Filthy Beautiful Lust (Filthy Beautiful Lies, #3)

By dinnertime, I’m feeling eager to earn my keep and decide to treat Pace to my homemade marinara sauce. I make awesome pasta sauce. It’s my super power. I tell myself it has nothing to do with impressing this man. It’s just a luxury to have the time to actually prepare a nice meal, something more elegant than sandwiches, so I take full advantage. And with Max playing quietly in the living room while Pace watches him, I’m able to devote the time to chopping garlic and onions and simmering tomato sauce.

I hum quietly while I work, enjoying the moment of solitude and the occasional sounds of baby giggles and masculine laughter that drift in from the living room. Doing everything one-handed takes extra time, but that’s fine with me.

When everything’s finished, I peek my head into the living room. “Pasta’s ready,” I call out to the guys.

Pace is lying on the living room floor, and Max is climbing his body like it’s his personal jungle gym. A brief flash of jealousy flares inside me. I am usually the one to fill this role. But moments later, Pace enters the kitchen with Max on his hip, my heart warms at the sight of them.

“It smells great in here.”

I get the sense his kitchen hasn’t seen this much action in a while. The only thing in his fridge when we’d arrived were bottles of imported beer and questionable takeout containers, along with a few lingering odors.

I prepare Max’s plate first, allowing it to cool while Pace and I fix bowls of pasta for ourselves. I’m pleased to see he takes a large portion.

Once we’re all seated at the table, I watch for Pace’s reaction as he takes his first bite. “Well?” I ask.

His eyes drift closed, and he groans low in his throat. “Goddamn, woman.”

My smile is wide and immediate. “You like it?”

“Very much so,” he confirms. “This is incredible.”

I try a bite, and I have to agree. Pace stocked his cabinets with authentic olive oil and imported stewed tomatoes from Italy, and you can taste the difference in the quality of the ingredients.

Even Max seems pleased, he shovels big bites of pasta into his mouth, using both fists. Without a highchair, meal times have been interesting. And messy. But Pace doesn’t seem to mind, and since it’s his home, I let it go too.

“You know that I work for your brother, but you’ve never told me what it is you do for a living,” I say to Pace. Sitting in his beautiful home, watching him enjoy a home-cooked meal, suddenly I’m curious to know more about this man.

“I’m a real estate investor. I find inexpensive or rundown properties and buy them, turning a nice profit after they’re fixed up and sold. I have plenty of money to provide for a family, and a flexible enough schedule to actually enjoy one.”

“Oh, God, that’s embarrassing. That’s not at all why I was asking.” I want to bury my face in my hands.

“I know that. Don’t be embarrassed. I told you that because it’s something I want you to know.”

“Okay.” I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this information. With every passing glance I can feel deeper meaning and emotion seeping out of him. Everything I know about Pace warns me to stay away. He’s a young, wealthy playboy who enjoys sex and likely has several women on the side. But in every interaction with me, and with my son, and especially now being here in his home, where I feel comfortable and at ease, my mind is confused. My physical attraction to him is off the charts, but somehow, with every hour we spend together, it’s turning into something more than just physical attraction. I do not know how to handle that information. I’d sealed my heart off a long time ago, afraid I couldn’t weather another crushing blow like the one Elan delivered. Yet, there’s a tiny voice inside of me whispering that I should go for it. I’m not a big drinker, but suddenly I’m wishing for a glass of wine.

As if reading my mind, Pace rises from the table and retrieves a bottle of red wine from a rack across the kitchen. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion, but something tells me it’d pair nicely with the pasta.”

He holds up the bottle for my inspection. “What do you think? We still have to get your mini ready for bed…”

“Why do you call him that? No one thinks he looks anything like me.”

“Because he is. He’s part of you. I can see it in his mannerisms, hear it in his laugh, in his enthusiasm for spaghetti.” He smiles at me warmly.

He has no way of knowing it, but everything he’s just said cuts to the heart of me. I shrug. “One couldn’t hurt.”

“Cool.” Pace pours us each a glass of red wine and helps himself to a second serving of pasta before rejoining us at the table.

I smile into my napkin. His second serving cements the fact that he really does like my cooking. I think I’ve had a chip on my shoulder ever since serving him cold grilled cheese. I’ve redeemed myself in some small way.

By the end of the meal, Max is covered from chin to eyebrows in red pasta sauce.

I try first with paper towels, wiping him down as best I can. “Geez, buddy, how’d you get it in your ears?” I ask Max.

Pace looks on with amusement twinkling in his dark blue eyes. “Shall we just take him out back and hose him off?” he laughs, watching my futile attempts.

“You have a tub, right?” His large jetted tub in the master bath has probably been used for sex, hell, maybe even an orgy, but I’m guessing it’s never seen the type of action I have in mind.

“Sure do.”

We all three tramp off to the bathroom, the dishes and glasses of wine forgotten on the table.

While Pace adjusts the water and fills the tub, I strip an enthusiastic Max down right there on the bathroom floor. There’s just something about a naked baby, with chubby little butt cheeks-complete with dimples-that puts me in a good mood. He’s too cute.

We sit together on the bathroom floor while Max splashes and squeals. When I quietly explain to Max that we didn’t pack any bath toys, Pace disappears momentarily and returns with an armful of plastic Tupperware containers from the kitchen and dumps then in the tub. Max has a blast filling the cups and bowls with water and dumping them out again. My child is easily entertained.

“So, do you want more kids?” Pace asks.

Whoa. What? “Um, I don’t know.” One is all I can handle at the moment. Besides, the right man would have to come along first.

“I’ve always wanted two boys,” he continues. “If I have a girl, she’ll have me wrapped around her finger so bad.” He lifts his pinky into the air and smiles.

I’m unsure how to respond, so I continue watching Max splash. After soaping up all his bits and parts, Pace lifts him, dripping wet from the tub and carries him in a towel to the bed. There I diaper and dress him in the footie-pajamas Pace has gathered. Pace lends a hand as needed, but seems to understand that even though I’m functioning with one arm, I’m not ready to give up complete control.

“Damn, I need a pair of these,” Paces says, admiring the footie-pajamas.

My giggle bursts from my mouth uninvited. Just picturing Pace wearing a one-piece pajama outfit has me in stitches. “Sorry.” I hold up one hand, trying to regain my composure.

“What? You don’t think I could pull off footie-pajamas?” His trademark lopsided grin tugs at something inside me. Oh God, this man is trouble.

Since Max is already yawning and tugging at his ears, I decide to go ahead and tuck him into bed early.

I lay beside him in Pace’s big bed and read him the books we’ve packed. Pace sits at the edge the bed and watches me. Max begins drifting off on my second read through of Goodnight Moon. We say goodnight to a bowl full of mush, and a quiet old lady whispering hush, and I repeat again and again, goodnight moon until he’s sound asleep.

Pace’s gaze hasn’t strayed from me. I could feel him watching me all through the story, and I’m unsure what it means.

With Max resting quietly between us, Pace and I, as if by silent agreement, each lay down too.

I feel warm and content, laying here with this man and my child. Pace’s eyes linger on mine.

We’re separated by a sleeping baby, with a good three feet of distance between us, yet somehow I’ve never felt closer to someone. I decide that tonight I will be bold, and if something happens between us, then I’m ready.

“Goodnight, moon,” I whisper to Pace, setting the book down beside us.

“I’m not ready for the night to end yet,” he says and the butterflies in my belly take flight.