The Peanut Butter Babysitter
Copyright© 2004 by MarkStory
Chapter 15
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 15 - Jim and Aimee have a chance meeting over a jar of peanut butter. In the beginning, he's a married father, she's a college student. That chance meeting in a grocery store, and the coincidence that follows, will change their lives (and others' lives)! I brought this story back to life in late 2025, more than 20 years after I first started writing it.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Polygamy/Polyamory Masturbation Oral Sex Babysitter Slow
Six weeks later, we shifted into vacation mode, loaded Beth’s SUV with more things than we could possibly need, and hit the road for the Cape.
By the time we got past Boston the kids were asleep, both of them knocked out in their car seats like someone had flipped their power switches. Ethan with his mouth hanging open, Jake with his stuffed dinosaur mashed under his chin. Aimee turned around to check on them one more time — she’d done it every fifteen minutes all morning — and then settled back into her seat with this small, relieved exhale.
“Okay,” she said, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. “Now it finally feels like vacation.”
Beth laughed quietly from the back seat. She’d taken the back so Aimee could ride up front and help navigate; she had her feet propped on the cooler, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “Give it twenty minutes. One of them will wake up demanding Cheez-Its.”
I kept my hands loose on the wheel. The lightness in the car was the kind you get only when everyone’s excited in the same direction. Sun ahead, ocean ahead, a whole week of us being ... well, whatever we were now.
Aimee watched the trees blur by, chewing lightly on her lip. “So ... my parents.” There it was — the first shadow across her expression all day.
“Yeah,” I said gently. “We’ll figure out timing. Sometime later in the summer?”
“That’s what they want,” she said. “They keep asking if they can come down to New London, see where I’m living, meet you all. And I don’t think I can dodge that much longer.” She hesitated. “I’m just worried they’ll ... notice things.”
She didn’t look at me when she said it. She stared out the windshield like the answer might be hiding in the scrub brush along the highway.
Beth leaned forward so she could rest a hand on Aimee’s shoulder. “We’ll be careful,” she murmured. “We don’t have to pretend we’re strangers, but we don’t have to hand them the whole picture either. And you won’t be doing it alone.”
Aimee nodded, but she didn’t look entirely convinced.
After a minute she said, softly, “Do you really think we can act like a triple this week? Like ... openly? Not crazy overt. Just ... real.”
I glanced at her. She was trying for a light tone, but her fingers were twisting in her lap.
“I think we already are,” I said. “Maybe we’re just doing it with better scenery.”
That got a smile out of her — small but honest. Beth snorted. “Jim’s getting poetic. We must be close to the ocean.”
“Half an hour,” I said. “If traffic cooperates.”
The conversation drifted then: Ethan’s birthday in early August and whether he’d want a dinosaur cake again; Aimee turning twenty-one a couple weeks later; how strange it felt that her senior year was already in sight. There was a current under all of it, something like awe — how much had changed since she’d moved in, how much closer we were now than any of us had planned.
Eventually the GPS chirped and the highway flattened into those Cape roads lined with scrub pine and salt-worn houses. Aimee pressed a hand to the window like she could feel the ocean through the glass.
“Oh wow,” she breathed. “This is real.”
“Very real,” Beth echoed.
Then the cottage appeared — tiny, white shingles, blue shutters, a narrow driveway — and I felt this quiet, grounding certainty settle in my chest. Not dramatic. Just right.
The second I parked, the kids were awake and thrashing their way out of the car. Doors opened, bags spilled, someone yelled about needing to pee immediately.
We unloaded in a blur. The place smelled like sunscreen and old wood, the good kind of beach-house must. The kids explored every space on the first floor, then climbed the stairs to the small loft bedroom. When Ethan spotted the bunk beds he lost his mind, clambering toward the ladder with Jake right behind him.
“I want the top!”
“No, I want the top!”
“You had it last time!”
“That wasn’t last time!”
Their argument spiraled, loud enough that a seagull outside squawked back like it was taking sides.
“Guys,” Beth interrupted, stepping between them with the authority of someone who had broken up this exact fight a hundred times. “You’re switching every night.”
They grumbled, but accepted it.
Then Jake, brushing sand off the bottom mattress, asked, “Where’s Aimee’s room?”
Beth didn’t miss a beat. “She’s staying in our room.”
