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Archie wasn’t allowed to leave my fucking house.
I couldn’t believe him. Where were his flaws? It was time for at least a handful to appear so I could start believing all this was real.
Hoping he wasn’t saving this for a special occasion, I set the cake on the kitchen bar and prepared the coffeemaker. Bad time for caffeine, but evidently I wasn’t gonna sleep anytime soon.
“See what Archie made?” I broke off a little piece of the crumbly crust and gave it to Rex. “We’re keeping him. Yeah, we are. You like him too.”
Rex finished the treat and licked his own nose.
A few minutes later, I sat down on a stool with a piece of cheesecake and a cup of coffee, and I let the semi-silence calm the turmoil from within. Two of the most important people in my life were here, under my roof, where I wanted them. Kyla was asleep upstairs. The dogs were happy. The faint sound of the shower running served as another reminder that I wasn’t alone in the house. I loved those little sounds. Like when the kids were here and I heard them running around.
“Jesus.” This cake was something else—and I was a New Yorker. We knew cheesecake. The flavor of fresh strawberries and the creamy cheesecake filling—hell, even the perfect crust—turned out to be exactly what I needed to bring peace to my mind.
Food worked, what could I say.
I’d spent my life chasing peace but never silence. Peace could be rambunctious and wild and an explosion of flavors and colors. Peace was a matter of the heart and what brought me bliss. A full house, a packed schedule, chores, coming together for supper at the end of the day, watching a movie with a toddler who had the sniffles, having cheesecake made by my boyfriend in the middle of the night.
Archie was slowly but surely giving me energy to fight harder and have faith in my own pipe dreams.
And I knew, I felt it deep in my core, that Sloan’s desires and lost dreams were similar to mine. He’d just fallen so hard—and crash-landed—that he didn’t dare believe. He was the proof that you didn’t need love to have a divorce wreck you.
A door opened on the other side of the house, and I listened. The bathroom was right across the hall from my bedroom; it only took a second to go from one door to the other. But I didn’t hear another door open. Instead, I heard quiet footsteps coming closer. The floorboards creaked slightly the first few feet of the living room.
I leaned back to see Sloan coming toward me.
“Shouldn’t you be snoring by now?” he asked.
Shouldn’t he put some clothes on? A towel around his hips wasn’t helpful to anyone.
He’d removed his piercings again, I noted.
I wondered idly if there were any tattoo artists who didn’t have any ink. Sloan had plenty, most dedicated to his passions—his kids, old cars, kink…and me. Along his rib cage stood a shepherd in heavy shadows, holding a combat helmet.
I wished I could remember my exact reaction the first time I’d seen the tattoo. But it went without saying it was my favorite piece.
“Strawberry cheesecake takes precedence,” I answered. “How’s your head?”
He shrugged and passed me, not stopping until he was at the coffeemaker. “Could be worse. The world stopped spinning too fast, so I have that going for me.”
I smirked and shoveled more cake into my mouth.
“Before I sober up too much,” he said, his back to me as he poured coffee, “I wanna ask if we can forget this night happened. Chalk it up to a string of bad days and even worse decisions—don’t fucking laugh at me, Greer.”
Sorry, I couldn’t help it. Because he was suggesting the exact opposite of what we were going to do.
“If you stop being ridiculous,” I chuckled.
He sighed heavily and brought his mug over to sit across from me.
Did he remember what he’d said in front of Kingsley and Tate?
Did he realize how he’d come off in those texts?
After finishing my cheesecake, I cut another slice and slid the plate across the bar. “Try this. Archie made it. He’s perfect. When I ask him to stay, he stays. You could learn a thing or two from him.”
Sloan rolled his eyes and sank his fork into the cake. “What else is he great at?”
“Everything.” I offered a chef’s kiss for emphasis. “His cooking, the way he serves me, how he sucks my cock and begs me to fuck him.”
“Christ.”
I grinned and took a sip of my coffee.
My buddy tried to hide it, but I could tell he was ticked off. The tension in his jaw, his reluctance to show that he really fucking loved that cheesecake—I knew him too damn well.
“He makes me happy, Sloan,” I said on a more serious note. “He’s sweet and caring, probably more mature than I am, and he’s so damn genuine. Any other guy would’ve run for the hills for as much as I’ve talked about you.”
