She held out her hand across Mason’s chest to stop him from going through the gate. She needed a second to compose herself. His brows pleated, so she held up two fingers, and forced another breath into her body.
Wait. What had happened to her creaky old gate? Her gate—or rather, her former gate—had been older than she was. It hung on one hinge and squeaked and scraped against the path as you fought it open.
A freshly painted gate hung at the entrance to her yard. She tugged it open and slipped through the space, hoping no one would notice her right away so she could get a lay of the land.
A shirtless Elliott leaned over a table with a circular saw, his sage green t-shirt tucked into the ass pocket of his jeans. A pencil jutted out from behind his ear as he worked a tape measure along a length of wood.
What seemed to be the entire Snow Pirates team—in various stages of undress—were working on her yard. Painting, mowing, weeding, doing everything she’d berated herself about not doing—for years.
What the fuck was he playing at? Her insides hardened, and she folded her arms in a bid to reinforce the protection from her ribs currently weakening around her heart as it swelled.
So he was doing some yard work, big fucking deal. Like that made up for everything he’d put her through?
The back door to the house swung open and Cat flitted down the stairs carrying a large tray laden with iced lemonade and Solo cups. Mason appeared behind her with a plate piled high with cookies.
Clare checked over her shoulder, wasn’t he just right behind her? Were they in on it?
Traitorous crotch goblins.
She slid her thumbnail between her teeth and stayed silent, peeking around the edge of the house as her kids made their way around the yard offering drinks and snacks to the college kids doing manual labor.
Elliott stretched upright when Cat got to him, reaching his hands high and leaning to one side and Clare’s mouth ran dry. He brushed his pinking forearm across his forehead and squinted in the sunshine. Good lord. He was dirty.
Flecks of dirt and blades of grass clung to his jeans, and like Russell, he had dirt on his cheeks. And he was sweaty. So deliciously sweaty.
She rolled her head back and said a silent prayer of thanks to every deity who was listening for an unusually warm April afternoon.
Heat pooled between her legs as he picked up a cup from Cat’s tray and downed the lemonade in one go before getting a refill. Was everything in slow motion? She didn’t care. Slow motion meant she got to watch him for even longer.
And fuck, did she ever watch.
She was about to fan herself with her hand, or the gate, when Cat pointed to her, and Elliott shifted so she was in his line of sight. He nodded and placed the cup back onto the tray before grabbing a rose from a glass of water on his work bench, clenching it between his teeth, and stalking toward her like some deliciously rugged animal and she was his prey.
When he got to her, he pulled the rose from his mouth and handed it to her. “There is no fire escape for me to climb like in the movie. I’d climb the fence”—he jerked his head toward the freshly painted fence to their side—“but it’s still wet.”
She took the rose, but her scowl stayed firmly in place. Re-enacting a scene from her favorite movie wasn’t going to win her over after everything they’d been through, but she couldn’t douse the flames in her heart at how sweet the moment was—even without the climbing.
“I know this doesn’t make up for anything. It’s…I guess it’s all just a token. The yard, the rose…” He sniffed and wiped the side of his nose, his finger leaving a streak of sawdust on his face. “I couldn’t just call and say I was sorry. It didn’t feel like it would be nearly enough. Still doesn’t.”
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms again, taking care not to squish the rose, or scratch herself with the thorns.
“I’m sorry, CeeCee.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes filled with tears. He reached for her, then hesitated when she didn’t move to welcome his advance. “I shouldn’t have dropped you at the hospital and ghosted you. I was butt hurt, my pride was wounded, and I guess all that shit with Denise just came rushing back, and I let my brain get the better of me. I couldn’t figure out how to come back from that.”
“Why didn’t you call me, Eli? Mason got hurt.” Her lip trembled, but she wouldn’t cry. Goddammit, she wouldnotcry.
He nodded. “I know. Cat kept me updated, but I know that’s not the same thing as being there for him myself, for both of you. If I talked to you that would have meant things could have deteriorated even worse than they already were. Not that I can even imagine what that might look like. So I just…” He shrugged.
“I ran for real this time, I guess. Last time, sure, I went off to chase my hockey dream and when I got back I thought you were happy with someone else. But I came back. This time.” He rubbed his stomach, bringing her attention back to his glistening chest and biceps.
“Fuck. I feel sick even talking about it. I just fled. I’m not proud of myself. And once I was out, I had no fucking clue how to come back without you telling me to go fuck myself. I thought somehow things would just magically work themselves out.”
“Your dad slapped you upside the head and told you to figure your shit out, didn’t he?” She still didn’t crack her rock-solid wall of don’t-fuck-with-me defense. But she also couldn’t imagine Elliott having the wherewithal to just get his ass back into her space without a friendly nudge from his parents, which made her smile.
For a smart guy he could sometimes be a bit dense. He smiled back, warm, loving, and it damn near broke her heart. “I won’t deny that Dad, and Linc, played a part in getting my ass back here to fix things—both in your yard and between us.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder toward the yard.
She couldn’t see behind him, but she could feel the team’s eyes on them. The yard had grown quieter, the music had been turned down, and while the work continued, it was more than clear that Elliott’s players were eavesdropping on their conversation.
“I don’t do the feelings well. I’m a good provider, sure, you need something picked up at the store, or manual jobs done around the house, I’m your guy. But under stress… I bottle the feeling shit up tighter than a bottle of craft beer. I don’t know what to do with it.”
