still be sexy.

The past week had been great. I’d spent time getting to know the area and scoping out new places to take pictures, I filled a few orders for a gallery that was showing my work, and I was slowly getting to know Ethan and Carson. Ethan was easy to talk to, and funny. His banter with Carson melted my heart, it was plain to see how much he adored his daughter. There still had been no mention of her mom, nor were there any reminders of the woman in the house. I was curious, but I didn’t dare ask. I knew Ethan had caught me more than a few times openly starring at him. He probably thought I was some sort of stalker, but last night after Carson had gone to bed our conversation had turned a little flirty. So maybe he didn’t. And then there was that hug when he got home tonight.

“Honor?”

“Right, here, darlin’.”

“Me and Gran made you cookies today.”

“You did? That was nice of you.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry if you don’t like the ones with raisins in them. They’re gross.”

“I love raisins.”

“You do?” Her eyes widened and she stopped mixing the raw meat and egg concoction.

“I do. You keep mixing. I’ll pour in the bread crumbs.”

Her little hands got back to work, reminding me of the first time my mom taught me how to make meatballs. I missed her so much.

After we’d kneaded and squished everything together, we rolled out the balls and arranged them on the cookie sheet I’d prepared.

“You’re good at this,” Carson commented.

“I’ve done it a time or two.”

“Gran tried to teach daddy how to cook, but she says he’s hopeless. I think she called him call-in-airy . . .”

“Culinary?” I offered.

“Does that mean cooker?”

“Something like that.” I laughed.

“Culinary challenged.”

“I resent that.”

Carson and I startled, not expecting him to be finished so soon.

“How do you know we were talking about you?” I teased.

“Wild guess.”

He looked eatable standing in the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, another T-shirt pulled tight over what I knew to be a very hard, muscular chest and stomach.

He cleared his throat and smirked.

Ass.

“Want something to drink?” he asked.