Page 12 of Tamed Wolf (Rejected Mates of the Shelter #4)

Brooks, Now

I’m fucking wired .

When Rowan started talking nonsense to himself upon waking, I listened like I always do for a few minutes, enjoying his voice and the little inflections he’s already learning to put into it, then I couldn’t get out of bed fast enough when I remembered we have a house guest.

I know the little guy will need a fresh diaper before anything else happens, so I grab him and blow a few raspberries into his chubby neck, soaking in his giggles. It’s imperative that he’s entertained while I wrestle his dirty diaper off of him so that he doesn’t fight me too much, so I’m all weird noises and goofy faces. Once he’s clean and air dried, it’s time to convince my son he wants a fresh diaper on.

Rowan’s always happiest when he’s naked, but that’s terrifying with the amount of waste products his tiny body produces, so we’re definitely not doing that.

“Bet you’re hungry, baby. What are we thinking for breakfast? You want some apple oatmeal? Yeah, that sounds good today. Let’s see…let’s get you in your highchair and you can have a couple pieces of cereal to chase while I get your real food ready, ‘kay? Gods, you’re cute. Your hair’s a mess though, my dude. Maybe we should do something about that.”

Once he’s situated, I get my hands a tiny bit wet in the sink and rub my hands together to warm it up a bit before smoothing his bed head down. “There we go. So dapper. Let’s see how long you can go without absolutely decimating my kitchen floor, shall we? It feels like a good day for a personal record.”

I keep my eye on him while I get my coffee and his breakfast going, humming to myself a little bit.

Sometimes it hits me how fucking lucky we got to have this kid all to ourselves, but then I’ll feel bad for maybe 2.5 seconds because that means his mom is gone, but honestly, good riddance. I’m not always a proponent for the death penalty, but the amount of wreckage that woman left in the wake of her mad science experiments absolutely warranted it. I’m thankful that we don’t have to worry about her trying to insert herself into Rowan’s life.

“And that’s enough of those morbid thoughts. I’m thinking daddies one through three aren’t working much today. What do you think we should do, hmm? Oh, we’ve got a friend for you to meet. She’s awfully pretty, but hands off, ‘kay? We might try and make her your new mommy.”

I say this mostly joking, because I get the feeling Lark isn’t in the best place for a relationship and I have no idea if she’s even interested in us at all, but I’m still remembering the way she looked moving above me last night at the club and I fancy myself in love with her at least a little bit.

Rowan takes this opportunity to blow raspberries, one of his myriads of talents, but unfortunately his lips are covered in oatmeal, so it lands all over my face. I make a weird choking noise and then he’s laughing at me, so I turn it into a game.

Each time I act surprised by the mess on my face he laughs harder and harder until I’m sure he’s barely breathing, so I reluctantly get up to grab a washcloth and clean my face, bringing it with me to wipe down his table the first of many times, and then he decides to go absolutely savage and grab a whole fistful of the oatmeal I left too close to his pudgy hands and starts slapping the table and splattering it everywhere.

“Truly, that was a ten out of ten in the mess factor, Rowan. Very impressive.”

I give up on myself and end up just whipping my cereal-covered shirt off and balling it up, tossing it in the general direction of the laundry room. “Well done. Now I have to make you more food. If you wanted me to hang out with you longer, you could have just said that, dude.”

There’s a soft, girly giggle from the doorway, and I nearly trip over my own feet trying to turn my head fast enough to catch her.

“You two are adorable. He’s really making you work for it, huh?”

She steps into the kitchen, face all warm, no trace of the awful treatment she suffered last night, and it makes me wonder how many times she’s had to cover something like that up with a sunny disposition.

“How’d you sleep?”

She sighs dreamily. “I forgot how great mattresses could feel. I slept like a log.” She’s bending down now and smiling at Rowan, telling him hi and trying to get him to smile, and I’m…a puddle of goo.

“He’s darling. How old is he?”

