Page 81 of Anything But Lonely

Maybe it’s because when you let yourself feel the sadness, anger, and grief instead of running from them, the happiness that finds you in the spaces between feels different.

Lighter.

More powerful.

And so much less lonely.

CHAPTER 29

MATEO

“You literally trained my son to need a ‘sweet treat’ after every meal. You know that, right?”

I’m watching Emerson and Crew absolutely destroy the dessert they came back to the hotel with after a day out exploring Portland.

“You can’t come to Maine and not at least try a whoopie pie,” Emerson argues, pressing her thumb to her lips before she licks off the icing, my eyes following the movement.

“We got one for you too, Daddy,” Crew says around the big bite he just took, chocolate crumbs and white icing all over his face.

It’s our first show back after our two weeks off for the holidays; this part of the tour is mostly on the East Coast with less long-haul traveling before we have a month off in the spring, then we power through our last leg.

“I’ll save it for after the show,” I tell Crew, ruffling his hair that started this morning in a neat topknot but is now a mess of windblown strands.

Emerson grabs a napkin, wiping Crew’s face before he goes in for another bite. The two fall into easy conversation about their day together, and I’m more than happy to just be here, watching from the outside.

Ever since that day at the fire station, the relationship between Emerson and me has shifted. I noticed it when we met at the tour bus two days ago. There’s a familiarity between us now—and I can actually talk to her without feeling like my heart is trying to beat out of my chest.

She’s someone I care about, just like I told her. I’m done trying to deny that.

I trust her with my son, the most important thing in my life, and I think I was reading too much into it all.

Yes, I’m attracted to her, but I have a handle on that now.

We had our one night, and now it’s out of our systems.

“What else are you going to save for after the show?” Emerson turns to me, giving me a smirk.

Or not.

The innuendo in her words goes unnoticed by Crew, but it slaps me directly in the face, the memories of our night together flooding my brain faster than I can keep up with.

And now I’m right back to where we started.

I cough into my fist to avoid a crack in my voice. “A cold beer and eight hours of sleep.”

Emerson rolls her eyes, going back to helping Crew clean up.

Since this suite has three bedrooms instead of two, I don’t have to share a bed with a four-year-old who recently started laughing in his sleep.

Laughing.

Like he’s straight out of a horror film.

It’s fucking creepy.

There’s a knock on our hotel room door, and Emerson offers to get it, balling up the napkin in her hand before tossing it into the trash.

I watch her as she walks away. The way her hips sway with every step, the way her tight long-sleeved shirt rides up on her back, revealing the tattoos she has there, reminding me of all the ones she has underneath.