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“Remy, you’re holding fish. That’s not big. That’s gargantuan,” I tease him out of pure joy. “Not sure if you realize, but Izzy girl here isn’t going to provide an ounce of assistance in keeping them alive.”
“Eh,” he says, waving me off. “Fish are easy and take up no space. It’s about the only pet you can get in Manhattan without typing up a fifteen-page manual of logistics for your landlord. And if it’s a problem at your place, I can take them to mine. No big deal.”
“They’re…fine,” I find myself saying, not wanting to be a wet blanket. “I just wasn’t expecting your day with Izzy to end with new aquatic friends.” I glance at his handsome face covered in glitter and reach up to touch it softly. “This is a bit of a surprise too.”
He smiles again, this time unabashedly. I can’t help but melt into it, right there on the busy sidewalk. “I didn’t want to do Izzy’s without knowing yet if her skin gets irritated easily, so we settled on a little bit of baby-safe nail polish.”
“Please tell me Flynn has glitter butterflies on his face too.”
Big, silent, mysterious Flynn with face paint. I swear I’d pay money to see that.
“Nope.” His face breaks with humor. “He got glitter monster trucks to match the twins.”
I cackle. I can’t help it. “Wow. Big day for the Winslow Brothers’ Daddy Day Care, huh?”
A quick, unexpected pang of weirdness hits me at the idea of calling Remy a daddy in this scenario. The truth is, I don’t know what he is. Or what we are, for that matter. We had sex last night—twice—after drinking an entire bottle of tequila, and he practically lives for taking care of Izzy and me, but beyond that, I have zero clue. Hell, I haven’t even been to his apartment yet.
“Oh, Ri, you have no idea. We got into this battle with another dad until Jude scorched him in the hot dog eating contest.” He waves with one hand in front of him. “It’s a long story that I’ll have to tell you later, but I’ll be damned if the dude didn’t end up shaking our hands in the end.”
Remy is still laughing when I come back from my momentary lapse with reality, me having only half heard his story with something about hot dogs and Jude, and he’s started to move us toward the front door of the restaurant with a fish-filled hand to the small of my back and the other still holding Izzy’s hand in the carrier at his chest and the ribbons of the balloons.
“Flynn went buck wild, to be honest. I think he partied harder with the twins today than he did at any of the Winslow bachelor parties.”
I shake my head to clear it, realizing I’m missing some pretty important shit. I should be laughing at the mental image of Flynn “partying hard” with a group of infants.
Still, as Remy holds the door and smiles at the hostess like the proud head of a young family, I can’t stop my thoughts from swirling entirely.
This thing we’re doing…it’s already complicated. And quite frankly, I’m starting to rely on it pretty freaking heavily.
Remy’s help is central to my schedule these days, and I don’t know what I’m going to do if bringing sex into it is the thing that turns it all on its head.
Like, incredible, had-forgotten-it-existed kind of orgasmic sex. But still. I’ve grown to need him in lots of ways. His friendship. His support. His selfless help.
And I can’t decide if it makes me selfish that I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him at this point.
Remy looks back with crinkled eyebrows as the hostess grabs our menus and heads in the direction of a table. “You coming, Ri?” he asks, suspicion of my distance lurking right under the surface of his friendly face.
I smile then, taking his outstretched hand and walking to our table in the back of the restaurant. I’m not confident that I have any of the answers I’m looking for, and I’m even less sure I’ll get them.
But Remy’s warm hand and smile are like gifts from heaven above, making my chest feel full and free at the same time. I’m not about to let myself fuck that up right now. No way.
When we sit down at the table, I open my menu dutifully, ready to pick out my meal and keep my mouth shut like a good little girl.
Remy chats amiably with both me and the baby, and I smile and nod back when I can manage.
But for as much as I stare at the menu and the man and the baby and try to remind myself that only a twisted individual would jeopardize this moment with thoughts, all I can see is the image of Remy on top of me, his cock between my legs and my heart beating out of my chest. Even while the waiter comes to take our order—and after—all I can see is a physically, intimately connected Remy and me.
