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Right now, in this moment, he felt complete.
Right now, in this moment, he had something to look forward to and that something was a woman named Charlie. And as odd as it might seem, it was also a little boy named Connor.
Christ, Donovan, with all her raging mom-to-be hormones, would be all over this shit. He smiled at the thought.
“Another one bites the dust.”
Maverick glanced up and spied his brother at the door. He’d changed into old jeans, work boots and heavy blue flannel. Cooper Simon was about as far away from his expensive Italian suits as you could get. It was a good look for him.
“You’ve got that goofy look on your face. The same one that Jack had when he first met Donovan,” Cooper said, shaking his head. “Tucker too, when he brought Abby around.”
“And?”
“It’s all good brother.”
“Maybe you’re next.”
Cooper’s face lost all expression and Maverick watched him closely. He and his brother were tight—in spite of a few bumps. He knew about Cooper’s past. About the dark things that had shaped him into the man that he was.
“I doubt it,” Cooper offered and then opened the door. “I’ll be in the shop if you want to have a drink.”
Maverick watched his brother leave and he realized that right now, in this moment, he was in a place he’d never been in before. It was a good place. A place full of hope and promise and after the events of the last week or so, Maverick was perfectly fine with that.
Chapter Twenty-two
Charlie woke before dawn. Outside the wind howled and though she was warm beneath the pile of covers, she was too restless to stay in bed. With a quick peek at Connor—who was still dead to the world—she swept a kiss across his brow and slipped from beneath the blankets.
She rummaged through her bag and pulled on an old pair of sweat pants along with an oversized MIT sweatshirt. After tying her hair back into a loose ponytail, she stepped into a pair of fuzzy slippers and with one last glance at Connor, snuck out of the room.
It was still dark, but she managed to make her way down the stairs without tripping and breaking anything. Though she winced on the last step—the squeak sounded way too loud in the big, silent house.
Rick was still asleep on the sofa in the front room, and she couldn’t ignore the tug on her heartstrings as she stood over him. He was shirtless with his arms flung over his head, and his hair mussed so badly she knew he must have tossed and turned most of the night. His long lashes shadowed the skin beneath his eyes, making them appear even longer, and something about the expression on his face made her heart squeeze.
What was it about a grown man asleep?
She took a step back, because it was hard for her to watch him. Hard for her to think that there might not be many more mornings where she’d be able to wake up and see this glimpse of the young man he’d been.
Exhaling slowly, she backed out of the room and crept down the hall to the kitchen. A hot cup of cocoa sounded just about right. Rick had made some when she’d been here the week before, and she was hoping there was at least one packet left.
Light fell into the room from the outside fixture and she didn’t bother flipping the switch as she walked into the kitchen. She turned on the gas burner and after filling the kettle with water, set it there. She found a cup and began rummaging through the cupboards looking for the cocoa. She’d nearly given up when she spied it on the top shelf in the pantry beside the fridge.
Yes. Of course it was on the top shelf.
“Damn,” she muttered, eyeing the shelf dubiously.
She stood on her tiptoes and extended her hand as far as she could, but her fingertips only managed to push the box further back. She tried again and swore like a trucker when she stubbed her toe and almost fell on her ass.
Something scraped behind her, like a chair being dragged across the floor. Charlie froze and glanced to her side. A man stood near the breakfast nook, most of him lost in shadow.
“You look like you need some help.” His voice was rough, like sandpaper.
Charlie took a step back and turned to face him. “I was trying to reach the cocoa, but I guess I need a few more inches.”
Teague Simon stepped from the shadows and walked over to her. He was tall with broad shoulders, but moved slowly—it was obvious that he was in a lot of pain.
“I can grab a chair,” she started to say, but he moved past her and her voice trailed off as she watched him reach up for her cocoa.
The man was shirtless (was that a Simon thing?), wearing nothing but plaid flannel pajama bottoms, and his feet were bare. Yellow and purple bruising covered areas of his back and shoulders, and his ribs were taped. There were wounds across his lower back, mean and ugly looking lacerations, and she jerked her eyes from them when he turned around.
