Killian Read online

  Both literally and figuratively.

  “Well, since your nanny is about to walk up here, you should probably say yes,” Luke suggests. “That way, I don’t have to do something dramatic, like get down on my knees and serenade you.”

  “That would be dramatic.”

  “Well, shoot, if you want me to sing, I'll do it right here,” Luke warns, starting to kneel. “I’ve been told I have a voice that sounds a lot like a cat in heat.”

  “Stop, stop.” I can’t help but laugh. “Before she sees you.”

  “So that’s a ‘yes’, then?”

  “Do you always blackmail women into going out with you?”

  Luke shrugs. “I’ve never asked a woman to go out with me.”

  “Oh.”

  “So it’s settled,” he decides. “Tonight.”

  “I don’t have a babysitter or –“

  “I’m coming here,” he tells me over his shoulder as he starts down the steps. “I’ll cook. Not a crappy dinner, either. I'm going to impress the pants off you."

  He’s walking out toward the orchard whistling to himself before I can even protest. But I can't get the words out of my head: impress the pants off you.

  When Greta walks up, she smiles. “Luke is here early,” she notes.

  I hold up my coffee. “Way too early.”

  I try to sound annoyed that Luke was on my front porch, but fail miserably. Greta gives me a sideways glance as she takes Olivia’s hand and leads her inside the house, and I do my best to hide the corny-as-hell smile growing on my face.

  24

  Luke

  What the hell am I doing here, anyway?

  That’s the thought going through my head as I stand here on her front porch about to knock on the door, a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach like I haven’t ever felt before. For a split second, I even consider turning around.

  The rational part of me says that’s exactly what I should do. The old Luke – the Luke from, shit, a couple weeks ago, would be itching to get out of here.

  Of course, the old Luke wouldn’t have stuck around in the first place. Hell, he would never have tried to get into Autumn’s pants to begin with.

  I broke my first cardinal rule: no moms.

  Then I went and broke the second rule: no sticking around after sex.

  Now, I’m standing here about to knock on the front door of her house so I can break another rule. I’m going on a date with her? And, a million times worse, I’m coming to her house to cook dinner for her and her kid?

  I’m in way over my fucking head.

  She’s making me want to break all the rules I have. I don’t know what it is about her, but I should be running and I’m not. Instead, I’m here, armed with supplies like I’m Joe Regular, coming home from a normal nine-to-five to my house in the goddamned suburbs.

  I knock on the door. She pulls it open, her cheeks flushed and her hair falling in messy wet tendrils down her shoulders. She's dressed in a thin cotton bathrobe that’s worn so well it's nearly sheer, knotted loosely at the side but falling open to reveal her cleavage. “Sorry,” she says, breathless. “I was working, and Greta left early, and Olivia – I think she’s teething and she’s been a hot mess the past couple of hours, and I just barely got out of the shower.”

  “You look –“

  Autumn interrupts me. “Trust me, I know. I’m almost as much of a mess as Olivia,” she says, pointing at Olivia who’s standing in the middle of the hallway with her eyes rimmed red. Lucy immediately bounds down the hall, and Olivia squeals with delight, her entire attitude suddenly changing. “I’m sorr–“

  I don’t even bother to wait because I can’t. I bring my mouth down on hers, silencing her excuses, until she pulls away, still breathless, but this time for a different reason. “You look perfect,” I finish.

  Fuck, that’s some lame shit. I immediately want to slap myself. That’s cheesy as hell, like a line from a movie or something.

  Autumn just laughs, trying to step away from me. “You’re lying.”

  Hell, now she thinks I’m just messing around with her. Except I’m not. It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, makeup or not; I can’t get enough of her. I pull her against me, into my hardness, my lips close to her ear. “That says I’m not lying.”

  She giggles, pushing me back. “You obviously have low standards.”

  “I think it’s the other way around,” I say, walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, greeting Olivia on my way. Olivia and Lucy trail closely behind me, following the food source.

  “I’m starting to think kids really aren't all that much different from dogs. And I totally understand dogs."

  “Oh, you think?” Autumn is standing in the kitchen, her hand on her hip, fabric from the bathrobe falling loosely around her curves and God help me, all I can think of is how much I want to pull the tie that holds her robe together and let the entire thing come undone.

  God, how I want her to come undone.

  “Yep.” I set the bags on the counter and look over my shoulder at Olivia, who’s on her hands and knees mimicking Lucy’s posture with head on her hands and rear end in the air. “In fact, if you want to put on clothes – not that I think you should, mind you, since I much prefer you this way – I think Lucy has the whole babysitting thing covered.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” she agrees. “I’m right upstairs, though, if you need anything. Don’t put any pans on the front burners, and just watch that nothing splatters if you turn the stovetop on, and…”

  I turn around, leaning against the counter, watching her tick off items on her fingers, mentally running through every possible catastrophe that might befall Olivia while she’s upstairs. “Got it. No deep frying on the stove when the baby is on the floor,” I say, “or dangling hot pans in front of her.”

  Autumn sticks her tongue out at me. “I’m sure there are other dangerous things I’m forgetting.”

  “She’s allowed to play with knives, right?”

  Autumn narrows her eyes at me. “I think that was sarcastic, but on the off chance that it’s not…”

  “That was incredibly sarcastic,” I say. “Everyone knows toddlers can only peel potatoes, not use chopping knives.”

  “Fine,” she says. “I’m leaving.”

  “I hope so.”

  I wait until she’s walking away to squat down in front of Olivia. “Are you thirsty?” I ask. “You drink out of a glass now, don’t you? I brought wine."

  “I heard that!” Autumn yells from the stairway.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lucy is gnawing on a treat. Olivia is lying on the floor nearby, playing with oversized Lego blocks I found in the living room. I’m trying to put the finishing touches on a tower when Autumn walks in. “Having fun?”

  “Actually, yeah,” I say, adding a makeshift turret to the top. I’m about to make a smart-ass comment about something when I look up at her and promptly lose all ability to speak. I just stand up, staring like an idiot. She’s wearing this simple black dress that’s anything but plain, her hair dry now and piled up on top of her head, little pieces spilling down the sides of her face, and no shoes. For some reason, the fact that she’s not wearing shoes, that she's barefoot with the little black dress, pushes the whole thing over the edge. It makes her look unfinished, undone, and it's a thousand times sexier than if she were all dressed up.

  I have the sudden-and-not-entirely-sinking feeling that she’s going to be my undoing.

  “I haven’t worn anything other than jeans in longer than I care to remember,” she says.

  “It’s… yeah.” God, I’m an idiot. A complete and total idiot.

  Autumn flushes, pink on her cheeks the way she does when she’s self-conscious. Or when she’s… underneath me, her lips slightly parted. I shake off the image that immediately springs to mind. “Thanks,” she says, her voice uncertain.

  Crossing the room, I brush my lips against her cheek as I slide