30. Chapter 30
thirty
Skye
Idon’t remember falling asleep.
I remember staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I don’t feel Boston’s presence just inches away, that I’m not confused as hell.
Then suddenly, my body is submerged in warm water, steam curling lazily around me.
I’m in a bathtub, but I’m not alone. Kneeling on the ground next to the tub is Boston.
I’m certain of it, even though I can’t see his face.
I feel him in the air, in the way my muscles relax and my lips settle into a content smile.
We’re mid-conversation about vague things, the sound of his voice settling something restless inside me.
He laughs, warm and low, then his hand tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
The brief brush of his fingertips against my skin sends a strange little ripple through me.
My eyes flutter open to pale morning light, and while the image of Boston evaporates instantly, that feeling of being held lingers.
For a second, I don’t know what’s worse: the guilt that the dream wasn’t about Archer or the disappointment that it wasn’t real.
Shame creeps in. Does a dream like that make me a cheater? More than what almost happened last night? More than the fact that a not-so-small part of me wanted it to happen?
I turn my head to the left. The spot next to me is empty. Again.
Maybe this time he finally did leave. Came to his senses and decided I’m not worth the trouble.
Spoiled, indecisive rich girl who’s using him only for heat and protection.
It would probably be better that way. Cleaner.
Because last night, I was all too aware of who was here with me—who stayed and who didn’t.
And that’s dangerous. And scary. Almost as scary as the knowledge that when I was asleep, when my mind wasn’t policing my behavior or protecting Archer’s feelings or calculating consequences, my body reached for Boston. No hesitation.
When I finally peel myself off the couch, the house is quiet. I step into the hallway with the water closet. Maybe Boston’s in there, brushing his teeth?
Nothing.
That is, until I walk past the stairs to the second floor. I hear the faintest movement, the shower running, and it’s obscene how relieved I am. He’s still here. He didn’t disappear in the night. He didn’t leave me to wake up alone.
I’m in the kitchen, head in the nearly empty fridge in search of something to eat. It’s slim pickings, which means two things: a trip to a coffee shop and then to the grocery store.
“Whatcha doin’?”
A guttural scream tears from my throat as I jump, then spin around.
There stands Boston, a mere six feet away from me by the counter, and judging by that look on his face—gray eyes wide, breath suspended, his hands raised disarmingly—we managed to scare the shit out of each other just now.
“Oh my god, Boss,” I wince, hand on my heart. “You scared me.”
He composes himself quickly, lips tugging into a grin. “I thought you heard me walk into the kitchen. But you’ll be happy to know that your scream is ferocious. I’m convinced there’s no wildlife to be found within a mile radius of this house.” He chuckles. “This was better than any alarm.”
A welcome laugh escapes me, my muscles relaxing not only with his humor, but with the realization that he doesn’t appear to be angry for how we left things last night.
“You in search of sustenance?”
“Yeah. I’m craving a breakfast burrito, but there’s only two eggs left.”
“Two’s plenty,” he says, stepping in close—too close—and reaching around me for the eggs. His chest brushes my back. Just for a second, but it’s enough to make my body hum.
He grabs the eggs and steps back quickly. “We’ll stretch ‘em.”
“We’ll what?”
“Stretch them.” He cracks them into a bowl. “You got milk?”
I shake my head.
“No biggie. Water works.”
“You’re putting water in eggs?” What is this sorcery?
“Yup. Add liquid, make more. Learned that quick.”
I watch him whisk.
“You didn’t know that?”
“No.”
“Huh… well, that probably means you had enough food growing up.”
“Yeah, I did,” I say, chest tight. “Did you go hungry a lot?”
“Sometimes,” he says without looking at me. “When I first became homeless. It was kind of a learning curve, you know? How to survive, I mean.”
“How long would you go without eating?”
He glances at me for a beat. “Three days was the longest,” he says in a way that gives me the distinct impression he’s not looking for pity, doesn’t want my sympathy, probably would prefer we change the subject.
“But I figured it out fast. Food became the priority. I learned where to go. What to look for.”
“Three days?”
A knot forms in my throat. While I was stressing over prom dresses and college roommates, Boston was figuring out where his next meal was coming from.
He’s survived things I can’t even fathom, yet here he is showing up for people—for me—so selflessly.
Boston pours the eggs-and-water mixture into a pan. “It’s been a while since that happened. Mostly in the beginning. After that, I usually managed to eat. A night here and there maybe, but I promise, I’m okay.” He pats his stomach. “See? Solid.”