And the kids? They both went, “Okay,” and moved right on with their bunk-bed climb like it was the least surprising update in the world.
Aimee’s eyes flicked to mine — wide, disbelieving, a little stunned. I shrugged. Kids are sometimes better at this than adults. I lugged our suitcases into the small primary bedroom — smaller than Aimee’s at home, and the queen-sized bed took up most of it. We moved around each other with ease, hands brushing legs, lips brushing cheeks, as we unpacked and fit things wherever we could.
“Not exactly a room designed for three,” Beth chuckled. “I thought Rob told you it was a king-sized bed in here?”
“That’s what he said,” I confirmed. “Either he doesn’t know what a king bed is, or I’ve forgotten. We’ll just have to be... cozy.”
“Oh we can do cozy,” Beth purred, looking right at Aimee when she said it; Aimee blushed but returned her gaze.
The rest of the evening was settling: groceries into cabinets, swimsuits hung on pegs, sun in every window. The three of us sat on the tiny back deck while the kids ran circles in the yard, and the sunset turned everything gold.
After the kids were settled in their bunk beds, Beth asked me to pour three glasses of wine and meet them on the sofa, and they disappeared into the bedroom to change.
When they came back out, I had to set the wine bottle down for a second just to take them in, and remind myself how to breathe.
Beth was first: soft gray lounge shorts, high-waisted and loose, with a matching ribbed bralette that gave her the kind of ease she didn’t always let herself have at home. Her hair was tied up casually, a few strands escaping around her temples. The whole outfit was simple but — God — so flattering. Comfortable in that intentional way, like she’d picked it because it made her feel good, not because she was trying to prove anything.
Aimee followed, and her look was the same set Beth wore, just in a different color — light sage green that played against her freckles and her pale skin. Her shorts were a little shorter than Beth’s, her top a touch more delicate, with thin straps and a soft scoop neckline. They looked like they belonged to the same collection, the same shopping trip, the same quiet decision to match without matching.
They stood side by side for a beat, almost shy about it — almost.
I blinked. “Wow. You both look incredible.”
Beth arched one eyebrow, amused. “We went shopping last weekend. Thought we’d treat ourselves.”
Aimee tugged playfully at her hem, cheeks warming but eyes bright. “There might be ... other things to show you this week.”
My grin was the only answer they needed.
They curled in on either side of me on the sofa, the wine glasses catching the last of the fading light. Aimee leaned her shoulder into mine without seeming to think about it. Beth’s knee brushed mine on the other side.
We curled up on the sofa for a long while, talking about nothing and everything until the wine was gone and the house went quiet around us. But it was later — after teeth brushed, lights clicked off, and the three of us squeezed into that too-small queen — that the day really settled in my bones.
Aimee slid into the middle like it was the most natural thing in the world, facing me, her forehead tucked near my collarbone, her breath warm against my chest. Beth fit herself behind her, an arm draped over Aimee’s waist, her legs brushing mine under the sheets. Soft cotton everywhere — their shorts, their tops, the rumpled blankets — and the warmth of their skin under it, familiar and new at the same time.
There wasn’t much space, so every part of us touched somewhere: Aimee’s hand resting lightly on my ribs, Beth’s toes nudging my ankle, my arm curved around both of them. The room was quiet except for the hum of the window fan and the slow, even breathing settling around me.
As I drifted toward sleep, it hit me with a kind of gentle certainty: if the whole week felt anything like this, I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Beth woke to sunlight pressing thin and bright through the cottage blinds and the soft, warm weight of Aimee against her front. Jim’s arm was draped over both of them, heavy in sleep. For a moment she just let herself lie there — Aimee breathing steadily in the middle, Jim’s fingers brushing her hip, the three of them tangled in a bed that was absolutely not designed for this number of people.
It should have felt cramped. Instead it felt ... right.
Eventually the boys thundered downstairs from the loft, and morning began in its usual tumble of cereal, sunscreen, misplaced sandals, and Ethan asking for the twentieth time how many minutes until the beach.
They walked. The cottage wasn’t right on the water, but the distance was close enough that nobody complained — ten minutes, maybe twelve, with the boys stumbling ahead and the adults dragging two overloaded beach carts that rattled and squeaked over the uneven sidewalk. The air already smelled like salt and sunscreen, warm in a way that promised a perfect day.