Rowan just stares up at her, but when she starts playing peek a boo, he gives her one of his radiant smiles, and I watch her fall for him. “Six months.”

“Aww, such a big boy, aren’t you? Oh yes, you look just like your daddies.”

She straightens and eyes the coffeepot hopefully, so I grab a mug and fill it for her, grabbing the sweet creamer I can’t live without from the fridge and offering it up.

“Thanks.”

I nod and let her find a spot to lean against the counter and get somewhat comfortable, crossing her feet at the ankle as she cradles the mug.

“You look good in my kitchen.”

Her eyes fly open all the way.

“Shit. Sorry, I have a filtering problem. Here, why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll get some breakfast going for us more discerning adults?”

She snorts a little into her mug, but is still smiling, so I call it a win. “You’re a morning person, aren’t you?”

I grab a carton of eggs out of the fridge along with some milk and cheese and set them on the counter while I grab a frying pan from the dish rack. “It is the best time of the day, so of course I am.”

“What do you think, Rowan? He’s awfully cheerful for this early, don’t you think? It’s suspicious.”

“No, no, no. You don’t get to make him gang up on me.” I walk over and pretend to nibble on his fat little fingers. “You’re on daddy’s side, aren’t ya?”

She doesn’t say anything else as I start cooking, but it’s a somewhat comfortable silence.

When I slide her omelet onto a plate, she blinks down at it in confusion. “This is for me? You didn’t have to go through all that trouble. You guys have done enough already, you don’t have to feed me. Save your resources; I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

I lean over the counter, trying to figure her out. She’s…unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t know how to read her or what experiences have shaped her, but it’s seeming more and more likely they weren’t too great.

Without thinking too much about it, I grab the fork I laid neatly next to her plate, cut off a good bite sized piece, and pretend it’s an airplane.

She opens her mouth in shock, and I land right on her tongue, waiting for her fucking perfect lips to close over the fork before pulling it out of her mouth. Fuck. Is it weird that made me like 30% hard?

She chews and clears her voice. “You did not just do that.”

“Hm, pretty sure I did. Do I need to do it again? Or are you going to eat it all by yourself?”

“Wow, okay, going there. Fine. This is excellent, and I’m not going to be rude and turn down your incredible hospitality. Thank you.”

I watch her eat in fascination, completely forgetting about the omelet I was supposed to flip several minutes ago, that’s now very fragrantly burning in the pan. “Fuck!”

I run over and grab the pan, flip the eggs and consider trying to salvage it for about three seconds, before deciding that there’s no way that’s going to taste good at all and throw it away. I hate wasting food, but apparently, I can’t multitask with such a beautiful woman in my kitchen.

“You think someone’s going to be able to bring me to a bus stop in a little bit?”

Footsteps behind her produce a very sleep-addled Blake, who brushes a barely-there kiss to her shoulder before pressing into the kitchen and scooping up the baby, propping him on against his chest with one arm while he makes himself a coffee.

“He eat?”

“Sort of. I was going to mix up some more of that baby cereal since he decided to paint with the last bowl. Still needs a bottle, though.”

“I’ve got it,” Blake says, waving me off.

Lark is just watching us both, mouth hanging open.

“You good?” I ask her, amused as hell.

She shakes her head. “Sorry. I’ve never seen men around a baby before and It’s doing something weird to my insides. Ignore me. I’m uh, just going to go use the restroom and brush my teeth.”

She tries to wash her plate, but I grab it from her and block the sink, nearly fighting her to get it out of her hands. “You don’t do dishes here. You’re a guest.”

“But…you cooked for me. I want to clean up after myself.”

“Nope,” Blake says, hip checking her a little bit as he herds her from the kitchen. “You’re too cute to clean. Go do what you were going to do.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” she says as she stands there, looking very confused.

“Oh, it’s a thing for sure,” I agree as I start rinsing the plate to throw it in the dishwasher. “At least in this household.”