Chapter 47 Mercer
Chapter forty-seven
Mercer
Dammit. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?
It’s Sunday evening in late October. Of course the bakery’s mostly sold out.
Edna appears behind the counter, and I straighten, stopping my incessant foot-tapping.
“What’s that one?” I demand, eyeing the white baker box in her hand.
Her salt-and-pepper eyebrows soar into her hairline, though they quickly lower as she fixes me with a glare.
Hands on my hips, I stare right back.
“This is salted caramel apple,” she declares, holding out the pie. “Take it or leave it. And lose the attitude. I pulled it from the freezer of holiday preorders, but for you, I’ll give it up. Just know this: you owe me one.”
I dip my chin. I’d gladly clean the walk-in cooler and do final inventory at the end of the season if I could guarantee tonight would go off without a hitch. And in order to do that, I need Sawyer’s favorite dessert.
“You’re sure this is her favorite?”
Edna smirks. “One of them. The girl likes variety, apparently.”
Rather than acknowledge the suggestive comment, I thank her and take the box. Then I turn on my heel and head back to the house.
When the back door finally opens sometime later, Noah’s presence is palpable. He’s in good spirits, his low baritone familiar and soothing when it registers.
Sawyer’s laughter is like a balm, too. It eases the anxiety thrumming in my veins and even brings a smile to my face. From what I can tell, they’ve had a good day.
Though I expected them home earlier. With a look at the clock above the stove, I grimace.
Dinner’s nearly ready, and we’ve all got a busy week ahead of us, so this can’t be a late night. But when she’s this joyful, I can’t possibly be upset.
She came back. That’s what matters most.
She’s here.
She’s back.
She’ll stay.
I’m okay.
Those phrases have played on repeat in my mind all day. It only hit me a few hours ago just how vulnerable I’ve allowed myself to become with this girl.
I can’t lose her again. These last few weeks have been hell. Yes, I’m concerned for Noah, for his need for stability, but I’m just as worried for myself.
I’ve fallen hard. I’ve crashed headfirst, stumbling into a relationship I never saw coming. My visceral need to keep her close is tragically codependent, and I promised a long time ago that I’d never allow myself to feel like this again.
I’m angry.
At myself. At that boy. At this entire fucked-up situation and at my inability to maintain control over all of it.
I can’t admit any of that to her, though. And I can’t come on too strong now that she’s back in this house and not pushing me away.
Not wanting to appear too eager, I turn back to the stove and give the risotto another slow stir.
No more than a minute later, soft footsteps draw closer, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
Instead of the effervescent excitement that typically rushes through me in Sawyer’s presence, a slow drip of dread percolates in my gut.
When she enters the kitchen, I can’t bring myself to even look up.
I focus on the risotto, stirring a little too vigorously, willing the extra liquid to absorb slower so I have a little more time.
“Hi.” She wraps her arms around me from behind.
I fight against the urge to sink into her hold.
“That smells amazing,” she praises. “What is it?”
“Risotto,” I say, the word more clipped than I mean for it to be. “It needs to be constantly stirred to be edible.”
A soft hum vibrates through my back. “Noah?”
My best friend ambles into the kitchen. “Right here, honey.”
“Will you take over risotto duty so Mercer doesn’t have an excuse to ignore me?”
My stomach sinks. Busted.
Snickering, Noah crowds my space and snags the wooden spoon from my hand.
When I turn to face Sawyer, she tucks her hair behind both ears and offers me a sympathetic smile. “If I was in your shoes, I’d want to ignore me, too.”
Sighing, I press my fingers into my temple. It’s not that I want to ignore her. It’s just—
“Come on.” She takes my hand and pulls me toward the island. On the other side of the butcher-block counter, she pulls out one barstool and takes a seat.
I consider sitting.
I go as far as pulling out the other stool. But then I promptly shove it back in. I’m far too restless to sit.
She snags my hand again, and I startle, turning her way. Without my permission, my body drifts closer, only stopping when I’m standing between her legs.
As if worried I’ll run away—oh, the irony—she hooks my belt loops and tugs.
“I owe you an apology,” she starts, her head tipped back. “I’ve already apologized to Noah, but I think my actions affected you more than they did him.”
Precisely. Because I protected him from the bulk of this bullshit.
“I pulled away from you, and I wasn’t faithful,” she confesses, peeking up through her sooty lashes to gauge my reaction.
I assumed as much.
It still hurts to hear.
“You and I talked about exclusivity at that first hockey game. Then everything happened between Ty and me.”
Everything.
Everything?
I will not ask if they fucked. I will not ask if they—
“I didn’t have intercourse with him.”
The clarification leaves me to believe a litany of other acts occurred between them.
The beast inside me fights against the carefully crafted restraints of my temper.
She’s here. I’ve scared her off enough. She’s coming clean.
Warm palms capture my face, her thumbs rubbing back and forth over the stubble on my jaw as she forces me to meet her gaze.
I hold it for all of two seconds before I have to look away.
“The last few weeks have been a mess, and I caused a lot of stress and turmoil for you. I pulled away, and I understand if you don’t feel like you can trust me.
I broke your trust, and I’m sorry. But I’ll work for it, Mercer,” she says, voice trembling.
“I’ll do the work to earn your trust back, no matter how long it takes. ”
I garner the courage to look her in the eyes once more.
The depth of her sincerity is written all over her face. She’s sorry, and she understands how much damage she’s caused. She also recognizes that a simple apology isn’t enough.
With a nod, I glance back to where Noah stands at the stove, his back to us. There’s no way he can’t hear every word.
His presence is a relief.
It feels hopeful, in a way.
She’s here. He’s here.
We’re going to be okay.
I turn back to face her. “And you’re promising not to pull away again?”
It’s my biggest concern. It’s also, apparently, my greatest fear.
“I’m here,” she tells me solemnly, cupping one side of my face. “And I’m not going anywhere. Thank you for not giving up on me.”
My traitorous heart yearns to comfort her.
But another part of me can’t reconcile the events of the last few weeks. Especially now that I know she was intimate with that boy.
No matter. None of my conflicting emotions will be completely resolved tonight. As much as I’d love to wave a magic wand and plow ahead, it’s going to take time.
So it’s best if we start working toward our shared goal.
Standing to full height, I shift closer, forcing Sawyer to crane back.
“I’ve prepared dinner and dessert for tonight. After we eat, Noah’s going to build a bonfire. I want to sit out there together, then bring you back here, where we’ll all sleep in the same bed again, before we go into work together in the morning. Understood?”
She breaks into a cheeky smile. “Yes, Professor.”
I smirk.
This is good. I can do this.
Assurance flits through my mind, though it’s quickly followed by a wave of self-doubt.
“Are you saying yes because you want to be here, or because you feel obligated?”
She presses her lips together, then gives an imperceptible shake of her head. “I want this. Right here, right now, with you and Noah, is exactly where I want to be.”
With a shuddering breath, I press my forehead into hers. We stay like that for several heartbeats, wordlessly holding each other up, digging for the confidence to trust that this is real.
I want to allow myself to hope. I wish I could easily trust again and confidently lean into this relationship. But it’s going to take time. Her acknowledgment of that fact alone is what galvanizes me to believe there’s hope for us yet, and that we’re going to be okay.