Beth was quietly excited about one small thing this morning: the bathing suit. The new one. She and Aimee had tried on half the women’s section last weekend, laughing in too-small dressing rooms, handing each other hangers under the door. She hadn’t bought a new suit in years, and she’d half-expected to hate the process. But Aimee had been gentle and honest in the right ways, and when Beth stepped into the dark green one-piece — high cut at the hip, simple neckline, clean lines — Aimee had lit up like Beth had surprised her.
So she’d bought it. And now, walking toward the dunes with the cart handle in one hand and her beach tote over her shoulder, she felt a small pulse of anticipation she wasn’t used to feeling.
She couldn’t wait for Jim to see it.
Aimee walked beside her in the bright blue two-piece they’d also picked out. Modest, nothing flashy, but it suited her — youthful without trying, the color playing against her freckles and her pale skin that was already pinking at the shoulders. She’d thrown a loose linen shirt over it for the walk, but Beth could see the straps peeking out, the unwavering joy in her step.
She couldn’t wait for Jim to see Aimee, either.
Jim trailed behind them with the second cart, watching the boys race each other to the nearest dune. When they finally reached their spot — midway down the beach, not too close to families with screaming toddlers but still within sight of the lifeguard stand — they started unloading the usual chaos: towels, shovels, the umbrella that always resisted being planted, the cooler that weighed as much as a small car.
Then came the moment of truth.
Beth peeled off her cover-up. It wasn’t dramatic; she just slipped it over her head and shook the sand out. But when she straightened, she felt Jim’s eyes on her — soft, surprised in the best way. Not greedy. Not hungry. Just appreciative in a way that warmed the back of her neck.
“New suit?” he asked, voice low so the boys wouldn’t hear.
She gave a small nod, a little caught off guard by how good it felt to be seen like that. “Picked it up last weekend.”
He smiled. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
Aimee, halfway through unbuttoning her linen shirt, smiled at Beth. “I told you it was a good color.”
Beth tried not to blush. She did anyway.
Then Aimee slipped the shirt off and shook out her hair. Her blue bikini caught the sun, bright and clean, hugging her frame like it was made just for her. When Jim saw her, his expression softened again — different, but just as warm.
“Lovely,” Jim whispered softly. “Just so lovely.”
Aimee blushed and looked away, but not before Jim and Beth both saw the grin that lit up her face.
Beth spread the towels on the sand, grateful for the breeze and the space and the sense that something was opening between the three of them — not in a flashy way, not in a way strangers would see, but in the quiet acknowledgement of being a family on a beach together. Public, but not performative.
They settled in — Jim taking the umbrella battle personally, the boys racing to the shoreline, Aimee kneeling beside Beth to rub sunscreen on her shoulders.
Beth closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of Aimee’s hands, the salt in the air, and the knowledge that this week was already slipping into a shape she wanted to hold on to.
Watching the boys race to the water, Beth laughed under her breath. “They’re going to insist it’s warm.”
“It can’t be warm,” Jim said.
“They’ll insist anyway.”
It took all of five seconds for Ethan to cup his hands around his mouth and yell back, “It’s NOT COLD!”
Jim raised an eyebrow. “Classic.”
Aimee grinned. “Should we take bets on how long before they admit their feet are numb?”
Beth didn’t get a chance to answer, because Aimee grabbed her hand — casually, automatically — and tugged her toward the water. Beth let herself be pulled, grabbing for Jim’s hand on her other side. It wasn’t a secretive walk. It wasn’t bold, either. Just three adults ambling down the sand, fingers linked, shoulders brushing, the sunlight turning everything soft.
The water was cold. Shockingly cold. New England didn’t care that it was warm and sunny in June.
“Oof,” Beth gasped as a wave hit her ankles.
Aimee yelped but kept laughing, tightening her grip on Beth’s hand. Jim winced. “I can’t feel my toes.”
“You’ll live,” Beth said.
The boys splashed them with zero mercy, Aimee retaliated with a spray of water that went wider than she intended, and soon they were all laughing hard enough that Beth had to bend forward and catch her breath.
Eventually they retreated to the towels, shivering and flushed, where Jim handed out water bottles and juice boxes from the cooler. Aimee plopped down beside Beth, shaking salt water from her hair, and Ethan immediately presented them with a bucket of “starter sand” as if he were launching a major construction project.
