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“So if I told you to go?”
“If that’s what you want, I’ll go. You can explain to Greer.”
“Paint something for me?”
“You naked? Absolutely?”
She wagged a finger at him. “I’m not part of the deal.”
“You’re all it’s about.” A deep breath. “What do you want painted?”
The timer went off and she slipped away. He trailed her into the kitchen and his stomach growled at the smells. Watching when she bent over to pull the dish from the oven, he waited for her to set it on the hot pad. Then she drew out a tray of something else which looked like breadsticks.
“Can I help?”
“Salad is in the fridge,” she said without looking at him.
The ravioli lasagna, fresh breadsticks, and salad were on the table shortly thereafter. He helped Greer into her chair first, then Emma, brushing his lips over her exposed shoulder as he pushed her chair in.
“Looks delicious,” he said, taking his seat.
“Mama makes me this every year.” Greer held up her plate.
Interesting. It was Emma’s birthday but she’d made something her daughter would enjoy.
Linc served his girls. And yes, that was how he had come to view them. His.
“You said your mom makes this for you every year, Greer?”
She nodded, her pigtails with their sparkly blue ribbons bobbing. “She does. My mama is the best.”
“I agree,” Linc said, turning his gaze to Emma, who made sure not to look him in the eyes.
“What’s her favorite food?”
“Popovers,” Greer said immediately. “Soft pretzels with cheese dipping sauce. And clam chowder.” Greer shuddered.
“I take it you don’t like chowder?”
She shook her head so hard her pigtails smacked her in the face. “It’s gross. But the little crackers are yummy.”
“And what does your mom do for fun?”
“Linc,” Emma said, but he shook his head.
“You’re not forthcoming about what you like to do.” A sly grin. “Other than things with batteries.”
She flushed, flattening her lips at him. He winked and turned to Greer.
“Mama doesn’t have a lot of time to do things. She bakes with Dawson a lot.”
Emma groaned under her breath and he nudged her foot beneath the table.
“We read a lot. All kinds of books.”
“That’s good,” he praised. “My dad always reads when he can as well.” He stole another look at Emma, whose face was beet red, and he took pity on her, turning the conversation more to Greer and how she was enjoying baseball.
They cleaned up as a family and when Greer curled up on the couch to read her latest book, Linc grasped Emma’s wrist before she could escape the kitchen.
“Are you okay, Freckles?”
Her smile was sad. He brushed his thumb over the ring on her finger, trying not to notice how her expression twisted when she looked at it.
“What time does she go to bed?”
Tucking some hair behind her ear, she glanced at the clock hanging over the recliner against the wall. “Birthday night, she has until nine.”
“Okay, come on. We’re going to the center.”
“Why?”
“Painting.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to paint me anything. It was foolish of me to ask. Just forget it.”
Not going to happen. “I want to.” And it was true. He wanted to paint for her. And he wanted to paint her.
Once there, Greer opted out of painting and put her nose in the book she’d been reading. She lay on some blankets off to the side. He and Emma were beside his easel.
“Talk to me, Freckles.” He placed a blank canvas on the wooden easel.
“I just don’t celebrate my birthday.”
“Why?” He picked up a brush and dipped it in the paint before making that first stroke marring the unblemished canvas.
“It isn’t a day that means anything to me.”
“Not even when you were younger?”
She huffed and he watched her gaze go to the corner where her daughter read. Greer was not paying them any attention. He also noticed how she spun the ring as she stared at her child.
Emma sat in a chair but her expression showcased she was anything but comfortable with the discussion.
“I had no friends and even if I had, my father wouldn’t have allowed anyone into the house.”
God, he wanted to hold her close, but he stayed on the stool and continued with his painting.
“So we have a few birthdays to make up for.” He stared at the canvas in front of him, imagining what he was going to paint for her.
“How?”
He grinned and made a point of wiggling his eyebrows. “Spankings?”
She flushed and shifted on the chair.
…
How did this man make her so hot? It wasn’t fair. And he’d not even tried to do anything other than kiss her. Even during their time in San Antonio. Sure, he’d teased her about joining him in the shower but hadn’t pushed. Maybe that’s all it was, teasing and flirting. She’d thought maybe it had changed after their time in the car and at the door on their last day. It hadn’t. However, she woke in the bed when she had been sure to sleep on the couch. He’d not tried to convince her to sleep with him, give him a blow job, or anything. He’d been a perfect gentleman. Damn it.
