Page 125 of The Equation of Us
Emma babbles something that sounds suspiciously like “right!” though I’m probably giving her too much credit.
Dean moves behind me, arms encircling both of us. “Shaw-Carter women,” he corrects, his lips brushing my ear. “And yes, terrifyingly so.”
I lean back against him, absorbing his warmth and solidity. Even after all this time, all we’ve built together, there’s still something about Dean’s presence that centers me—the steady counterbalance to my analytical overthinking.
“How’s the grant proposal?” he asks, taking Emma back so I can wash my hands.
“Getting there. Wexler thinks we have a good shot at the funding.” I scrub orange gunk from under my fingernails. “How was practice?”
Dean’s expression brightens the way it always does when discussing his adaptive hockey team. “Good. Great, actually.Jason tried the new ankle joint prototype today—the range of motion is incredible. He scored twice.”
Pride warms my chest. Dean’s work with the adaptive team has become so much more than just coaching. His prosthetic designs—specifically engineered for ice sports—have changed lives, just like he always wanted. The patent for his dynamic ankle joint system has brought offers from major medical companies, but he’s turned them down, preferring to work directly with the athletes who use his designs.
“The university lab wants to do some motion capture analysis,” I tell him, remembering the email I’d received earlier. “They’re interested in collaborative research between my department and your program.”
“Look at us,” Dean says with a smile. “Academic power couple.”
“Is that what we are?” I laugh, taking Emma back. “Because right now we look more like victims of a carrot explosion.”
“Speaking of explosions,” Dean says, checking his watch, “we have approximately twenty minutes before your mom and stepdad arrive.”
I freeze, horror washing over me. “That’s tonight? I thought they were coming tomorrow!”
“Nope. Tonight at seven.” Dean looks far too calm for someone whose in-laws are arriving imminently. “I already changed the sheets in the guest room and picked up wine.”
“The apartment’s a mess. I’m covered in baby food. I haven’t showered since—” I stop, narrowing my eyes at his suspiciously composed expression. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “They’re coming tomorrow night. But your panic face is still my favorite after all these years.”
I swat his arm, adjusting Emma on my hip. “You’re evil.”
“Calculated risk,” he counters, stealing a quick kiss. “I knew the potential reward outweighed the danger.”
“The reward being?”
“Getting you away from that laptop for the evening.” He takes Emma from me again, settling her against his broad shoulder where she immediately begins to doze, carrot disaster notwithstanding. “You’ve been working for nine hours straight. Family time.”
The gentle command—because it is a command, for all its softness—sends a familiar warmth through me. Dean has never stopped being… Dean. The years and responsibilities haven’t diminished that core of controlled authority that drew me to him in the first place.
If anything, fatherhood has intensified it—the protective instinct, the steady presence, the occasional order delivered in that quiet voice that still makes my pulse skip.
“I need to finish the proposal,” I protest, but there’s no real conviction behind it.
“It’ll be there tomorrow.” He transfers our now-sleeping daughter to my arms. “Go put her down for her nap. Then it’s your turn.”
“My turn for a nap?” I ask, already moving toward Emma’s room.
Dean’s smile takes on a familiar edge that sends heat pooling low in my stomach. “Not exactly.”
Fifteen minutes later, after getting Emma settled in her crib, I’m lying on our bed while Dean methodically removes my clothes.
“This doesn’t solve the carrot situation,” I point out as he unbuttons my blouse with practiced efficiency.
“Shower later,” he says, pushing the fabric from my shoulders. “This first.”
Five years together, and he can still reduce me to incoherence with nothing but his hands and that commanding tone. Motherhood, career advancement, adult responsibilities—none of it has dulled this connection between us. If anything, the stolen moments are more precious now, more intense for their relative rarity.
“You’ve been in your head all day,” Dean murmurs, trailing kisses down my stomach. “Time to let go.”