I laugh. He might as well be knocking on a steel plate. “If you’re trying to convince me you’ve got extra pounds, you’re failing. Your body is…” I trail off, catching my bottom lip between my teeth.
His gaze drops for just a fraction of a second, but I don’t miss it—the forced bob of his Adam’s apple.
“So, what are your plans for today?” he asks, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“I don’t really have any. How about you? Got exciting things planned on your day off?”
“Oh, uh, well, I gotta take care of some stuff this morning. And this afternoon, I’m picking up my siblings. I’ll probably take them to the park or—”
“Can I come?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“To the park?”
I nod.
It sure beats spending the day all by my lonesome. Thinking…
“You sure? It’s pretty boring.”
“Sounds lovely,” I say.
He stares at me for a moment. “Uhh, I mean, sure. I need to… I have some stuff I need to take care of this morning, but I can pick you up around noon.”
True to his word, Boston pulls up just before twelve. He’s in a fresh pair of light-washed jeans and a black t-shirt that, once again, fits him obscenely well—clinging to his chest and shoulders in a way that makes my mouth dry. Or maybe wet.
Whatever. I’m not proud of how long I stare.
We haven’t talked about… last night. About the moment when everything between us suddenly felt too big and too real to ignore.
Only, we ignored it anyway.
And while a huge part of me is relieved, another part keeps coming back to it like a tongue probing a canker sore.
All morning I ruminated, taking a not-so-little guilt trip while walking the aisles at the grocery store, skin tingling when I grabbed a carton of organic eggs.
There was his confession about volunteering to read Dr. Seuss books to first graders because he knew I’d be there—the way he looked at me when he said it.
That near-magnetic pull toward him just before Boston stopped us from making a huge mistake.
I feel like I’ve wandered off a carefully illustrated map of my life. For as long as I can remember, my future has looked the same: Good education. Good family. I’ve been nothing if not diligent in that pursuit, in living up to the expectations.
And now?
Boston opens the passenger door for me, his soft-lipped smile tugging at my insides. I slide into the seat, taking a deep inhale of the warm, masculine scent that lingers in his car. It really should be illegal to smell this good.
I don’t know what I expected to find in a car someone actually lives out of, but it sure wasn’t this. There’s not a crumb to be found, not one piece of trash. Not even a half-empty coffee or soda in the cup-holder.
My car’s a disaster most of the time. Chapstick, iced coffee cups, paper receipts, random pens strewn about. I even lug around spare outfits, just in case I want more comfortable shoes or stain a shirt or get cold.
“How was your morning?” I ask once Boston maneuvers us down the street.
“Nothing spectacular.”
“What did you do?” I ask, cautious not to push. Archer hates when I ask too many questions, when I dig too deep. I’ve learned to edit myself.
“Just errands,” Boston says with a small shrug. “You?”
“Took a bath.”
He glances at me briefly, his expression shifting, but he smooths it away so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Almost.
Heat blooms low in my stomach.
Interesting.
“Stormy…” he starts, and the playful mood dissipates.
I look at his profile while Boston focuses on the road, both hands locked on the steering wheel. “I need to say something.”
There’s that horrible sensation of the floor dropping out from underneath me again. “Okay?”
He exhales a long breath. “Last night…”
His words just hang there, making me squirm.
“I got caught up in…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. The moment, I guess.” His grip tightens slightly. “I should’ve handled that better.”
I open my mouth, ready to respond, but he keeps going.
“All you wanted was someone to sit with you so you didn't have to be alone. And I don't want you to think I showed up expecting anything else.”
My brow creases. “Boss—”
“I’m serious.” His voice softens. “I don’t ever want you to feel like you owe me something because I stayed.”
“I don’t,” I burst out.
He nods, but his expression doesn’t lighten. “But I did mean what I said last night.”
“About Archer?”
“He left you.” Boston doesn’t sound angry. He sounds sad. Almost confused. “He knew about what happened to you. He knew you’d be scared. And he left you.”
He exhales hard, jaw flexing.
“I know he’s your boyfriend. I know it’s not my place.”
Another pause.
“But I don’t like the way he treats you.”
I don’t speak. Wouldn’t even know what to say. I haven’t even begun to work through the chaos in my head and heart. Boston’s sudden reappearance in my life feels like discovering a fork in the road when I was convinced there’d only ever be one way forward.