And I nearly tripped over my feet when I felt his warm palm on my lower back, just below the waistband of my trousers.6
Dante took my empty glass, placed it on a console table by the front door, and set his down beside it.
“The bathroom is right here.” He pointed out the half-open door. “I’ll be right back.”
I stood outside the bathroom, watching as Dante bounded up the stairs, muttering under his breath. The boy seemed to have a tendency to unknowingly speak his thoughts aloud, and then blush when he realized what he’d done. He was adorable.
And I had to remind myself I was old enough to be his father. I sighed and stepped into the bathroom—it was actually a powder room with just a toilet and a sink—relieved myself, and washed my hands. Perhaps this wasn’t the wisest thing I’d done, but I did have to give Dante the results of his blood test. I refused to think how eagerly I’d leapt at the opportunity to give him that information in person.