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“I like donuts, okay? And the cotton is more comfortable than lace. Practical too,” I blurted out, unsure of what kind of sickness I had but pretty sure that I needed to be medicated for just saying what I said to possibly one of the hottest men to walk the earth.
I wanted to sink into my car seat and never emerge.
“Are we getting donuts for dinner?” Nathan said from the back. “Because I want one with sprinkles. Like that one.”
I didn’t need to turn in my seat to know his chubby little hand was pointing at the large donut with sprinkles that took up the ass of my panties.
Someone fucking save me.
“Can I get a sprinkles donut and a chocolate one, Mom?” Nathan continued, unaware that he was contributing to possibly one of the most mortifying moments in my life.
I made a mental note to punish him for it later in life, kiss him straight on the mouth on his first day of high school or something like that.
I didn’t dare look at Lance. “Sure, we can have donuts for dinner,” I said, deciding to roll with it and give my five-year-old all that refined sugar before bed. Partly because I was willing to forgo my strict no sugar on weekdays routine to get the fuck out of this situation but mostly because at this point, I was ready to say yes to anything my little boy asked me.
“Do you want to have donuts with us for dinner, Captain?” Nathan asked Lance.
I still didn’t look at him. “Lance does not get muscles like that eating donuts, honeybun,” I said, not even knowing what it meant until after I’d vomited the words out.
Oh my god, now he knew I noticed his muscles.
But that wasn’t bad, it’s not really something you missed about the man.
“Okay, well, I don’t want donuts either,” Nathan decided.
I turned and gaped at my son, because him deciding, on his own, that he didn’t want sugary treats for dinner on a Thursday was enough to shock me out of whatever shame-filled paralysis I’d been experiencing.
“Just like that, you don’t want donuts?” I said.
He nodded very seriously. His eyes went behind me. “Because I want to be big and muscly like a superhero and donuts are just stupid if they aren’t what superheroes eat.”
Oh sweet Lord.
“What do you eat for dinner, Captain?” Nathan asked.
I turned back in my seat. There was silence for a beat, and Nathan was waiting expectantly for Lance to give him a detailed rundown of his nutrition. I didn’t think this inarticulate hot guy was going to do so and I didn’t want to let my son down. I also saw this as my chance.
“He likely eats a lot of vegetables, green ones, like broccoli, spinach, carrots and yummy things like lentils, chickpeas and things full of protein and nutrients,” I answered for Lance to help my efforts at dinnertime and to save my son from being hurt when his new hero treated him with the same loaded silence I was.
For my son’s sake, I braved a lot at Lance, giving him a look. “Right?”
He waited a beat, holding my gaze hostage before moving his eyes to Nathan. “Right.”
The single word was enough for Nathan, and he beamed. “Let’s go to the pro-teen and nutree-ant store then, Mom,” Nathan decided, stumbling on the words he hadn’t heard before.
I grinned.
“Okay, buddy, we’re going,” I replied, then I looked back to Lance pointedly trying to communicate with my face he was the one stopping me from leaving due to his entire muscled form in my door.
“Seatbelt,” he grunted.
I jerked in surprise.
I was always one to wear a seatbelt, of course. If we crashed, no way did I want to go flying through the window, leaving Nathan. And kids learned by example, always.
I had planned on putting it on, once Lance had left my presence and I regained normal brain function.
But it seemed that Lance was not going to leave the vicinity until I buckled up.
I did so, fumbling with the buckle three times.
Because of course I had to finish this encounter with more mortification and awkwardness.
Once I was buckled, Lance was satisfied. “Wait here ‘til I get my bike. I’ll follow you.”
I raised my brow. “Bike?” I repeated.
He nodded once.
My ovaries were toast. The man rode a motorcycle.
I hated the things because of the horror stories I’d heard about crashes, I’d already told Nathan that motorcycles secretly made your pee pee fall off and that was why he could never own one or ride on one.
But the thought of Lance’s thighs straddling a motorcycle, watching the man ride it… yeah that was hot as balls.
Luckily, I managed to keep those thoughts to myself and just waited for him to close the door.
Still, he didn’t. This was torture. Was I being punished for something? And my child, who was usually the best way out of a boring situation, was annoyingly patient right now.
