Filthy Beautiful Lust (Filthy Beautiful Lies, #3)

Pace meets my eyes, his deep blue gaze cutting straight into mine. “So I’ll make this crystal clear: I like you, Kylie. I like Max. I came here today because I enjoyed spending time with you and I wanted to see you again.”

“Pace, I’m sorry, it’s just that after Max’s dad, I’m really not looking for anything.” The idea of casually dating terrifies me.

“If you never try, how you will know?”

He’s right. I know he is, but the logical part of my brain tells me to be careful. The next man I date needs to be husband material. And I’m nowhere near ready for that anyhow. Judging by Pace’s good looks and carefree lifestyle, I’m sure he enjoys no-strings sex, nightclubs, and women without stretch marks. But then again, I’d thought Elan was husband material. He’d been mature and settled, and look how well that had turned out for me.

Pace is smooth, but not overtly so. There’s a truth in his eyes when he speaks the words. My brain is just hyper aware of men who promise me nice things and push me to want more.

Max slips against the bottom of the pool, sliding under and comes up sputtering from the mouthful of water he’s swallowed. Before I can even react, Pace has scooped him up and is holding Max to his chest, patting his back to clear his airway and murmuring encouragingly.

My hands are shaking, but Max is fine. Thank God.

I grab Max’s beach towel and wrap him up, clinging to him and kissing his head.

“He’s alright, Kylie. I had him,” Pace says, his tone defeated.

“I know.” I look over at Pace and see that his t-shirt is soaked and is clinging to his tanned skin. My belly tightens and a warm tingly sensation spreads through me. Geez, it’s been way too long. “Do you want to come inside and get dried off?” My voice comes out strained and I inhale deeply, trying to regain my composure. “I can make us lunch,” I offer.

Pace nods and fishes all the water toys from the pool, setting them aside so they can dry, then he follows me and Max inside.

I know we didn’t finish our conversation from earlier, the one where he challenged me to take a chance and live a little, which is good – because I have no response. “I’ll be just a minute, make yourself comfortable,” I tell him.

I get Max changed into a dry diaper and a new outfit – his favorite blue t-shirt with an alligator on the front and a pair of shorts. And since I’m now wet too, I take the opportunity to change into something more appropriate for having company over. A sleeveless midnight blue dress. It’s cotton and stretchy and soft, and I hope doesn’t give off the impression I’m trying too hard. I finger-comb my tangled hair and pull it back into a low ponytail.

When Max and I emerge from the bedrooms, I find Pace standing in my living room, looking at the photographs of Max that I have on pretty much every surface with a wistful expression on his face.

He’s stripped off his wet t-shirt and when he turns to face me, I feel like someone has punched me in the stomach. All of the air has been sucked from my lungs.

His chest and abs are rock solid muscle, like they’ve been carved from stone. He’s tan and has a light spattering of dark hair that disappears under the waistband of his jeans…and speaking of waistbands, there are no boxers or briefs that I can see. Does he go commando? And why do my fingers itch to find out?

“Do you have a dryer?” he asks, holding up a damp t-shirt.

“Y-yes,” I stammer and point to the hall that leads to the laundry room. A shirtless Pace and I’m reduced to one word answers and pointing. Excellent.

His gaze wanders over my curves, stopping at the knee-length hemline of my dress and he smiles appreciatively. “Be right back.”

I hear the dryer start up and I head into the kitchen, securing Max in his highchair and begin removing ingredients from the fridge.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything more sophisticated than grilled cheese sandwiches,” I tell him.

“I haven’t had a grilled cheese in years. Sounds great.” Pace beams at me.

Why is he always so sure and steady when I feel anything but?

Pace plays with Max while I busy myself buttering slices of bread and tucking cheese between them. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to turn around and watch them interact – the sweet sounds of baby babbling, coupled with deep male laughter tug at my heartstrings. Don’t be fooled by this pretty man, Kylie.

When the sandwiches are ready, I cut Max’s into little bites and dump the whole thing on his tray. Then I toss in some raspberries and his cup of milk. Pace watches me move around my kitchen and the sign language I use to communicate with Max. If he wants to hang around, he’s going to have to get used to the pecking order here. Max’s needs come first.

When I finally set our plates down at the kitchen island where Pace is sitting, I’m expecting him to make some comment about how the sandwiches are now cold, but instead he turns to me and smiles.

“You’re a really good mom.”

No one’s ever said that to me before and the emotional impact of his words stop me dead in my tracks. It’s as though all of my edge that I’ve fought to keep – my strength, determination and the lady balls I’ve had to grow since becoming a single mom – all of it is wiped out in an instant. “T-thank you,” I murmur.

Pace takes a bite of the sandwich, his eyes not straying from Max. “What’s that sign mean?” he asks.

I look over at Max and see his little fingers opening and closing. “Milk,” I say.

“I’ve got it.” Pace stands, and grabs the empty cup from his tray.

My feelings toward him soften, as I watch him pour milk into the sippy cup, fasten the lid tightly and place it back in Max’s chubby grasp.

I don’t need any help, but damn his presence here feels good. So good. I’m tired of being strong all the time. Here is a man, a gorgeous fucking man, who is willing to help. Why not let him? The lump in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.