I sense his frustration. I will admit it is kind of like we have entered baby boot camp. A lot is being thrown at Beau in a short period. A bullhorn placed at his ear: change that shitty diaper. What the hell are you thinking? Diaper rash cream goes on the bottom; it prevents ‘rash’, it’s not an all over body lotion. It’s just a little spit up man, stop gagging! Look him your baby in the eyes. Act like you know what you’re doing!! Pretend, if you have to. Babies can smell fear.
I notice Beau didn’t bother shaving or combing his hair when he finally dragged his butt out of bed around lunchtime. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off to show muscled biceps covered in ink and a hint of a cross on his side. There holes in the knees …show more content…
Sadly, I’ve never found a guy more drool worthy. Being around a guy that doesn’t load his hair with more styling products than me is an attention-grabber. That’s one thing Beau, and I would never have to fight over time in front of the mirror. Beau doesn’t have to do a single thing, and he is still sexy. I also can tell he is about to erupt when his son sprays purified carrots all over the highchair tray and his father’s face.
Beau’s angular jaw ticks. Tension rolls through his shoulders, and he grimaces. He exhales a loud huff, sopping up the baby food with a napkin as he curses under his breath.
“Chill,” I …show more content…
“Am I going to have to go through this every single time he eats?” he asks.
“I don’t know; I’m I going to have to listen to your whine every single time you feed him?” Picking up the jar of carrots, I spoon out a huge bite and turn in Beau’s direction. “Here, have a taste.”
His brows draw together, his nose wrinkling at the sight of the baby food. “Um, uh, nah,” he adamantly shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“If he has to eat it—you have to make sure it’s not spoiled,” I tell Beau. He leans away from the spoon, his lips pressed tight together. I sigh. “You’re a bigger baby than Bubba is. It’s what parents do; they always test it first.”
Reluctantly, Beau’s mouth closes around the spoon, and I slowly pull it out. I struggle not to burst into laughter when he makes a face comparable to his son’s whenever he eats. “I was kidding,” I tell Beau, surrendering to the laughter. “I can’t believe you ate it.”
“Neither can I?” he gags. “What the hell is it? It’s not just carrots?”
I lift the jar and read the label. “Carrots and chicken.”
“That’s even worse.” Beau places a folded napkin over his mouth, and then crumbles the napkin, tossing it at the garbage can sitting by the
I notice Beau didn’t bother shaving or combing his hair when he finally dragged his butt out of bed around lunchtime. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off to show muscled biceps covered in ink and a hint of a cross on his side. There holes in the knees …show more content…
Sadly, I’ve never found a guy more drool worthy. Being around a guy that doesn’t load his hair with more styling products than me is an attention-grabber. That’s one thing Beau, and I would never have to fight over time in front of the mirror. Beau doesn’t have to do a single thing, and he is still sexy. I also can tell he is about to erupt when his son sprays purified carrots all over the highchair tray and his father’s face.
Beau’s angular jaw ticks. Tension rolls through his shoulders, and he grimaces. He exhales a loud huff, sopping up the baby food with a napkin as he curses under his breath.
“Chill,” I …show more content…
“Am I going to have to go through this every single time he eats?” he asks.
“I don’t know; I’m I going to have to listen to your whine every single time you feed him?” Picking up the jar of carrots, I spoon out a huge bite and turn in Beau’s direction. “Here, have a taste.”
His brows draw together, his nose wrinkling at the sight of the baby food. “Um, uh, nah,” he adamantly shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“If he has to eat it—you have to make sure it’s not spoiled,” I tell Beau. He leans away from the spoon, his lips pressed tight together. I sigh. “You’re a bigger baby than Bubba is. It’s what parents do; they always test it first.”
Reluctantly, Beau’s mouth closes around the spoon, and I slowly pull it out. I struggle not to burst into laughter when he makes a face comparable to his son’s whenever he eats. “I was kidding,” I tell Beau, surrendering to the laughter. “I can’t believe you ate it.”
“Neither can I?” he gags. “What the hell is it? It’s not just carrots?”
I lift the jar and read the label. “Carrots and chicken.”
“That’s even worse.” Beau places a folded napkin over his mouth, and then crumbles the napkin, tossing it at the garbage can sitting by the