orgasm. For some reason, I can’t drag my eyes away from him. It’s not simply that he’s handsome, which he is, but he seems so comfortable, so at ease. After walking into a freaking asylum and cleaning up kid puke. There has to be something seriously wrong with this guy.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” I tell him honestly. “I mean, what with you walking in on…I don’t even know what to call that…a complete disaster?”
“It wasn’t that bad.” He shakes his head slowly, then grins. “Okay, it was a little bad. Actually, I was surprised, too. I mean, a strange man appeared in the doorway and you didn’t even flinch.”
“I live in New York,” I counter. “Strange men are always lurking in doorways.”
He laughs, a throaty chuckle, and I realize that I’m flirting with him. Which would be terrific if I were still wearing my Roberto Cavalli jeans that show off my ass really well.
“So, you’re Danny’s sister?”
“Sorry. Yes. I’m Meg.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Meg.”
I wish I could say the same!
I try to muster up an amiable smile, one that belies my misery, when I notice his eyes wander down to my boobs and go wide. Typical.
Reflexively, I glance down and am horrified to see that I have unwittingly entered a wet t-shirt contest with myself. The damp white cotton of the tee is plastered to my breasts, leaving nothing to the imagination. I clasp the Hefty bag to my chest and utter a swift “Fuck!”
“Sorry,” Matt says, his face turning red, although I’m pretty sure not as red as mine.
“ You’re sorry?” I sputter. “ I’m sorry!”
At that moment, the girls march into the kitchen in a single file line, chanting “Pizza” at the top of their lungs, followed by Tebow who is hollering something through his pacifier that doesn’t even remotely sound like the word pizza. The little procession stomps around the table like Nazis, their volume rising with every step.
“How about another Dora?” I call out over the din. None of them pays any attention to me.
“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” say the girls.
“Mmilflew! Mmilflew! Mmilflew!” says my nephew.
Still clutching the trash bag against me, I look at Matt imploringly.
“Do you think you could call Domino’s while I, uh, take care of my clothes?” (Both the puke-covered clothes and the ones I’m wearing.)
“No problem,” he replies graciously, his cheeks still slightly pink.
“I don’t know where the number is!”
“No problem.” He holds up his Samsung Galaxy for me to see. Ah, a man after my own technologically robotic heart. “I’ll take care of it.”
I nod gratefully and hightail it to the back of the house. (All this rushing back and forth is almost as good as the treadmill. I can’t understand why all moms with young children aren’t absolutely skeletal.) Probably, I shouldn’t leave the girls and Tebow in the charge of a complete stranger, but Matt Ryan doesn’t strike me as a total psycho—and believe me I’ve met a few psychos in my time. Even dated a few, but that’s another story.
In the guest bathroom, I grab the offending clothes from where I left them, on the bathmat, and shove them into the Hefty sack. I peer into the shower to see my beloved Louboutin boots right where I left them, drying by the drain. They will never be the same, but I can’t bring myself to throw them away. After a brief contemplation, I grab the bathmat and stuff it in the trash bag, disregarding the fact that Caroline will be really pissed when she finds her precious rug missing, then tie the bag shut.
One glance in the bathroom mirror confirms my suspicions. I have been talking to a total hottie whilst looking like Who-Did-It-And-Ran. I see the reflection of the bed behind me with the detritus of my purse flung all over the comforter from Tebow’s earlier explorations. Suddenly, I remember my birth control pills and I practically leap to the bedside table where I hid them. Perched on the edge of
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” I tell him honestly. “I mean, what with you walking in on…I don’t even know what to call that…a complete disaster?”
“It wasn’t that bad.” He shakes his head slowly, then grins. “Okay, it was a little bad. Actually, I was surprised, too. I mean, a strange man appeared in the doorway and you didn’t even flinch.”
“I live in New York,” I counter. “Strange men are always lurking in doorways.”
He laughs, a throaty chuckle, and I realize that I’m flirting with him. Which would be terrific if I were still wearing my Roberto Cavalli jeans that show off my ass really well.
“So, you’re Danny’s sister?”
“Sorry. Yes. I’m Meg.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Meg.”
I wish I could say the same!
I try to muster up an amiable smile, one that belies my misery, when I notice his eyes wander down to my boobs and go wide. Typical.
Reflexively, I glance down and am horrified to see that I have unwittingly entered a wet t-shirt contest with myself. The damp white cotton of the tee is plastered to my breasts, leaving nothing to the imagination. I clasp the Hefty bag to my chest and utter a swift “Fuck!”
“Sorry,” Matt says, his face turning red, although I’m pretty sure not as red as mine.
“ You’re sorry?” I sputter. “ I’m sorry!”
At that moment, the girls march into the kitchen in a single file line, chanting “Pizza” at the top of their lungs, followed by Tebow who is hollering something through his pacifier that doesn’t even remotely sound like the word pizza. The little procession stomps around the table like Nazis, their volume rising with every step.
“How about another Dora?” I call out over the din. None of them pays any attention to me.
“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” say the girls.
“Mmilflew! Mmilflew! Mmilflew!” says my nephew.
Still clutching the trash bag against me, I look at Matt imploringly.
“Do you think you could call Domino’s while I, uh, take care of my clothes?” (Both the puke-covered clothes and the ones I’m wearing.)
“No problem,” he replies graciously, his cheeks still slightly pink.
“I don’t know where the number is!”
“No problem.” He holds up his Samsung Galaxy for me to see. Ah, a man after my own technologically robotic heart. “I’ll take care of it.”
I nod gratefully and hightail it to the back of the house. (All this rushing back and forth is almost as good as the treadmill. I can’t understand why all moms with young children aren’t absolutely skeletal.) Probably, I shouldn’t leave the girls and Tebow in the charge of a complete stranger, but Matt Ryan doesn’t strike me as a total psycho—and believe me I’ve met a few psychos in my time. Even dated a few, but that’s another story.
In the guest bathroom, I grab the offending clothes from where I left them, on the bathmat, and shove them into the Hefty sack. I peer into the shower to see my beloved Louboutin boots right where I left them, drying by the drain. They will never be the same, but I can’t bring myself to throw them away. After a brief contemplation, I grab the bathmat and stuff it in the trash bag, disregarding the fact that Caroline will be really pissed when she finds her precious rug missing, then tie the bag shut.
One glance in the bathroom mirror confirms my suspicions. I have been talking to a total hottie whilst looking like Who-Did-It-And-Ran. I see the reflection of the bed behind me with the detritus of my purse flung all over the comforter from Tebow’s earlier explorations. Suddenly, I remember my birth control pills and I practically leap to the bedside table where I hid them. Perched on the edge of
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