Sandcastles came next — a lopsided kingdom with towers that leaned in sympathetic directions. Jake insisted his tower was “the biggest,” and when it wasn’t, he sat down squarely in Beth’s lap and demanded she fix it. She did. With appropriate ceremony.
A rolling vendor pushed a cart along the beach around midday, the bell dinging cheerfully. Hot dogs, chips, neon-colored Italian ice. The entire clan stood up like they’d been summoned by a sacred call. Aimee ordered for the boys, Beth grabbed the food, and Jim paid.
They ate cross-legged in the sand. Ethan dribbled mustard on his knee. Jake managed to get a blue ice streak across his cheek. Aimee had to steal a napkin out of Beth’s bag because “we are absolutely losing this battle.”
When the sun climbed higher, Beth dug through the tote for sunscreen again. She did the boys first, then handed the tube to Jim. He rubbed some onto his shoulders and chest in that casual way men did that always left streaks.
Then Aimee stretched out on her towel with a sigh. “Can one of you get my back?”
Jim blinked like he’d momentarily forgotten how English worked. Beth laughed and took the bottle.
Aimee rolled onto her stomach, unselfconscious, the blue straps crossing between her shoulder blades. Beth spread the lotion across her skin in slow, even strokes — practical, steady, but with that tiny flicker in her chest she couldn’t pretend away. Aimee’s skin warmed quickly in the sun, soft under Beth’s hands, freckles brightening like constellations.
“Perfect,” Beth said, recapping the bottle.
“Thank you,” Aimee murmured as she sat back up, voice loose with comfort.
Jake crashed into Aimee next — literally. He climbed into her lap, curled up like a cat, and fell asleep within minutes, sandy hair sticking up in every direction. Aimee didn’t move, afraid to disturb him. She just looked over at Beth with this soft, helpless smile like Well, guess I live here now.
Beth felt it in her chest — the rightness, the ease. Jim noticed too; she caught him watching them both, quiet, content, the corners of his mouth lifted in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time before this new chapter started.
The afternoon settled around them. The waves were steady. Ethan kept splashing into the water, then running back. Aimee rested with Jake’s tiny hand curled around her thumb. Jim lay beside Beth reading, one leg brushing hers, warm and familiar.
Beth tilted her head back to the sun and soaked it all in. The sun. The warmth. The love.
By the time we wrangled everyone back to the cottage, the boys were coated in a layer of sand that seemed to multiply as they walked. We herded them straight into the tiny bathroom, where Beth hosed them down like unruly puppies. Ethan complained the water was too cold; Jake insisted he wasn’t sandy at all despite leaving a visible dune on the tile.
Once they were clean-ish and in dry clothes, they tore back down the hallway toward the living room, tracking a fresh trail of grit behind them. I pretended not to see it.
The adults took turns showering after that. “Taking turns” being a generous description. The shower was barely bigger than a telephone booth, and there were ... moments.
Beth stepped in while I was washing myself claiming she “just needed to grab her conditioner,” which somehow took long enough that we were sharing steam and a kiss, her fingertips trailing over my half-hard cock, before either of us remembered we weren’t actually supposed to be in there together.
Later, through the crack in the door I caught a glimpse of Aimee slipping in as Beth stepped out, the two of them sliding their naked bodies against each other. “Conserving water,” Beth told me afterwards, deadpan, as if the Cape were in the middle of a drought.
I didn’t argue.
Once we were all clean and sun-warm and smelling faintly of coconut shampoo, we fell into the pattern we always found — making dinner together in a kitchen that really wasn’t built for one person, let alone three.
The space was so small that every turn put us in someone’s way. Aimee reached for the cutting board just as I opened a cabinet, and we bumped hips. Beth squeezed behind me with the pasta pot and kissed my shoulder in apology. Aimee brushed past Beth to get to the stove and let her hand trail along Beth’s lower back as she went.
It wasn’t deliberate flirting. It wasn’t a show. Just the kind of casual affection that had crept into our lives without any of us really noticing the moment it became normal.
On the other side of the screen door, the boys raced laps through the backyard, yelping at fireflies and slamming the door so many times I stopped reacting. Every time it banged shut, something inside the cottage rattled — spice jars, my nerves, Beth’s patience — but eventually the sound just folded into the evening’s rhythm.
