Page 1 of Tiny Precious Secrets (The Brothers of Calloway Creek The Montanas #4)
Allie
Christopher’s ice-cream cone drips down the sides of his hands. He doesn’t mind. He’s mesmerized by the Disney characters, the brightly clad dancers pirouetting their way down Main Street, and the huge Dumbo float that slowly drifts by.
His eyes are as big as saucers. “Mommy, it’s Dumbo. He fwies wif his ears!”
I tousle his longish blond locks and smile. “He sure does, baby.”
Pluto—or someone wearing the amazingly detailed costume—spots Christopher and comes over, reaching out a hand, or paw as it may be, tickling him under his sticky chin.
Laughter dances out of my son. It’s infectious. Virulent. Highly contagious. And I can’t help but laugh along with him.
Christopher’s smile fades, as does his whole body—the parade too—as arms come around me.
“Mmmm,” a deep male voice mumbles against my neck. “I’ve never heard you laugh in your sleep. You were smiling too. Better have been thinking about me.”
Needing a minute, I pull away. “I uh, need to pee. Like now.”
I pad to the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the faucet, praying the tears don’t come. I love dreaming about Christopher almost as much as I hate it. Breathing in and out several times to calm myself, I do what I said I was coming in to do and then join Asher back in bed.
“Actually,” I say with a wink now that I’m composed, “I was thinking about meeting that famous old baseball player last night. What was his name? Sawyer Mills?”
“Hey now.” He looks offended. “Watch who you’re calling old. Mills isn’t all that much older than I am.”
I snuggle close and slap my hand on his bare ass. “Sometimes I forget how ancient you are with all your parts working as well as they do. Four times last night? That has to be a record.”
He flips me on my back and hovers over me. “Care to go for another? I’ll show you exactly how this old guy can keep up with the rest of them.”
“Don’t you have an early flight?”
“It got pushed back until later this afternoon.”
I scrunch my brows, concerned about his daughter. He’s away so much on business. “What about Bug?”
“She’ll be fine. I’m sure she’s more than happy to stay at Mel’s all day.” His phone rings and he scoots off me to check it. “Speak of the devil.”
He swipes to answer the video call as I race to the bathroom to hide as usual.
Bug—or Darla as she insists I call her—is his feisty thirteen-year-old. And as far as I can tell, I’m the only one who she insists uses her given name.
I lean against the door, eavesdropping on their conversation.
I love the way he is with her. And she adores him.
They take care of each other as much as any father and daughter I’ve ever known.
It kills him to be away from her when he travels.
But he’s in high demand, so he goes where he’s needed.
Luckily, his job is also flexible, allowing him to work from home when he’s back in Orlando. And when he’s there, he’s full-on dad.
Or so I hear. I haven’t actually seen it myself. I’ve never been invited.
I’m not bitter about it. I get it. Bug has been hurt by women.
She’s not exactly begging for a stepmom, or even a significant female presence in Asher’s life.
Which is fine by me. What we have—occasional nights together in Manhattan, where a lot of companies contract for his business—is perfect.
And it has been for the last fifteen months.
I take the opportunity to brush my teeth and put on my running clothes.
Whenever I come to the city, I make it a point to run in Central Park.
Sure, Calloway Creek has some great running trails, but even those get boring and mundane.
This is Central Park. There’s nothing boring about a place with 132 acres of woods and meadows with 58 miles of pedestrian pathways.
By the time Asher is done talking with Bug, our breakfast has arrived.
The smell of coffee assaults my senses and my eyes close as I inhale it in. I remove the domes over the plates, hand Asher his bacon and eggs, and bite into my oversized blueberry muffin, rolling my eyes as the fruit explodes along my taste buds.
“Mmm mmm mmm,” he says around his food. “This never gets old. Thanks.”
He doesn’t need to thank me. I ordered and paid for breakfast. Always have.
It’s the least I can do since he covers the hotel room.
Or his company does. At first, I offered to upgrade us.
Maybe I was trying to impress him back then.
The younger woman who didn’t need a man to pay for anything.
But Asher Anderson is not easily impressed. Not by money anyway.
I’ve learned over the past year what does impress him. Kindness. Integrity. Generosity. And maybe the ability to have multiple orgasms.
He wolfs down the rest of his breakfast as I tie my running shoes.
I look up. “Why the rush if your flight got pushed back?”
“I want to go running with you.”
I laugh. Because in all the times we’ve done this—which adds up to what, a dozen? Two?—he’s never gone running with me. He’s always on an early morning flight back to Florida.
“You?” I chuckle again.
He throws a small decorative pillow at me. “I run, Al. I run all the time. I run in ninety-degree heat.”
Eyeing his two suits hanging in the corner and his more casual khakis draped over the chair, I ask, “In what, exactly? Chinos and a Ralph Lauren button down?”
He shrugs. “There’s a shop downstairs. I’m sure they have something.”
“Ok, fine,” I huff, noting his still full cup of coffee. He’s a slow drinker. “Finish your coffee. I’ll run down and get something.”
“You don’t know my size.”
“Asher, I’ve had my arms around you a dozen times. I think I’ve figured it out by now.”
“Fourteen.”
I look at him oddly. “I didn’t know guy sizes were in the teens. I was thinking thirty-four waist and large shirt.”
“Impressive.” He nods. “You got it exactly right. But you said you had your arms around me a dozen times. It’s fourteen. We’ve met here fourteen times, not including the two times we hooked up at your place.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll be right back.”
I quickly leave, not knowing what to think about this new piece of information. He’s been counting the times we’ve been together? Or maybe he just knows how many trips he’s made to New York City.
Down in the hotel shop, there isn’t much to choose from. I smile when I come across a display of cheesy touristy T-shirts. I pull one out and check the size. Then I grab a pair of athletic shorts, choosing the ones with the shortest inseam. The man has nothing if not amazing thighs.
Back in the room, Asher is coming out of the bathroom with freshly washed hair.
“Most people prefer to shower after they run,” I say, shoving the bag at him.
“Most people didn’t have their head between the legs of a beautiful naked woman half the night.”
I put my hands on my hips, pouting. “Are you saying I smell bad?”
“I’m saying I don’t need to get a whiff of you when we’re running and end up with a hard-on in the middle of Central Park.”
I giggle at the thought. Especially considering the thin running shorts he’s about to be wearing.
He rummages through the bag and pulls out the shirt. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “Pickings were slim.”
He shakes his head in mock disgust but slips on the shirt anyway. It’s now when I realize this man could make anything look good. Even a T-shirt emblazoned with a huge red apple with a bite taken out of one side.
Shedding the towel around his waist, he pulls on a pair of light-gray boxer briefs and then the running shorts. He looks down at himself. “I thought you said you knew my size. Allie, my legs are way too long for these.”
“I know your size, Asher.” I walk around him in admiration, then I pinch one of his butt cheeks.
Deep rumbles of masculine laughter bellow out of him. “Okay, Montana. But just know, payback can be hell.”
“Do your worst, Mr. President.”
He rolls his eyes.
When Asher’s sister Marti—soon to be my sister-in-law—first introduced me to him, I told him his name sounded presidential. It’s been an ongoing joke between us ever since.
“Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Let’s get in a run. And if we’re lucky, we’ll just have time for another kind of workout before I have to catch my flight.”
I smile knowing today’s run might just be a little faster than normal.