“You can thank me by showering me with orgasms in January.”
I growl, holding up a finger to admonish her. “Super Bowl is in February, Katie.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, I can wait till then.”
I close the distance, sweep her into my arms, and hug her tight. It’s risky, but so’s chasing a ball the safeties don’t want you to catch. So’s running in a touchdown. Holding Katie close is terribly risky but absolutely necessary.
When we pull apart, my hands still on her waist, I don’t want to let go. “You feel too good in my arms,” I tell her.
A breath shudders past her lips. “I sure like being here,” she whispers, all soft and irresistibly sweet, her arms still looped around my neck.
So damn sweet that I’m not sure I want to resist anymore.
Can I? Yes. But I don’t want to. “What if I steal a kiss right now?”
She runs her fingers along the ends of my hair. “Don’t have to steal it,” she murmurs. “You can have it.”
“It’ll keep me going until the end of the season,” I whisper as I inch closer then drop my lips to hers.
Her breath hitches as I kiss her the way I want to right now—tender, gentle, but with a promise.
Like this kiss is sealing our promise for next year.
It goes to my head in an instant. My mind slides into a Katie-induced euphoria as I explore these lips I’ve missed desperately. As I kiss the corner of her mouth. As I flick my tongue against her bottom lip. She opens for me, a sensual sigh mingling with my own murmurs.
I’m keenly aware of the ticking clock.
But I take what I can get for the moment—a little more of this woman I’m falling for. I deepen the kiss, savoring every secret second. It’ll have to sustain me for the next two months, so I let myself get lost in the kiss, and in her, and in my hopes for what’s next.
Soon, though, it must end.
I break the kiss.
Her eyes glimmer. Her lips are swollen. “Wow,” she whispers.
“Yeah, I’ll say.”
We let go, and I can’t wait for the calendar to jump to next year. But for now, I check the time. My kiddo will be here soon.
I’m nervous and excited for the future . . . but mostly, elated.
Once she enters the living room, Abby views Katie with studious eyes. “So, you’re the yoga lady?”
“I sure am,” Katie says. “It is a pleasure to meet the little lady of the house.”
Abby giggles. “Lady of the house. I like that,” she says, setting her backpack by the couch and running to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. “Hey, yoga lady,” she says as we follow her, “do you know what yoga pose pirates like to do?”
Katie taps her chin like she’s deep in thought. “Could it be . . . the plank?”
Abby tosses her head back and laughs. “How did you know?”
Katie beckons Abby with a crook of her finger. “I know all the good yoga jokes.”
“Ooh, tell me another,” Abby demands, and I park my butt on the stool at the counter and happily watch them.
Katie bends to six-year-old eye level. “How does a T-Rex feel after practicing yoga?”
“I don’t know,” Abby says, nearly bouncing with excitement. “Tell me.”
Katie rubs her knuckles against her lower back. “A little dino . . . sore.”
“Ohhh. I like that.” Abby wheels around to the counter. “Monkey bread. Can you do a monkey impression like my dad?”
Katie turns her gaze to me. “I’ve only heard your lion, Harlan. I’d love to hear the monkey. Don’t hold back.”
I roll my eyes. “You ladies act like you’ve got me cornered. Like you’ve tricked me. Course I can do a monkey. Ooh-ooh, ahh-ahh,” I say, imitating a chimp.
They clap and cheer.
“You know what I can do?” Abby asks.
“What’s that?”
“I can be a baker. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
Abby grabs a wooden spoon and gets to work.
The three of us make monkey bread in the kitchen, listening to Dolly Parton and Adele while Abby tells us about gymnastics and her friend, and Gabriella’s dad’s funny jokes, and how awesome the balance beam is.
When the bread goes in the oven, Abby stares at the clock. “I don’t know how to wait. It’s going to be so long.” Then she spins around and points at Katie. “Can I paint your nails?”
“Do you have fuchsia? That’s my favorite color.”
“I do,” Abby declares, then runs to her room.
For the next fifteen minutes, Abby gives Katie a manicure, and I count down the weeks till the end of the season.
That night, I read Abby four stories, including one about a girl who gets a pony.
“That girl is so smart. She convinced her daddy to give her a pony,” Abby says, snuggling under the covers.
“Gee, Abby. Are you trying to tell me something?”