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Waiting for the door to the garage to open with a soft squeak, to listen to the rustle of fabric as Brit hangs up her backpack, her coat, tucks her shoes onto the rack.
The padding footsteps down the hall.
The woman who owns my heart coming around the corner?—
Owned.
She owned my heart. It has to be owned because otherwise I can’t?—
I exhale silently, brace against the presence of her.
She’s beautiful, as always. Hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, not a lick of makeup on her face, lean female body wearing a long sleeve tee and sweats. No nonsense.
Fucking gorgeous.
Always.
But I don’t focus on the stupidity of that thought, because I’m moving, pushing up from the barstool, crossing over to her.
“You’re hurting,” I murmur, seeing the truth of that in her chocolate-brown eyes.
Even though she shakes her head, mouth curving into a smile that’s so fucking fake, it’s not even funny. “I’m fine.” She moves past me, every goddamned step a lesson in fighting through pain. “Why are you here?” she asks before I can call her on her bullshit.
“Ben”—the son of one of our good friends, Mike Stewart—“fell during soccer and broke his arm. Sara didn’t want to worry you before game time, so she asked if I could cover for a couple of hours.”
“Oh.” A long pause before she clears her throat. “Well, thanks,” she murmurs, pulling open the fridge, surveying the contents like she’s not going to grab out a chocolate milk and a container of veggies and hummus like she always does.
The only question is if she’s going to have cucumbers, peppers, and carrots, or cucumbers, peppers, and kale.
Curious, I lean to the side as she pops open the top?—
And some part of my stomach twists as I see that the variable isn’t kale or carrots, or even snap peas, but?—
“You hate broccoli,” I blurt.
She stills, the lid clenched in her hand, but then she unlocks, moving stiffly to the sink, setting it in the sink with a soft plink. She picks up the container, brings it to the island, turns for the fridge.
But I’ve beaten her to it, opening the door again, pulling out the container of hummus.
“Here,” I murmur, handing it over.
Our fingers brush, that little spark of sensation the contact sends through me exactly the same as it was when I first touched her.
And she seems to feel it too, body jerking and then a wince dragging across her face.
“You’re hurting,” I say again.
At least this time she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she just gives a miniscule shrug. “That’s the life,” she says. “As you well know.” Then she brings the hummus to the counter, takes a spoon from the utensil drawer, and slops some over her veggies.
“Brit—”
It feels weird to use her name.
To not call her baby or sweetheart.
And it causes the rest of my words to stopper up in my throat.
“I’m sorry you got called in for kiddo duty on your day off,” she whispers.