At one point, Aimee leaned against the counter to stir the sauce, and I stepped in behind her to reach for the plates overhead. My midsection rested against her butt, just for a breath. She froze — not startled, just aware — and her eyes flicked up to mine. Soft. Warm. Grateful for the contact.
She didn’t move away.
Beth saw the moment, I could tell. But instead of tightening, she smiled — small and private — and reached a hand out to squeeze Aimee’s arm as she passed with a stack of forks.
We ate at the little table by the window, knees touching under the wood. The boys narrated every bite of their meal. The adults traded glances that carried the echo of the day: the beach, the sun, the water, the feeling that something had dropped into place so gently we barely noticed it happening.
After we cleaned up, the boys begged for “just five more minutes” to catch fireflies, and Beth relented. Aimee followed them outside to supervise the chase; I stayed in the kitchen with the fan blowing warm air across my back as I wiped sand out of the sink.
Through the window, I watched Aimee lift Jake up to help him catch a firefly, watched Beth wander out barefoot to join them, watched the four of them glow in that golden summer dusk.
And I felt it again — that quiet, steady thing in my chest from the night before.
Not fireworks. Not adrenaline. Just ... choosing this. Choosing them.
The day had been loud and chaotic and sand-filled and ordinary. And somehow it was one of the best ones I could remember.
After the boys finally surrendered to sleep — sand still in their hair despite our best efforts — the three of us drifted out to the back deck with glasses of wine. The air was warm, the last of the daylight gone, only the porch bulb and a few distant cottage lights giving shape to the night. Somewhere down the street, someone strummed a guitar badly. Someone else laughed too loud. It all felt exactly right for a beach town in June.
Aimee tucked her feet under her, leaning against my shoulder. Beth sat close on my other side, her hand resting lightly on Aimee’s bare knee. The breeze lifted the ends of Beth’s hair and carried the faintest trace of sunscreen back to us.
For a while we didn’t talk. We just breathed.
Then Aimee broke the quiet. “So ... my parents.” She fiddled with her wine stem. “They really do want to visit. Probably in July. Definitely before school starts up again.”
Beth let out a slow breath. Not worried — thoughtful. “They’ll get a hotel?”
“Yeah,” Aimee said quickly. “Obviously. They can’t stay with us. I mean, they could, but --”
“Let’s not traumatize anyone,” I said. It got the laugh I hoped for.
Aimee nudged my leg with hers. “They want to meet you two, though. And the boys. Maybe dinner somewhere. They want to see that I’m ... settled.”
Beth considered that, her thumb stroking absently along Aimee’s knee. “We can do dinner. That part’s fine.”
“And the other part?” Aimee asked, quieter now. “The part where they look around and try to understand my life?”
“We’ll be careful,” Beth said. “Friendly, warm, but nothing that reads as ... unconventional.”
Aimee nodded but didn’t quite relax.
I shifted slightly so she could lean more comfortably into me. “If they’re good parents, they just want to know you’re safe and supported.”
“They are good parents.” She sighed. “I just ... I’m scared they’ll ask a question I can’t answer without lying.”
Beth’s hand found hers. “We’ll handle it. Together.”
That seemed to help. Aimee exhaled and took a sip of wine.
After a minute she said, “And there’s the whole ... next year thing. Post-graduation. I’ve been looking at jobs. Maybe a teacher’s aide position, or a behavior specialist role at one of elementary schools. Something with younger kids.”
“You’d be great at that,” Beth said immediately.
“You already are great at that,” I added.
Aimee smiled, soft. “Thank you. It just ... it changes things. Doesn’t it?”
“About you being our nanny?” I asked.
She nodded. “And also, me telling people I’m your nanny. Otherwise, why do I live with you?”
Beth rested her head against the deck railing. “Lots of young people rent a room from someone, life is expensive. But after college, we probably shouldn’t be paying you anymore, not if you’re working full-time. And even now, this summer ... you’re not exactly an employee.”
“God, no,” Aimee said, almost laughing. “I don’t feel like one. Haven’t for a long time.”
“So then what are we?” I asked gently.
She didn’t answer right away. Neither did Beth. It wasn’t uncomfortable — just a truth none of us had stable language for yet.
