the scenery since he’s not watching me watch him. And this doesn’t feel as wrong as ogling his butt; appreciating the strong lines of his back is just—
I’m merely admiring art. The pursuit of the aesthetic is a perfectly acceptable pastime. Some people pay for season tickets to the Met; this is like that, but with a man’s live back muscles.
I’m saved from having to justify my actions to myself further when Maggie staggers out of the hall and into the kitchen, sleepy but greeting the day anyway, no alarm clock or caffeine needed. Frankly, it’s unnatural, and she doesn’t get this from me. Not from her dad either. Was there some freak early riser in one of our families somewhere? We don’t know.
“Morning, Maggs,” I greet her.
“Good morning,” she says back. Then, seeing Deek, she brightens. “Hi!”
Deek turns, spoiling the last of my ogling free-for-all, and sends a soft smile in Maggie’s direction. “Hi, Maggie. Morning.”
“Can we go to the park today?” Maggie asks him, stepping right up until she’s nearly toe-to-toe with him.
“Umm,” he says, and glances at my collarbones. “What does your mom say?”
I finish my coffee and turn around to pour myself a second cup. “How comfortable are you with the idea?” Mug in hand, I lean back against the counter, facing them. “Maggie always asks her babysitters if they’ll take her to the park—”
“And they never do!” Maggie exclaims.
I smile into my coffee. “They’ll go maybe once.” I give Deek a sympathetic look. “It’s a lot of kids and a lot of nothing for you to do but pace while she plays with whoever else shows up.”
“What if no one shows up?” Deek asks, looking back and forth between my throat and Maggie’s toes.
“Sometimes I’m all by myself,” Maggie sighs.
“Adults aren’t allowed on the equipment,” I explain. “And it’s probably going to be pretty quiet today. Mondays usually are.”
After a moment, Deek raises a shoulder in a tentative fashion. His words are cautious. “The park sounds okay.”
Maggie throws her hands in the air like she’s won something. “Yaaaay!”
“Shhhh,” I hush her. “It’s too early to be this excited.”
Matter-of-factly, she responds, “I can’t help it.”
Deek smiles full-out at her.
It’s such a surprise to see him doing it that I wobble my mug on its way up to my lips.
He transfers his attention from Maggie’s happy face to me. “What’s the plan for the day?”
“The park,” Maggie supplies. As if he could forget.
“The park,” he says dutifully, eyebrows hopping up once, his gaze staying lowered. It makes him seem really serious, to always be looking down. “And besides the park?”
I check the clock on the microwave. “I’m going to hit the shower in an hour. Then I’m off to work.” I gesture in the direction of Charlotte’s room. “Charlotte gets picked up by a bus in a bit, and she gets back around three. Ginny might need us to drive her to her house for her school stuff, but she runs on the same advanced summer school schedule.” I look at Maggie. “Want a quick breakfast?”
“Scrambled eggs, please.”
I motion to Deek. “Want eggs and bacon for breakfast?”
Gripping his coffee, he nods. “Please.”
“Okay.” I move for the skillets and haul out the milk, cheese, spinach, and eggs. “Tomatoes, anyone?”
“Gross.”
“Yes, please,” says Deek. There’s a pause. Then, “You don’t like tomatoes?”
I’m smiling as the skillet heats and the butter begins to melt and slide across the pan. (Our floor tilts ever so slightly. You have to watch what you put on the counter, like an apple or loose eggs, for example, because they can roll right off.)
“Not unless they’re the yellow ones,” Maggie tells him.
“The Sunspot cherry variety,” I share. I crack two eggs into a bowl and add cottage cheese, then beat it into a mix. I get the bacon going in a second skillet. “But she likes ketchup. You know, the typical red kind.”
“I love ketchup,” Maggie agrees emphatically.
Deek’s chuckle is a surprise. A nice one. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in the mornings since… since the girls’ dad was around.
“We make our own,” Maggie informs him. “You can make it with us next time if you want to.”
“I’ll be sure to help if I have hands,” Deek promises.
I turn back to them, holding the spatula aloft, and watch Maggie’s expression transform to a confused curiosity. “You have hands.”
His smile is gentle. “Sometimes, they’re paws.”
Realization makes her grin up at him. “Oh.” Then she confides, “I like having you as a pet.”
“Maggie!” I exclaim. “He’s not