“I like the sound of a Christmas comet miracle. You know what sounds miraculous to me right now? Coffee,” I say, smiling at him, trying to peel him off me. Thankfully, Jack is there in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, mug of coffee in hand. You know how there’s that old-fashioned phrase of seeing one’s woman barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?
Yeah. Well, seeing my man half-naked, barefoot, and cooking in the kitchen sends a thrill from the top of my head down to my toes. Wowzers. “Hi,” I say rather shyly, hating that feeling, as I step closer to the kitchen and the magical elixir of life.
Oh yeah. Not only does Jack hand me coffee and grant me one of his rare smiles, but he is wearing those damned Wranglers low on his hips, and he looks like he just walked right out of a calendar. “Good morning, beautiful. Pancake?”
And just like that, the four of us sit down for coffee, cocoa, and pancakes. Part of me wonders how much of the boys’ body composition is made up of hot cocoa at this moment, but really, they are happy and that’s all that matters.
The boys have a funny holiday playlist on, and it’s nice to hear music not sung by us. They chat, including me in their silly conversation of “Would you rather, Holiday edition,” and Jack plays footsie with me under the table.
When we’re done, I insist on washing the dishes, as the boys have been so helpful. They plop right down on the sofa and start playing video games, now that their precious Switch is charging. Jack whispers something to them, and pretty soon all three are bundled up and outside.
I savor the quiet moment, the soap suds and hot water, and the second cup of coffee. If Cliff is right that we can leave the cabin today, that means I have to get back to my car in Jack’s driveway, unbury it, hope it starts, and drive back to the city. Back to my quiet, lonely apartment by campus.
That thought makes me dread the rest of the day.
By the time the trio returns inside, I’ve finished the dishes and wiped down the table, taken a quick hot shower, and packed my things except for my laptop. I’m sitting on the sofa enjoying the fire and trying to write that damned article, except my brain keeps reminding me of Jack’s kisses.
They’re covered in snow, loud, laughing, and red-faced. Stomping like a herd of elephants, both boys talk at once as they remove their layers and hang them up. Jack, of course, is silent. When his eyes catch mine, he gives me that intense look from last night, the one that says he wants to devour me. I hope my eyes tell him that I want him to devour me.
“What do we need to do in order to leave?” I ask from the sofa once they’ve settled down—the boys tromped upstairs to grab their things.
“Nothing. Just grab your things, we’ll put the fire out, and go. Anna and I will come back up to put things to rights in a day or two. It’s all good.” Jack comes to stand behind the sofa and puts his hands on my shoulders, rubbing out the newly formed knots.Biting my lip, I don’t tell him I don’t want to leave; don’t want to burst this idyllic bubble we’re in.
His hands are still on me when the boys appear downstairs again. I know they see us, but I can’t see their faces. I try to move away from Jack, but he holds me steady, startling me a little when his voice is quiet near my ear. “It’s okay. I talked to them. They know.”
At that, I whip around, my hair flying in his face. “They know?” I whisper with menace. What the actual hell did this man tell his children?
“They know we like each other. And that we might be seeing more of you in the future.”
More of me. This is somehow calming and unsettling to me. That idyllic bubble we’re in doesn’t have to ponder the logistics of my job, my life, my research. Or the kids and their emotional well-being, their school schedule, his work. But as we head for the truck, already running and trying to warm up, the reality of how popped my bubble is hits me.
Chapter 16
Jack
One Week Later
Ihave picked up my phone and called Holly every day for the last seven days. I’ve only heard her voice through her voicemail system. By the time day six rolled around, I was a caged animal—pacing, snarling at everyone, picking fights wherever I could get them.
Last night, Anna and Hans sat me down while my boys and their kids watched a Home Alone marathon—our yearly tradition. “Listen, Jack, you’re hurting everyone and yourself. Was it a fling or not?”
My sister has always been direct, and, like always, it rankles me. “Not a fling,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. Hans gives me the same affable look he always has and mouths the words, cool it.
“If it isn’t a fling, then you know what to do, cowboy.”
“I’m not a fucking cowboy,” I retort, knowing I sound petulant like a kid.
“Mm-hmm, and you’re not a child either, so stop acting like it. This lady has the hots for you. You have the hots for her. She isn’t answering her phone, because this is the twenty-first century, and she’s fucking busy. So get on your pony and go get her!”
“I’m not a cowboy.” This time, I cross my arms, doubling down on this stupidity. “Yes, I think we have something magical. Yes, I’m willing to fight for her. But I have Todd and Cliff to think about. They need stability, not me traipsing off to the city like some citified sellout.”
Anna’s eyes do this weird thing I can’t quite make out. As I lean forward to ask if she’s having a stroke, the voice behind my chair stabs me through the chest.
“Dad. We want you to go get her.”
“Yeah, we like her. And comets. And constipation.” At that declaration, both Todd and I groan, and I turn to pull my boys to me.
“You aren’t supposed to be eavesdropping,” I say, squeezing them tight, but happy they’re here, all the same.
