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Theo barrels out of his room, bag slung over his shoulder, and salutes Grey as a knock sounds. I follow my gangly son to the door and smile when Preston stands there, looking ever fresh from work in his tailored suit.
Shaking my head at his refusal to leave the formal wear at home, I tug him in for a hug. “Thank you for letting him stay over.”
He showcases his charming dimple and tilts his head down at Theo. “Alistair’s excited. He’s talked non-stop about having him over since after snack time.”
I watch him as he takes Theo’s bag and hefts it over his broad shoulder, playing back the memories of us with a unique fondness.
Two years together in college and he was the best boyfriend I had. Sweet, broody, complete opposite of his twin brother. The sharp sting of regret concerning our past left me a long time ago, and has since been replaced with the easy friendship we’ve settled in over the last five years. He’s still just as handsome, just as suave, but my heart no longer beats erratically in his presence. It’s beating for someone else and I don’t know how to stop it. Or if I even want to.
“How’s he doing?” Preston tips his head toward the living room.
“He’s all right, a little feverish. I’m going to stick around for a bit to make sure he doesn’t get worse.”
Preston nods, a curious expression flashing across his face before disappearing into his normal mask of warm indifference.
“Well, text if you need anything, but don’t be surprised if I miss it. Having four kids under one roof is bound to get crazy.”
“I have no doubt you guys can handle it. Give Savy and those little monkeys a hug from Auntie Turtle, please.”
“Will do.” He squeezes my arm before tousling Theo’s hair and curling a suited arm around his neck. “Come on, T, Aunt Savy’s got pizzas in the oven and cookies for later.”
Theo fist pumps the air and jumps off the porch. “Bye Mom!” he shouts and races to the truck idling in the driveway.
Waving before closing the door, I chuckle as they drive away. My kid is lucky to have the family he does.
Back in the living room, Grey already has the book open in his lap, skimming the pages with his long finger.
“Starting without me?” I jest as I sit next to him and pull a chemise blanket over my lap.
Preston and I used to do this in college, lie around and read—well, he’d be on his laptop, and I’d be the one reading, but it’s never been as entertaining as it has been with Grey. He gets animated and surprised and thoroughly enjoys the journey the couples take in the books, analyzing every detail as a therapist would.
“Just getting lay of the land, seeing what we’re headed into. I don’t think I can handle reading any aloud, but I’m down to listen to you for a while.”
I flip to the first page and dive right into the action.
After two chapters, I glance over, and Grey’s eyes have drifted closed, and his breath slowly evens out.
I nudge him softly. “Hey, let’s get you into bed so you’re more comfortable.”
He peeks open one of those sleepy iridescent blue eyes rimmed in red and nods. “Good idea. I’m liking the story though. Keep reading to me a little more until I fall asleep?”
Read to him in bed? A spike of anxiety streaks through my veins. I know he’s sick and needy, but there’s always been a line in our friendship. Lately it’s gotten crossed—i.e. accidentally kissing and reminding myself it means nothing to him and shouldn’t mean anything to me. This is innocent, just a friend helping another friend, and he’s going to sleep. No biggie. But my twitchy heart whispers “liar” and my senses prickle.
“Sure.” Tossing the blanket, I grab the book, his water, and follow his shuffle to his bedroom.
I’ve only seen it in passing, but it’s a space filled with Grey. Muted, cream-colored walls with a full natural pallet wood panel, decorated with pictures of Theo, a few of all three of us, and Preston and his family. Even his degree from Columbia proudly displayed.
A large king-size bed on a wooden frame butts up against the accent wall, the covers strewn about haphazardly, his big brain too busy to remember such things as making it. My mind flits to him lying there, his bare torso exposed, my hands fisted in the rumpled blankets.
Oh.
Slamming a shield over those thoughts, I watch as he walks over and flips on the lamp atop his nightstand, tosses his beanie to a chair in the corner, flicks back the covers and slides underneath, sighing as his body sinks into the mattress. He pats the top and says in a gravelly voice, “Come on, Scar. I promise the sheets are clean.”
That’s not exactly where my mind was as I view him stretched out, one arm up near his head with his bicep peeking out from under his T-shirt sleeve, the other splayed out across his chest. His plump lips slip into a soft smile, hinting at that disastrous dimple, and my throat ensnares my breath.
Oh no.
The familiar scent of woods plume as I straighten the blankets and perch myself near his headboard, leaving enough space for the Titanic to squeeze through.
