“I wouldn’t piss you off when you’re sick. Besides, the boys need us on the same team right now, and I figure we’re both adult enough to be friends.”
A sharp pain spears through my chest. “Oh, um, right. Of course.”
He cocks his head. “Don’t you think that’s the right thing to do?”
There were so many times when I thought I was doing the right thing. For so long, I carried the hope that a miracle might bring the two of us back together. How stupid and surprisingly na?ve of me.
He’s right, of course. The boys deserve a stable environment. He deserves a break, at least from me, and, more than anything, to be happy. I had caused him enough undue grief over the years. It’s only fair that I set him free, as the old adage goes.
“No, you’re right.” I swallow thickly. “We should put it behind us. Start over with a fresh slate.”
Jack smiles easily, the corners of his lips tipping up to reveal the killer dimple I love so much. “Good,” he says. “That’s real good.”
“Right, good.” I try to return the smile, but I’m afraid it’s more of a weird facial tic than anything resembling an expression of grace and poise.
Low voices from across the hall catch my attention. “I better go check on them to make sure they’re okay.”
“No, you stay right here. I’ll go look in on them.” Then he does something that completely devastates my resolve to agree to his fresh slate proposal. He leans forward, puts a hand under my jaw, and brushes a kiss as soft as butterfly wings across the crest of my cheek. My hands come up to clasp at his biceps because if I didn’t, I’d simply melt into a puddle at his feet. He pauses there for what seems like an eternity and there is magic in it. Magic that transports me back to a thousand other kisses like this. Magic that undoes every door I’ve closed in my heart, blocking the feelings I had for him once upon a time.
We stay like that for a few beats past the line of propriety. I feel his fingers twitch on my jaw, like he wants to move, but can’t seem to make himself do it. In spite of everything, I find myself arching my neck to him automatically.
His swift inhalation breaks the moment and I catch myself. Shit.
“I think I’m going to take a shower,” I say, flinging the covers from me and hopping from the bed.
I cross the hall and close the door to the bathroom to put myself back to rights. After I start the water for a shower, I splash some on my face and pull back my mop of thick brown curls. I let the water run over a cloth and wring it out to place over my heated neck.
I’d gotten through the first at-home encounter relatively unscathed. Maybe putting our past behind us was what I had to do to finally get him to move on. Apparently, pushing him away with sharp words and distance wasn’t enough, especially now with us taking care of the boys and living in the same town again. Maybe he needed the closure to put this—us—behind him.
A knock comes at the bathroom door. “You okay in there?”
“I’m fine,” I shout back, pleased my voice doesn’t betray the emotions in my churning stomach. I pull the washcloth from my neck and wipe away the evidence of my anguish. If I can convince everyone else what we had in the past is over—finally over—then maybe, I’ll start to believe it myself. If I can do that, maybe I can forget what happened all those years ago.
To start, I wipe away the reality that he still smells the same, the sizzle that a mere ghosting of his lips can still evoke against my skin, and the startling moment of intuition that he was disappointed when I didn’t fight back.
Present
I SLEEP ON the couch, but I don’t do much real sleeping at all. Once the house settles and the boys go back to sleep after a long day of recuperating, I strain for sounds from Sofie’s bedroom. Each rustle from her sheets and every sleepy grumble tightens muscles I’d long since forgotten. Muscles that seem to remember her, no matter how much I try distract myself with thoughts of work.
By the time the first dregs of pre-dawn light filter through the living room curtains, I’ve given up trying to sleep. I get to my feet and pull on my jeans, ignoring the aching muscles caused by the cramped makeshift bed.
“Timizit?” Rafe asks from the doorway, ruffling his spiky hair.
“Time for breakfast, kid. Go get your brother, but keep it quiet. We don’t want to wake your sister up if she’s still feeling bad.”
Rafe ambles away, and I slip into my shirt and try to rub feeling back into my face. Normally, my wake-up routine includes about a gallon of coffee and a couple of shots right to the face from whoever I’m training at the time, but just the coffee will have to do for now. I’m sure when Sof gets up she may be inclined to lend a hand on the punching aspect, depending on her level of moodiness.