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I wait for his jaw to drop, or his eyes to pop out of his head in sheer surprise like a cartoon character. But his face remains exactly the same.
“Yeah, I kind of figured you had a kid.” He says it like it’s no big deal.
“How?” I ask. “There’s no pictures anywhere around. Do I just give off some sort of mom aura or something?”
“Erin, you have Spiderman toys in your bathtub.”
“Oh. Right.”
Duh, Erin.
“I don’t care that you have a kid. Doesn’t bother me at all.”
“Well, I don’t just haveakid. I have three. Three boys.”
“Is that supposed to scare me off? I like kids. Besides, I’m not asking you for some big commitment here. I’m just asking you to let us get to know each other better and see what happens.”
“I’m telling you that you don’t want to get to know me.”
He takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Why do you say that?”
Oh, boy. This is going to be a whole can of worms that he’s going to wish he hadn’t opened.
“Because I’m a mess. A thirty-three-year-old mess. That’s right. I’m a whopping eight years older than you. I’m no spring chicken, and I’ve got the body to prove it.”
He interrupts me to say, “I love your body.”
“Well, last night, in the dark, you couldn’t see my cellulite. Or my stretchmarks. Or the C-section scar from my third kid. In fact, everything from last night was all smoke and mirrors. My outfit? I don’t dress like that. My wardrobe consists of leggings and old t-shirts—most of which have been thrown up on by my kids at some point. And my sexy bra and panties? Those live in the bottom of my drawer, barely seeing the light of day. Most of my undergarments don’t look like that. Most days, I wear no makeup, big glasses, and a messy bun. Tanner, I have only been with three guys my entire life. And up until last night, I had been with the same one for over thirteen years. And even though he and I are divorced, he still makes my life miserable. When I’m not working my nine-to-five job, I’m taking kids to practice or doing laundry. I have zero time for any semblance of a social life. Every other weekend my kids go to their dad’s, and it’s the one time that I get to do anything for myself. Usually, I stay home and drink wine and read romance books, but last night, my friends convinced me to go out. My point is that I don’t have time for any type of relationship.”
When I come up for air, I look at Tanner in all of his tattooed glory. He has this half-grin on his face that I can’t quite get a read on.
“Say something,” I prompt.
“Did you say your kids are gone all weekend?”
“What? Yes,” I stammer. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“When was the last time someone took care of you? The last time someone made you feel beautiful and sexy? When was the last time a man made your toes curl?”
“Last night,” I answer, not having to think about it.
“I mean before that.”
Okay, that question’s a little harder.
When I take a while to answer, Tanner says, “That’s what I thought.”
He holds out his hands for mine. I take it, and he pulls me toward him. “Maybe it’s about time someone made you feel good for once.”
“Oh? And you want to be that person?”
“Fuck yes, I do.” He wraps his arms around my waist and looks up at me. “As for your body, I know what it looks like. We were in candlelight, but I’m not blind. I love the way your body looks, and I want to worship every inch of it.”
I suck it my breath as he raises my t-shirt, exposing my less-than-flattering stomach.
“I don’t care about stretchmarks,” he says, planting a few kisses on my body.
“Or your C-section scar.”
