The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2) - Kristen Ashley Page 0,123

to check the progress and have family time.

He got the short end of that deal.

But . . . whatever.

“Hey,” he said to me.

“Hey,” I replied.

His eyes moved the length of me, lingering at my ass in my tight skirt and at the high-heeled pumps on my feet.

He made it to me, and his hand glided over that ass and his beard went into my neck where he said, “Love it when I get home before the pumps come off.”

“We’re so totally playing boss and secretary,” I replied.

His beard came out of my neck, I turned my head, and he looked into my eyes.

His were smiling.

“Tease. You keep offering, all I ever got was one night with the sexy cop.”

“Your bed doesn’t have any way to handcuff you to it.”

His smiling eyes got closer as his smiling lips hit mine.

He gave me a peck, then moved to the fridge.

“Beer?” he asked.

“I’m all classy in pumps and skirt,” I returned. “Wine.”

“Gotcha,” he muttered. “Call Dave?”

“No on the festival. Yes on the ‘they’re okay.’ Yes on a visit after the festival.”

“I’ll call Johnny,” he said, coming out of the fridge with a bottle of beer and a bottle of white.

“Daddy, we’s ‘av peezza,” Brooks called.

Tobe shot a smile to our kid then looked to me. “Pizza?”

“I hadn’t decided, but that works for me.”

“I’ll get out the breadmaker,” he muttered.

Suffice it to say, the living together and the dining room table were not the only indications of our budding domesticity.

There were toss pillows on the couch (Toby picked them out at Pottery Barn). There was a lamp on an end table by the couch (that was me). There was a his and hers reading nook tucked in the corner with two comfy chairs that shared an ottoman, table and a standing lamp, plus a smaller chest filled with Brooks’s toys (totally Toby). And upstairs, the master bedroom had been kitted out with some throws, toss pillows, two kickass armchairs, and a spindly-legged table with a small lamp on top (that was me, with help from Margot).

It was Toby who’d had the photo of my mom in the moonlight professionally enlarged even larger than I’d unprofessionally had it enlarged, as well as treated so you could see her. He’d had it framed and he’d mounted it over the corner fireplace in our room.

It was a better present than Barbarella, by far, and Barbarella was awesome.

It was also Toby who’d put a rocking chair in the corner and fixed some shelves for Brooks’s books and toys on a wall and bought big tin letters that spelled Brooklyn’s Place that he’d installed over Brooklyn’s crib in his room.

All that was almost better than the picture of my mom.

But not quite.

Coming in a close third, for my birthday, he’d done this whole Martha Stewart Would Have an Orgasm craft space in the loft, where I could make my cards and do other stuff during my me time.

I still sold cards (and notecards, notecard sets and postcards) at Macy’s as well as Carol’s shop in Bellevue. Not to mention, I’d done Johnny and Izzy’s save-the-date cards and wedding invitations, which bought me an order of wedding invites from Carolyn, Lora’s friend (now my friend) and birthday invites from Bea, (also my friend now through Lora). I’d shown them a photo of Izzy’s save the date at Magic Mike night during my initiation and the seal was broken.

I wasn’t complaining.

I no longer needed the money. So I used it to spoil my boys.

I felt bad I had a space and Toby didn’t for about thirty seconds, which was the time it took for him to explain his space was parked in front of the TV or when he was fucking me in our bed.

So I let that go.

We also had a smattering of SMEG appliances on the countertops courtesy of my Christmas Crate and Barrel gift card.

And a breadmaker because we liked to make our own pizza, from base up.

He popped his beer, poured wine and was getting out the breadmaker as I shuffled through mail.

“Dan outside?” Toby asked when I saw it.

“Yeah,” I muttered, staring at the envelope, my heart starting to race.

I vaguely noted Toby heading to the back door as I headed to the utility drawer to get out the letter opener (see? totally domesticated—I’d never had a letter opener in my life).

Dapper Dan was in and I heard Toby murmuring his greetings to our dog, knowing he was giving a fur rubdown as I slid the