I’m forty and have a mom bod, curvy and soft. I lift cupcakes instead of weights. He’s seven years younger and a god, chiseled from marble. I hadn’t looked at another man since the divorce, then my silly flirting with the roofer leads to suddenly sharing my bed with him. How did this even happen?
I study Zane’s face and wonder if he’ll ever love me, because I’m already there.
“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispers.
Yes, Zane, I’m your baby. I’m the woman who will wait for you to love me. But please hurry. This is killing me.