Declan sighs with a shaky smile. “You here, Bud?”
Cade nods. He looks exhausted, eyes heavy-lidded and shoulders sagging. “I’m just gonna… lay down for a bit.”
“You can take my bed,” I offer.
Declan looks to his son, who shakes his head. “Couch.”
My stepfather glances at the stairs warily. There’s no way in hell he’s getting Cade down there by himself. Rather than ask, I scoop my stepbrother up princess-style. Surprisingly, he doesn’t fight me.
“My legs still work, you know,” Cade mumbles.
I smile despite the pressure building behind my eyes. “I know.”
“Meaning you don't have to carry me.”
And yet, he makes no attempt to get free.
“I don't mind.”
“Yeah, bet you don't, Good Samaritan.”
I snort. “Ain't nothin good about my intentions with you.”
His mouth zips shut. Sighing, I pause. “Want me to put you down?”
His head lolls on my shoulder, silky strands tickling my neck. “Mmm-no, Mmm tired.”
“That’s what I thought,” I chuckle.
His body goes limp in my arms. blonde lashes fan his pale cheeks. I want to kiss his closed eyelids. The bridge of his nose. His parted lips. He’s too beautiful for his own good.
We reach the living room a few minutes later. I’m not ready to put him down yet, but I have a room to clean, among a laundry list of other bullshit to sort out before he wakes up. So I lower him to the couch and drape a blanket over him.
Combing the hair off his forehead, I whisper, “I’m done waiting too.”
Fifty-Two
ANDREA
“Maybe we hopped timelines.Or fell through a wormhole,” I muse, sucking down the dregs of my spicy margarita. After sitting in my apartment staring at that damned notebook for hours, I eventually decided not to read it and get drunk instead.Because that’s totally a healthy coping mechanism.Since I refuse to drink alone, I forced Remy to join me at our favorite hole-in-the-wall beach bar, Lolita’s. It’s dead as a doornail thanks to the encroaching storm clouds threatening a torrential downpour any second.
I’m three monster margs deep and still can’t wrap my head around it. Cade. In Fort Manor. Looking better than I’ve ever seen him and offering me all the answers I spent years praying for.
I need another drink.
At least it’s happy hour and Remy’s buying. Except he’s barely touched his margarita. I eye it greedily. Without looking up from his phone, he slides it over.
“You sure?”
“Go for it,” he shrugs, “One of us has to drive.”
I groan and slump on the bar. “I don’twantresponsible Remy. Spiral with me, dammit.”
He pats the top of my head like I’m his cat, Mitz. “We vowed years ago not to both have mental breakdowns at the same time.”
“Well, we’re doing shit at that, aren’t we?” I grumble, snatching a new paper umbrella from behind the bar and twirling it between my pointer and thumb. It’s blue. Like Cade’s paintings.
Christ, I’m hopeless.
