Chapter 33
An email pings on my phone just as I’m elbow-deep in sticky-as-fuck honey glaze.
I nudge the screen awake with my pinky, squinting through the faint smear of olive oil across the glass.
Temporary Restraining Order Hearing Confirmed.
My stomach sinks. It’s scheduled for the end of next week. A judge will decide whether the temporary order on Ashley becomes permanent. She’s been notified.
Of course she has.
And now I get to spend the next ten days waiting for whatever unhinged bullshit she’s planning in response.
Perfect.
I need to talk to someone before I spiral completely.
I nudge the phone again and use a voice command to immediately call Demi.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Tell me you’re calm,” Demi says instead of hello.
“I just softened butter with my body heat because I forgot to take it out of the fridge and I’m thirty seconds away from torching this bird. So no, I’m not calm.”
She snorts. “Jesus Christ. Are you seriously roasting him a whole chicken, channeling full vintage housewife vibes?”
“I didn’t plan this. The grocery store ran out of rotisserie, and I panicked, okay?”
“You’re feeding a man dinner. You’re emotionally naked. You’re domesticating.”
“I’m not domesticating, Demi. I’m stress-cooking. It’s a clinical condition.” I mutter, grabbing a paper towel with my wrist because my fingers are coated in syrupy garlic goo.
“Well, call the CDC, because it sounds contagious. You got the ‘future-wife shakes,’ and it’s terminal.”
I whack another garlic clove harder than necessary, the papery skin exploding across the counter. I can’t remember how much I already added.
It’s probably too much, but what’s a little more?
“You’re not helping.”
“I am absolutely helping,” she says. “I’m just saying, roast chicken is how you lock a man down. That and an outfit that says, ‘I bake and I swallow.’”
“Jesus, Demi!”
“What? I’m giving you the tools to get what you want.”
“You’re giving me heart palpitations.”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, mock-serious. “Would it help if I told you that it won’t matter if you burn the chicken or give him salmonella, because he’s already so obsessed with you he’d die with a boner and a smile?”
“DEMI.”
“SABLE. I’m telling the truth. That man would eat ketchup on drywall if you served it with that little ‘I tried’ look on your face.”
I groan and bury my smile in my arm for a second before muttering, “I’m trying to create a warm, welcoming environment. Not a fucking last supper.”
Hex has FaceTimed me every night this week. He calls at closing hour, keeping me on the phone while I lock-up, just to be sure I make it out and home safe. Always with that low voice and sincere presence, checking in without pushing.
Tonight’s different though. He’s not on a screen. He’s coming over.
To meet my son.
I told Bash about him last night. About the man who I’ve been spending time with more than just a little. The one who put in the playscape in the backyard. The one who is pretty serious.
The moment I said playscape, Bash’s whole face lit up. He didn’t say much though about Hex—he’s cautious with new people, especially when it comes to his mom—but I caught the excitement in his face. Hiding under that stubborn little smirk of his.
“Demi,” I say, pressing the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I grab the pan for the carrots. “If this chicken turns out terrible, I swear to God, I’m setting the oven on fire and blaming you.”
“You’d be doing the world a favor,” she snorts. “That oven’s unstable.”
“No, Ashley’s unstable,” I groan, then immediately regret the words.
There’s a pause on the other side.
“Got the email, huh?” She knows I’ve been worried since the moment I filed the temporary order last Friday.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bring wine to court,” she says. “And maybe a stun gun. You know, just in case.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” I say, using the back of my forearm to swipe at my temple.
“I can’t either.”
I smile despite myself, then glance at the oven clock. “I’ve gotta go. The chicken’s probably dry. I forgot the salad. And I’m sweating through my bra.”
“That’s called pheromones. Men love that shit. Makes them feral.”
“Goodbye, Demi.”
“Godspeed, Chicken Queen. Don’t forget to baste the bird and your man.”
Outside the kitchen window, the playscape catches the evening light. It’s sturdy and simple, but it looks safe. Something that could last. It makes me smile.
I hang up with Demi just as the oven beeps and my phone buzzes again.
Hex is on his way
By the time Hex knocks, I’ve washed the glaze off my arms, swapped my sweaty bra for a clean one, and wrestled the carrots onto a serving dish that kind of hides the fact they’re still mostly raw.
I open the door to dark jeans, a fitted henley, and that tattoo just visible at the collar. He smells of cedar and clean laundry, and I already know I’m in trouble because my entire body softens just seeing him.
But before I can get lost in his presence, Bash barrels around the corner.
Hex steps inside, eyes catching mine for a half-second—just long enough to give me that grin that does very inappropriate things to my lady bits—then he crouches, meeting Bash eye to eye.
“You must be Sebastian.”
Bash narrows in on him, skeptical but not rude. “Are you the one who put my playscape in?”
