Page 38 of Already Callin’ You Mine

Errrr…what? Dance trend?

Yeah, that’s where I draw the line.

“I don’t dance.”

At least not like this. I’ll push a girl around the dance floor like the best of them when the occasion is right. But I’m not doing the Macarena Shuffle for an Internet video.

Otis’s head pops up, like he’s one of those animatronic vermin in a whack-a-mole game.

“I dance! I dance!”

Wiggling in Presley’s arms, he tries to show off his moves. I lurch forward, my instincts kicking in faster than my brain telling me I don’t have to. I should probably be grabbing the bowl that we set next to the couch in case he threw up again, ready for another moment.

“We dance togever!”

“Not tonight, Little Man.” Straightening myself, I hold out my fist, prompting him to bump knuckles. Otis meets his fist with mine, giggling. “We can dance another time, okay? Right now your mama says it’s bedtime.”

Presley mouths thank you at me, and I can’t help but notice a softening in her eyes. One that matches what I’m feeling. A weird easing of the tension between us, all our history evaporating into a vacuum. A feeling I don’t want to fight. Instead, I want to lean into it. Discover where it leads.

Hopefully more nights like this.

“Say goodnight, Otis.”

“Night, Mr. Jace.”

“It’s just Jace,” I tell him. “Good night, Little Man.”

Presley turns to walk down the hall that leads to the bedrooms, leaving me standing in the living room by myself. I watch as they go, unable to tear my eyes off her, one thing perfectly clear. Maybe the clearest anything has ever been.

I want a lot more nights like this.

And no part of that scares me. Even though it should. Not just scare, but terrify. But what my head tells me should be off-putting instead pulls me in like a magnet to metal. The only thing I feel is calm, backed up by an urge to provide and defend.

Crashing back down on the couch, I let out a long, hard exhale, pushing all the air out of my lungs until they hurt, wondering what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t even like this woman. I’ve never liked her.

Except, that’s not exactly accurate.

Hux wasn’t entirely incorrect last week when he made his jab about what I wanted in high school. She was without a doubt the subject of my fantasies from the second she walked into this town, despite all the other crap that was going on between us. It took me a lot longer than I want to admit to get her out of my head after graduation.

A space she’s effortlessly moved right back into. Picking right back up in that starring role when I close my eyes, my mind wandering to places it shouldn’t.

Like I am right now.

I need a distraction.

Leaping to my feet, I look around, taking in the scene. A single blanket is strewn over the couch from where Otis kicked it off almost immediately after we tried to cover him. I fold it, tossing it back on the couch cushion, not exactly sure where Presley pulled it from. The bigger problem is that did nothing to distract me.

Dishes.

Presley brought the dishes into the kitchen after we ate, but I don’t think she washed up. That should do the trick.

Rushing into the kitchen, I find not only the used bowls and plates from dinner, but the mess I had left as I heated it all up. That needs fixing. Not only because that’s not how I like to leave things, but the last thing Presley needs right now with a sick kid is to have to worry about the state of her kitchen.

I get to work, trying to focus on the task at hand—the dishes themselves, the soap, the hot water, anything—to keep my mind from going to places it shouldn’t. Places it’s probably not welcome.

Then I hear the little voice.

“I help?”