Foreplay: The Ivy Chronicles
fork into a meatball and lifted it to her lips for a bite. She ate about half of it before it fell into the bowl with a splat, spraying sauce.
    Madison proclaimed herself full after three bites, but I coaxed her into eating a little more, bribing her with the lure of bread. All the while, I tried to ignore Reece’s watchful gaze, hoping I was playing it cool as I wiped sauce off chins. Lowering the napkin, I glanced at Reece, only to find him staring back at me.
    Heat prickled over my face and I looked away quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear self-consciously.
    “C’mon.” I waggled a slice of bread at Madison. “One more bite and you can have this yummy yummy bread.”
    Eyes glued to the bread, the toddler shoveled one more tangle of noodles into her mouth and then snatched the promised bread from my fingers.
    Sheridan was another story, happily devouring her spaghetti and moving on to her second meatball. I picked at my dinner as they polished off their milk. Everything I chewed sank like lead into my stomach. It was hard to eat with Reece across from me. Watching. Eating with gusto. Apparently he had no such troubles.
    “All right,” I instructed when the girls declared themselves stuffed. “Let’s hose you down and get in your pj’s and ready for bed. I promise to read to you if you guys don’t stall.” I clapped once. “Chop chop.”
    “Two stories,” Sheridan wheedled.
    “Um.” I pretended to think hard. “Okay.”
    “Three!” Madison shouted, holding up four fingers.
    Sheridan pointed at her. “Ha! You can’t count! You’re holding up four—”
    I closed a hand around the seven-year-old’s arm and lowered it to her side. “I think three stories sounds perfect.”
    “Yay!” The girls cheered and climbed down from their seats, Madison unlocking her own booster strap in her eagerness.
    “Wait. Wash hands first.” I led them to the kitchen sink and supervised as they stepped up on the stool and washed up. They raced from the kitchen.
    Turning, I faced Reece. He was watching me intently, relaxed in his chair, one arm reclined along the surface of the table. “You’re good with them.”
    “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
    He shook his head. “Not really. Just experienced. I grew up with a little brother who insisted on shadowing me everywhere.”
    “That didn’t annoy you? I thought big brothers tortured their younger brothers?”
    “Not so much. We got on pretty well. Still do.”
    “You’re lucky,” I murmured, trying not to let the envy creep in. But then who knew what would have happened if I’d had a brother or sister? They might not have survived my mother. I barely did.
    He angled his head. “Let me guess. You and your sister are still bitter rivals?”
    “No. Only child.”
    “Oh.” The teasing tone left his voice. He studied me again. I sank back into my chair and toyed with my food like I was still going to eat it. I stabbed at a meatball beneath his close scrutiny. “Never would have guessed it. You’re a natural with kids. Just a born mother, I guess.” The way he uttered that, I didn’t feel complimented. It was almost like the observation disappointed him.
    “Thanks.” I supposed someone raised in a retirement village (not that he knew that about me) wouldn’t necessarily be adept at interacting with children. But I understood children like I understood the elderly. Both were usually overlooked. They lacked control in their worlds. I understood what they needed. I gave them attention. Kindness. Respect.
    “I think I want to work with kids,” I volunteered, and then wondered why I said anything. He wasn’t interested in what I wanted to do when I graduated. He was a bartender. He wasn’t Emerson or Georgia. Or even Hunter. Especially not Hunter.
    The silence stretched between us, and his lack of comment only proved he could care less about my ambitions. Giving up on my plate, I used a napkin and started to clean up the spilled food on

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