“Whatever we call it,” Beth said finally, “it probably means we need a new plan. If you take a full-time job, you won’t be home with the boys after school.”
“They’ll be in full-time school themselves soon,” Aimee said. “Ethan in kindergarten this year. Jake not far behind. It’s all shifting anyway.”
I nodded. “We’ll figure it out. A new normal.”
She leaned her head on my shoulder again. “I don’t want to move out. Just so you know.”
Beth smiled at her over the top of her wine glass. “Please don’t.”
We let that sit. Warm. Real.
After a while Beth cleared her throat. “Speaking of next steps ... I’ve been thinking again about grad school.”
I turned to her. “Yeah?”
She shrugged, tracing circles on the railing with one finger. “I’ve wanted to do it for years. A master’s degree would let me take a lead hygienist or practice manager role somewhere. But it always felt impossible — time, money, logistics, childcare. Everything.” She glanced at Aimee, then at me. “But now ... with three of us ... maybe it’s not.”
Aimee brightened instantly. “Beth, you should. You’d crush it.”
Beth laughed softly. “Slow down. I haven’t even looked at programs yet.”
“You could,” I said. “If you want to.”
She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. But her expression had that light in it — the one she got when she let herself think about a life big enough to include her, too.
We fell quiet again. Not the heavy kind — the kind that means everyone feels safe enough not to fill the air.
Somewhere inside, the boys rolled in their bunks. The screen door creaked in the breeze. Aimee’s foot absently traced mine.
Nothing earth-shattering happened. No declarations. No big decisions. Just three adults who loved each other, sitting on a deck in Cape Cod, letting the possibility of a future settle around them like warm air.
And honestly? That was enough for the night.
Tuesday started slow — the good kind of slow, where no one minded that the boys were dragging their feet or that the ancient coffee pot took forever to brew. We’d all slept better than we had any right to in that tiny bed, waking in a tangle of limbs and sun-warmed sheets before the boys called for breakfast like a foghorn.
After cereal, sunscreen, and the usual search for Ethan’s other sandal, we headed into town.
Both Beth and Aimee had pulled out sundresses I hadn’t seen before. Not surprising — they’d done more “errand running” last week than I realized — but it still caught me off guard, in a way that made my breath hitch for a beat.
Beth’s dress was a deep navy with a fitted waist and a skirt that fluttered around her knees when the breeze hit right. Simple, clean lines, modest neckline. She looked ... elegant. Effortless.
Aimee’s was lighter — soft yellow with white polka dots and thin straps, loose enough to sway around her hips, fitted enough at the top that she kept smoothing the fabric like she wasn’t used to being noticed in it. Every stray breeze made her gasp and press her hands to the skirt, trying to prevent a Marilyn moment and failing just adorably enough that Beth laughed and handed her one of the reusable shopping totes “for ballast.”
When Beth took Aimee’s hand as we crossed a street, Aimee blushed and squeezed back, and I felt something in me melt a little.
We walked the stretch of shops near the boardwalk, the boys darting in and out of souvenir places to inspect shark toys and water guns and overpriced fudge. Aimee bought them each a tiny wooden lighthouse ornament “for the Christmas tree,” which they accepted as if it were pure treasure.
Sometimes I held Aimee’s hand. Sometimes Beth’s. Sometimes one of them hooked an arm through mine. Nothing choreographed. Nothing showy. Just a slow drift from one point of contact to another, like we all kept gravitating back toward the same center.
A couple of times, in quieter pockets between stores or when we stepped into the shade of an awning, a kiss found its way in — Beth tugging me down for a quick press of her lips, Aimee kissing me while pretending to thank me for carrying the bag, Beth leaning down to kiss Aimee outside a t-shirt shop. Never in a pattern. Never back-to-back. Just tiny sparks threaded through the day.
We got ice cream around eleven, despite knowing the boys would demand more later. Aimee ordered a strawberry cone, took one lick, and immediately dripped a pink streak down the front of her dress. She groaned and dabbed at it with a napkin.
Beth leaned in, inspected the spot closely, and then actually licked a napkin — like she would do for one of the kids — and dabbed at the spot, pressing lightly into Aimee’s cleavage.
Aimee’s eyes widened in silence, and I nearly choked on my own vanilla shake. “I got most of it, and I think the rest will come out in the wash,” Beth said, as if she’d just done a totally normal thing.
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