“Oh. Which ones? All of them!”
“All five?”
“Yes.” Was he turning pale? She couldn’t blame him. People often did.
“I somehow thought you had three,” he murmured.
“No, five.” She held up the correct number of fingers, just to drive the point home. “Three four-year-olds—”
“Triplets!”
“You’ve turned pale.”
He really had.
“Five kids, including triplets,” Tammy went on. “That’s why I need five ice creams.”
“And you’re on your own with them.”
Was he horrified or impressed? She couldn’t tell.
He’d looked quickly down at his coffee, but somehow a memory had imprinted in his mind and he couldn’t seem to let it go.
I want her. In my bed. In my life.