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“Please think about what I said, all right?” Rhett replies.
“Please let me make someone shit their pants today,” Samuel says, cracking his knuckles.
“Liam shits his pants all the time,” Rhett says. “It’s not as great as you think it is.”
Samuel grins. “But damn is that kid cute.”
“Thanks,” Rhett says proudly. “He was actually asking for Uncle Samuel’s cornbread yesterday. He loves the kind you put the broccoli and cheddar in. Only way we can get him to eat a vegetable.”
“Best compliment I’ve gotten all day.”
I eye him. “Samuel, it’s not even nine o’clock.”
“I get a lot of compliments.” He shoots his cuffs. “Obviously. Anyway, I should have time later to whip up a batch for Liam . . .”
Sighing, I roll my eyes as my brothers talk about cornbread and fiber and bowel movements. It’s obvious they’re not going anywhere.
Which means I do need to go. And I need to go now.
I back away from them—they’re so absorbed in conversation they don’t notice—and grab my coat and bag.
“Where ya goin’?” Samuel asks, looking up.
Rhett tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Can I come? I’m not saying I don’t want to go home, but . . . I don’t want to go home.”
“You’re not invited,” I say, and breeze past them through the door.
Only when I’m in the privacy of my car do I allow myself to collapse. Shit, my eyes are burning again. What is wrong with me?
Maybe Rhett was onto something when he talked about breaks. I don’t have time for one—I never do—but I’m feeling defeated and strung out and just . . . tired. I need to gather myself.
I need to take a goddamn breath.
I need books.
Nate was a paperback kind of guy, so I made it a point after he left to read exclusively on my Kindle. Physical books reminded me too much of him, and I didn’t want to risk running into him at his favorite indie bookstore, Malaprop’s. Not like I ever have the time to browse aisles at a bookstore anyway. And when Nate and I were together, we never risked being seen in public together.
But I used to love getting lost in that store for hours, feeling the weight of a fresh paperback in my hands, and I miss it. Really, what are the chances I run into Nate at Malaprop’s anyway? On Saturdays, he liked to slowly make his way through a pot of coffee, rarely leaving the house before noon to do some form of physical activity that involved an axe and/or his dog Lucy (the axe was for chopping firewood, not slicing up his dog).
Before I know what’s happening, I’m guiding my car down the mountain toward town.
The closer to Malaprop’s I get, the better I start to feel.
Chapter Ten
Nate
I wake up alone.
Well, if you don’t count Lucy, who’s burrowed underneath the covers beside my leg. She’s a little furnace, which I don’t mind this morning because I slept with the window above the bed cracked open. Cold, pine-scented air streams into the room, along with early morning sunshine. I can tell by its color—a soft yellow, same as whiskey when it’s still got plenty of aging to do—that it’s already a glorious day out there.
I’ve got the covers pulled up to my chin. It’s deliciously warm underneath the quilt and duvet, but my nose is so cold it’s practically numb.
Needless to say, I slept like a rock.
Turning my head on my pillow, I look at the empty one beside me. I could’ve sworn Reese said she’d come up after she was done working last night. She stayed for dinner—the casserole was fucking delicious if I do say so myself—and then caught up with a girlfriend on the phone while I gave Lucy a bath and finished my book. I turned out the light a little after eleven. Reese must’ve decided to go home? She says she sleeps better there. I get it because I sleep better here too. I like my bed. I like being able to sleep with my window open without hearing traffic or people.
Still feels weird waking up alone more often than not, especially on the weekend.
At least that’ll change once we’re married and we finally live together. I really look forward to that.
* * *
Beside my leg, Lucy stretches, then works her way out from underneath the covers. Without so much as a backward glance, she leaps off the bed and trots merrily out the door in search of water and—what else?—food.
“Good morning to you too,” I say with a scoff.
Sitting up, I twist my body so my feet find the floor. I fold back the covers, hissing when the sheet caresses my crotch—I sleep naked—and I’m hit by a bolt of lust.
I’m hard.
Teenage-morning-wood kind of hard. Even in the cold, my dick stands unashamedly erect, the tip already leaking.
