And yet. There’s no inevitable rise of regret.
Our closeness last night wasn’t out of desperation or fear. It was out of ease, familiarity. My body, my heart knew what I wanted, and I drifted for that. Chasing his touch. His comfort.
Because that’s what Hank’s always been. Safety.
Oh God. What does he think?
No. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.
He has his life. He’s moved on. He’s happy without me.
I have to be happy without him.
Swallowing around the tightness in my throat, I sit up in bed. The gray sweatpants and oversized flannel I wear are soft against my skin. My hair a wild, ferocious mane of madness.
Though I hate to leave the warmth of the bed, better things are waiting for me. The scent of bacon wafts over me. And coffee. The best scents known to man. Or a hungry almost-crushed-by-a-Christmas-tree woman.
My sore muscles protest as I make my way down the ladder. At the bottom rung, I hop off, my feet hitting the hardwood floor.
Hank’s bare chested and barefoot, standing at the stove with a dish towel slung over his broad shoulder. I smile at the crossword puzzle book resting beside his cup of coffee.
This is how it used to be. Hank in the kitchen. Slow, lazy mornings. Crossword puzzles and house projects. Tasks old people tend to, though we couldn’t be happier to putter all day.
I’m tempted to sketch him. All his hard angles. That shock of messy brown hair, the way it curls at the nape. The serious,loveable man. In my anger, my pain, I forgot about the best parts of him. Charming. Confident. Strong. How could I have ever made that mistake?
He turns, his blue eyes searching my face with laser focus. “How do you feel?”
I step deeper into the kitchen. “Like I got run over by a…huh.” I chuckle. “By a Christmas tree.”
“Bellamy.” He scowls like the reminder’s personally offended him.
The skitter of claws snags my attention. Then Zelda is at my side, tongue hanging out of her mouth. Before she can jump up on me, I drop into a crouch and wrap my arms around her neck.
“I hope you gave her all the treats,” I murmur as I bury my face in her scruff.
Brow arched in solidarity, he nods. “She woke up to the bacon-and-eggs fairy.”
“Good.” I steal a piece of bacon off the plate and toss it to the dog, getting in on the Zelda praise-fest. “Did you save Mama? Yes, you did. Yes, you did. Good job, sweet potato.”With one more nuzzle against Zelda’s scruff, I stand, evaluating Hank. “You look tired.”
He flips off the burner, his voice strained. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t exactly slip into a dreamless sleep after you almost died last night.”
He moves to one side, abruptly reaching above me for plates. His hip, that deep V in his side, presses against my stomach. As he rummages in the cabinet, I stare at his abs, the scruff on his sharp jaw. God, he is one finely honed specimen of man.
“I made breakfast.” He steps away. “You should eat.”
“Caffeine first,” I say, dazed, still inhaling his spiced scent.
Hank pours a cup and slides it toward me. “Here you go, sugar—” He flinches, catching himself.
My breath catches, my heart lurches. So that’s what last night did. Opened us up. Sent us back. Oh God.
Blushing, he clears his throat. “Sugar in your coffee?”
I smile. “Nice catch.” He knows it’s always been black coffee or bust.
“Been on my toes since last night.” He grins.
As he dishes a heaping plate of eggs and bacon for me, I stand at the counter and chew a nail. How many little slips have I almost had over the last three years? Picking up the phone, eager to tell him about my first art sale. Almost giving in to the urge to send him a raccoon meme I knew he’d love. Coming dangerously close to buying a beautiful old saddle at a thrift store for him.
