“Hey, bud!” I say, opening my arms just as Tate barrels into me.
His blond little head presses into my stomach, his tiny arms wrapping tight. I clutch him close, inhaling the scent of strawberry shampoo and sleepy little boy warmth.
He pulls back, icy blue eyes blinking up at me. Corbin’s eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, frowning. His gaze flicks down to my outfit. “And why are you wearing the clothes you wore yesterday?”
My heart lurches.
I quickly glance toward the entryway. His backpack. The one I dropped off last night.
My cover.
I clear my throat. “You left your backpack in my car,” I say, voice steady. “Thought you might need it for school this morning.”
Tate exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I did that. Why do I keep forgetting stuff?”
Guilt tugs at my chest. He looks genuinely upset, like leaving a backpack somewhere is some monumental failure.
I smooth my fingers through his messy blond hair, offering a small smile. “It’s okay, bud.”
He leans into my touch, sighing. God, I love this kid.
I step back, shifting my purse onto my shoulder. “I should get going. Tell your dad I said hi.”
“You could tell him yourself.” The deep, familiar voice slides over me like warm silk—smooth, too knowing, too confident.
Damn it.
I turn just in time to see Corbin stroll into the kitchen. Black dress slacks. A crisp white dress shirt. Not a single wrinkle. Not a hair out of place.
My gaze drops to my own attire. Skinny jeans. Crumpled pink blouse. The distinct aura of someone who did the walk of shame in a hurry.
I still can’t believe he folded my thong.
“Good morning,” I force out, pretending my face isn’t on fire.
He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t gloat. Just watches me too carefully. Like he’s waiting for me to say something else.
I shift, turning back to Tate. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bud.”
“You’re not staying for breakfast?” Corbin’s tone is maddeningly casual. He’s already pulling out a frying pan, like this is just another morning, like we do this all the time. Like last night didn’t just happen.
“You still love cheese omelets, right?”
Yes.
I do.
But eating breakfast here, with him, with Tate? That’s too much like the past.
“Yes!” Tate pumps a tiny fist in the air. “She eats them every morning! We have salsa, right? Mom says omelets without salsa is an a-bomb-a-nation.”
A small, unwilling laugh catches in my throat.
Corbin’s lips twitch. “We have salsa.”
His icy blue eyes flick to mine. Watching. Waiting.
