Seeing artwork clearly done by his niece and nephew taped to the front of a sleek refrigerator makes me smile, and I notice the quilt over the back of the leather sofa looks old and hand-crafted. A family heirloom, perhaps?
What really makes the apartment feel like Hayden’s home—even more than the family touches—is how much Penny’s comfort matters. There’s a fleece throw on one end of the couch, clearly bunched into a Penny-sized nest. And there’s a set of doggy stairs in front of it to make it easier—and safer—for her to get up and down. There are several fluffy beds arranged around the living and dining area. Toys are scattered everywhere, and under her food and water dishes is a mat with Penelope Louise written in a fancy font.
“It’s nice of Penny to let you stay here with her,” I tease, but I’m dismayed to hear the tremor that’s been building in my muscles is also apparent in my voice.
“Have a seat,” he says, nodding toward the sofa. “I’ll get you some water.”
I do as he says, and Penny runs up her stairs to join me on the couch. After letting me scratch under her chin for a minute, she digs furiously at the pile of fleece until it’s just the way she wants it and curls up in the center.
Hayden hands me a glass of ice-cold water before sitting in the leather recliner with his own glass. Penny lifts her head, clearly trying to decide if she wants to join him in his chair. The fleece wins.
“You okay?” he asks after I’ve had a few sips of the water.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. Even if I did, I can’t really explain what I’m feeling right now. One night, years ago, I came out of a corner in a forty-five mile-per-hour stretch of road and almost hit a moose. It had been close, and I’d had to find a place to pull safely off the road until the shaking stopped.
This feels a little like that.
After being caught up in what felt like a hurricane of scheming and planning, it’s done. I’m married to Hayden Reilly, and without the constant voice in the back of my mind screaming are we actually doing this, the sudden quiet is very loud.
Of course, it’s just the eye of the storm. We’ll have to face convincing Gin to sell us the house and then talk her into leaving it. And after that, a breakup and divorce. But at this moment, everything’s calm and I can relax.
Or I could if I wasn’t alone with Hayden, almost a hundred miles from anybody who cares about the Gamble and Reilly families.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he presses, setting his glass on the table that’s in the corner between his recliner and the end of the sofa.
“I’m sure. Today was just a lot.”
“Yes, it was. I think poor Debbie was disappointed nobody objected,” he says, and we both laugh. Penny snuggles deeper into her fleece blanket.
Hayden stands and tugs the hem of his shirt out of his pants as he walks toward the kitchen. His back is to me, but I can tell he’s working at the buttons.
I can’t make myself look away.
By the time he unbuttons his cuffs, I’m wondering if his expensive apartment came with a cheap HVAC system because it’s uncomfortably warm in here. Even draining my glass of ice water doesn’t help when he slides the shirt off and drapes it over a chair, revealing a white T-shirt that hugs his body. My mouth goes dry, and I regret not rationing my water.
It gets worse when he yanks the tee free of his pants and pulls it over his head. I’d barely gotten my heart rate under control from the T-shirt and now I’m being treated to a broad expanse of naked shoulders and back. My hands itch to glide over that skin, and I ball them into fists instead.
Hayden starts to turn toward me, T-shirt in hand and his mouth opening as though to speak. Then he freezes for a second before turning away sharply.
But not before I spot what looks like a tattoo on his chest.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Force of habit.”
I set my glass on the table next to his and stand, wanting to get a better look. “Wait, was that a tattoo?”
For a long moment, I think he’s going to ignore the question, but then his shoulders drop. “Yes.”
The word comes out unusually terse for him, and combined with the way he’s holding his shirt, I can tell he doesn’t want me to see whatever he had permanently inked into his skin. Which naturally means I absolutely have to see it.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s just an old tattoo.”
I move closer to him and smile when he takes a step back. “An old tattoo that just happens to be on your chest? Does it say Mom in a heart?”
He snorts, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “No, it’s not a Mom tattoo.”
“Can I see it?” I ask, taking another step forward. He doesn’t say no outright, but he also doesn’t drop the shirt. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to show me, but he can’t figure out a good excuse not to. “You know, it would be weird if somebody mentions your tattoo and your own wife doesn’t know what it is.”
