Page 135 of The Homemaker

I know that doesn’t mean we couldn’t have made a child with hazel eyes, but Murphy has hazel eyes.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll see you this afternoon,” Rose says.

She will?

I smile and nod.

The parents collect their chairs and children while I remain rooted in the same spot. Is this real?

Murphy and the other coach gather the soccer balls and practice cones in a mesh bag.

“See ya at practice tomorrow,” the other coach says to Murphy before heading toward the parking lot with one of the players, probably his son.

“We won,” Murphy says, sliding my chair into its bag. Then he sets it aside and slowly removes my sunglasses, sliding them onto my head.

I feel my puffy eyes, so I can only imagine how red and swollen they must be.

His hands cup my face, thumbs caressing my cheeks. “We won,” he whispers again.

He’s not talking about the game.

“I realize that’s nothing new to you, but it’s new to me, and it feels really fucking good.” He grins before kissing me.

I wrap my arms around his neck, and we kiss until a new group of players and parents head toward the field for the next game.

Murphy ends the kiss and grins. “I want to show you something.” He carries the bag of equipment and my chair in one hand while leading me to the parking lot with his other hand holding mine.

“This was risky, Murphy. I was so mad at you when I saw you on the field. You were too close. We’re nothis parents.”

He chuckles, loading things into the back of a deep cherry-red pickup. It suits him better than a white luxury SUV.

“I know. We’re something else.” He closes the tailgate.

“What?”

He grabs my waist and nuzzles his face into my neck. “You’ll see. Where are you parked?”

I point a few rows over.

“Okay. Follow me.”

I frown which only makes his grin swell. He presses his pointer fingers to the corners of my mouth, forcing a smile.

“Stop.” I turn my head.

“You stop. Stop pouting. Stop worrying. Stop feeling so unworthy. Just follow me. I’ve got you.” He hops into his truck.

I shake my head and weave my way through the packed parking lot to my car because I’m dying to know what he has to show me. Murphy drives slowly so he doesn’t lose me.

The route is familiar. Too familiar.

The tree-lined streets have been etched into my mind for years.

His brake lights illuminate just as we reach Cameron’s house, but his truck crawls past it, turning into the driveway two houses past theirs. I wait for him to back out and turn around, but he doesn’t. When he hops out of his truck, I park on the opposite side of the street.

“What are you doing?” I call, closing my car door behind me.

“I’m hungry. I thought you could make us some lunch. Maybe a nice steak and salad with your secret Dijon dressing recipe.”