“Let’s not focus on that now. Let’s get your hands washed and get you in a bath. Then you can finish your pirate movie, okay?”
He nods, and I lead him to the porch where we rinse his hands. I take him inside, start his bath and get him washed. I leave him in his room, where he is watching cartoons while selecting the perfect pajamas. In the living room, Dean sits on the couch, knees spread, hair sweaty from working in the sun with Archie. There’s sweat marking the center of his chest and beneath his arms, too. He’s wearing a faded olive green long sleeve shirt, worn jeans, worn boots, and a leather beltwith ornate designs. He looks like a million, sweaty, delicious dollars.
And he made me come.
From a hug.
“Can I get you a beer?”
He smiles. “Do you have beer?”
I nod. “Yeah, I do. It may be two months old, and light, but?—”
Dean laughs but gets to his feet, brushing past me as he moves into the kitchen, like he’s comfortable in my home. He pulls open the fridge and snags two cans, opening them both before passing me one.
“Why didn’t you let me bring it to you?” I ask him, sipping the foam from the rim of my can.
He sips his too. “You’re a waitress. If I expected you to wait on me in your down time, that’d be pretty shitty.” He steps nearer, and his hot breath dusts my lips, making my body tremble gently, the desire for him throbbing, the urge to have him bold and undeniable. “And anyway, Miss Clara June, I don’t want you doing a damn thing for me.” His curled knuckles lift beneath my chin, angling my mouth toward his. Our lips barely graze as he whispers, “I serve you, mama.” He kisses me then, slow and deep, his arm looping my waist, tugging me closer.
He’s rigid everywhere—his chest, the swell of muscles in his arms, the solid press of his thighs into mine…his groin. I can’t quite get a feel for Dean beyond the fact that he’s hard, he’s big, and I can feel it.
The way I can feel it without exactly feeling it is driving me insane.
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” I whisper, the beer feeling warm in my hot hand. “But I love it when you call me mama.”
A growl bounces around in his throat, and my body thrums to hear it, to hear more of his private tone, that scratchy growl that could promise so much, so many dirty things. “I like it when you call me Coach,” he finally says, though his admission feels more like a proposition than anything.
“Wanna stay for a movie? Tanner and Rawley are gone until tomorrow, and Arch will be out before the credits are over.”
“I’d like that.” He places his hand on my hip, putting some space between us, his thumb rubbing small circles where he holds me. “Still think we should move slowly though.”
I think about Dean shaking Rawley’s hand in the hall the other night, a mutual promise made of respect. “Okay, I’m good with slow.” His smile is contagious. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you.” He briefly surveys his clothing, and the obviously sweaty state he’s in. “I’ve been working in my yard all day.”
I can’t keep my hands to myself where Dean McAllister is concerned. I tug the end of his t-shirt. “Hard work looks good on you.”
“I’d never come here all sweaty and wearing my work clothes, not normally. But I know I’d be a damn fool to say no when Clara June Colt asks me out.”
Adrenaline spikes inside me, his charm and charisma making me anxious to see what else happens when I’m in his arms. “Technically,” I tease, “I only told you I was gonna invite you over. I think Archie did the rest.”
He sinks back down into the couch, and pulls me down next to him. I wished it was his lap, but I also get that it’s probably too soon for that. “Making a five year old get youhot dates,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s disgraceful, Clara June. Next time, just ask me yourself.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Next time, maybe I’ll send Mrs. Salinger over to ask you out.”
He chuckles, and a predictably sleepy looking Archie appears in the living room,Toy Storypajamas up top,Zootopiapajamas on the bottom. “Mama, I’m turnin’ in.”
I get to my feet. “I’ll come tuck you in. You want a song tonight?”
He nods. “Yes, ma’am. My favorite, please and thank you.”
I turn, stopped halfway between the living room—currently only partially covered in clean laundry—and the hallway. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Why don’t you find something you wanna watch?”
Dean winks at me, the gesture slowly disarming any discipline I have left. “Will do, mama.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
DEAN