Hex nods, one knee up, resting his forearm casually over the top. “Sure am. You test it out yet?”
“Yeah,” Bash says. “It’s solid. I jumped from the top and didn’t even roll my ankle.”
Hex laughs, deep and genuine. “Well, shoot, I must not have picked out one big enough for you, my man.”
Bash glances up at me. “Mom says I shouldn’t be jumping off of it.”
Hex tilts his head, mock serious. “Your mom’s right. But you could use the rope and swing off it, Tarzan style.”
I raise an eyebrow. He flashes me a quick wink, subtle enough that Bash doesn’t catch it, and something low in my stomach clenches hard.
Watching the two of them like this—Hex grounded and patient, Bash trying not to look completely thrilled—is disarming. There’s no awkwardness. No forced politeness. Just two people figuring each other out as if they’ve done this before in some other life.
We settle at the small kitchen table I salvaged from a yard sale last spring. It used to be chipped and waterlogged. I stripped the finish, sanded every inch of it down, and painted the legs a pale matte green. It’s still a little wobbly, but it holds.
Bash immediately scoots into the seat next to Hex.
“I usually sit there,” he tells him, pointing at his usual spot, “but you’re bigger. And in case there’s a fire or something, I feel like you’d probably be better at saving us.”
Hex doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s fair. I’ve got long legs and good reflexes. You sit tight, I’ll handle the escape route.”
Bash considers that for a moment, then nods with the authority of someone far too small to be that certain. “You’re kind of a big guy. You ever kill anyone?”
“Bash!” I hiss, nearly choking on air.
He shrugs, totally unbothered. “It’s a fair question if you’re going to date my mom.”
Hex turns toward him, completely unfazed, his mouth twitching with amusement. “No kills, officially.”
“Whoa.” Bash lights up, excitement and what I could only assume are a million questions bubbling inside of him. If Hex is being serious or not goes right over his head.
“Okay,” I cut in, placing the tray of chicken on the table with hands that aren’t as steady as I’d like. “Let’s redirect that curiosity to dinner, please.”
We start to plate up. Barely halfway through chewing a mouthful of carrots he’s pretending not to hate, Bash looks up at Hex again.
“You play video games?”
Hex sets his fork down and leans back in his chair slightly, giving my son his full attention. “Used to. Not much anymore. My little brother JT’s the real expert.”
Bash perks up at the mention of a little brother. “Is he my age?”
Hex shakes his head. “Twenty-four. And yeah, he’s always trying to get me into whatever’s new. But I’m trash at anything that requires more than two buttons.”
Bash grins. “You’d like Death Strike. You get to throw knives and sneak up on people and there’s, like… a lot of blood.”
I shoot my son a look that could flatten buildings. “Bash.”
He shrinks just a hair. “I didn’t say I play it. I said he’d like it.”
Hex chuckles, then shifts his attention back to Bash, this time with a little more weight in his tone. “Your mom’s not wrong about the violent ones, kid. Some of them get in your head more than you think.”
Bash frowns. “Yeah, but they’re not real.”
“They’re not,” Hex agrees. “But your brain doesn’t always know the difference. You feed it too much violence, and it starts to think that’s normal. That it’s okay to react like that in real life.”
Bash pauses, his young brain turning the thoughts over.
“JT used to get real worked up after certain games,” Hex continues, picking up his fork again.
“Couldn’t sleep. Always wired. Once, I had pulled the plug on his console and made him go outside.
He pouted for a whole day, but then we ended up building a dirt ramp for his bike and he forgot all about the games. ”
Bash is silent for a beat, clearly trying to picture that. “I guess… I’d rather have a ramp.”
Hex smiles with sincerity. “Smart choice.”
And that’s it. Nothing preachy. No lectures. Just that secure voice, calm and real, and somehow it lands with Bash in a way that sticks.
The chicken flakes apart in dusty threads, and the carrots snap under my fork, defiantly uncooked. I push most of my offerings around my plate, chew thoroughly what I can muster, and wash it down with a sip of tea.
But Hex?
He eats every bite. No weird faces. No choking.
Either he has no taste buds or the best manners I’ve ever seen on a man who could bench press my vehicle.
He leans back slightly in his chair, glancing at me between bites. “It’s really good.”
Bash nods around a mouthful. “Better than Nana’s meatloaf. Don’t tell her I said that.”
He’s only saying that because of Hex. Bash is the pickiest eater and challenges my patience on the daily when it comes to food choices. I press my napkin to my mouth to hide my grin.
Watching them like this—Bash leaning into Hex's space, Hex meeting every question with patience—something tight in my chest finally loosens. The walls I've spent years building, brick by careful brick, don't feel quite so necessary anymore. Not with him.
Bash stretches out beside him, questions still piling up, each one a quiet prod to see if Hex will flinch.
He hasn’t yet.
And I don’t think he will.