“That’s not really playing fair,” I tell him, pointing to his bare chest, still standing by the edge of the bed.
“What? This old thing? You’ve seen this dozens of times,” he teases.
But I haven’t spent the night snuggled up against his warm, bare skin, and that is completely different. I haven’t kissed him while he’s not wearing a shirt either, and it’s a totally different experience when Pat pulls me into bed and brushes his lips over mine. What starts soft and teasing quickly turns into something spinning out of control.
Pat pulls away when my hands start to explore his skin, my fingernails scraping over the big, square muscles in his chest. A soft groan falls from his lips. Before I can even protest, he picks me up, turning me away from him and spooning me.
“This might be safer,” he says, practically a growl.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust either of us.”
“Thank you,” I say, running my hands over his arms, feeling the muscles flex there.
“For what?”
“Where do I start? For chasing after me, even when I tried to chase you away. For marrying me. For all the things you fixed. For all the surprises, like this one. For loving Jo. For loving me so well, even when I don’t deserve it.”
“You do,” he insists, nuzzling his face into my hair. “You deserve so many good things, Lindy. You are my solid ground. My place of rest. My forever home.”
“That sounds a little like a description of a grave.”
Pat laughs, my whole body shaking with his. Then he shifts, reaching back to click off the lamp beside the bed, and the room plunges into darkness. Though I didn’t think it was possible given the worries in my mind and the tumult of my day, I start to drift into sleep. Pat’s breaths rise and fall in perfect rhythm with my own.
The last thing I hear is Pat whispering, “I love you,” against my hair.
I love you too, I think, and then I tumble into the dark curtain of sleep.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lindy
I wake up to Pat, a solid furnace against my back. I’m damp and maybe a little sticky. His arm is banded tightly around my stomach, skin on skin where my shirt has ridden up. Our legs are tangled together, his hair brushing my smooth legs. His breath stirs my hair, and now that I’m awake, each puff of air tickles, making me want to squirm closer. A lazy smile spreads across my face.
“Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” he mutters, dragging me even closer, his lips feathering over my neck.
I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. It does not surprise me at all to know Pat’s sleep-talk includes food.
I could live and die right here. Even with the whole sweat situation going on. Pat’s warmth is like a tropical beach without the possibility of sunburn or sand getting stuck in uncomfortable places.
He’s also the man you propositioned last night.
I freeze as the memories come back with painful clarity. I squeeze my eyes closed.
Oh. No. I. Did. Not.
Oh, yes. Yes, I did.
My entire body goes rigid as I trace back my memories of the night before. I practically begged Pat to take me to bed.
It shouldn’t be a big deal—I mean, we’re married. We’ve kissed. He’s told me he loves me, and I know I love him, even if I haven’t said the words.
But all those facts do nothing to ease the sharp sting of humiliation.
I know Pat was right to say no. I can only imagine how I’d feel if I had woken up in this same position right now, but naked.
Remembering, I feel naked. Is Pat getting hotter? Does he have a fever? Am I melting into a puddle of sweat or embarrassment?
I don’t know how I’ll face him when he wakes, or what I’ll say. Hey, remember that time I tried to proposition you and you turned me down like a gentleman? No? Me neither! That definitely NEVER happened.
This is bad. This is so bad. My shame burns with the intensity of a thousand suns.
I hear soft footsteps outside the room. Jo must be up. Jo.
The hearing.
A second wave of gut-wrenching realization washes over me. What started out so pleasant is now officially the worst morning ever!
I feel like I’ve been tossed into an industrial kitchen mixer that’s turning me end over end over end. Drawing in a deep breath, I start to count bricks in the wall. One row then two and three until my breathing slows to a manageable rate.
I’m going to get through today. I will. I WILL.
But in order to do that, I need to channel the Lindy who did this life on her own for the last five years. I need her to be strong today for me, for Jo. I need to zip that bulletproof vest back in place and kick the feral cat back to the curb. I can’t think about what happened with Pat last night, or about what my future with him will be.
One big, emotional thing at a time.
Pat smacks his lips, mumbling something about llamas and first downs. I love this man, despite my utter humiliation. I love him, and I will tell him, but first, there is a horrible, terrible, rotten day to get through.
As slowly and quietly as I can, I slip out of bed. Pat doesn’t even stir.
I can’t tell you a single thing about the drive to Austin for the hearing. We might have time traveled or flown in a shoe for all I remember. Too soon, I’m sitting at a table in the courtroom next to Ashlee wondering how I got here. Not just physically, but how my life brought me to this point.
Jo is in a secure room with Mari, and I already feel this small separation like a soul-deep paper cut. Because I’m the only one named as conservator, Pat is seated with his family behind us. Judge Judie agreed to grant permission for Pat to be here today, and in the end, removed the ankle monitor altogether, winking and telling him to stay close.