19. Skylar
Chapter 19
Skylar
C onsciousness seeps in, slow and warm, as I feel the steady rise and fall of a chest against my back. I can sense his presence more than see it. Theo's arms are an unyielding circle of warmth around my waist, his face hidden somewhere in the tangle of my chestnut hair. His breath is a soft whisper against my skin, each exhale stirring something deep inside me.
I don’t move, basking in the comfort that comes from being this close to him. It's a dangerous comfort, one that threatens the walls I've spent years erecting around my heart.
Theo shifts slightly, dragging me closer—if that’s even possible—and nestles his face deeper into my hair. He sighs, a sound so full of contentment it resonates within my chest, echoing in the hollow spaces I've tried so hard to ignore. He presses a lazy kiss to the nape of my neck, a simple act that shatters the precarious balance I've maintained.
I blink rapidly, attempting to push back the sudden rush of tears that blur my vision. But the dam breaks, emotions flooding in—because this isn’t just sex anymore. It never really was. I can't pretend; not now, not with his lips writing truths on my skin. I still love him. Always have. It's like trying to deny the pull of gravity, futile and nonsensical.
"Morning," Theo murmurs, his voice rich and groggy with sleep. His fingers trace idle patterns on my stomach, igniting trails of fire that I fight to ignore. "You okay?"
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat, afraid that if I speak, all of my carefully curated defenses will crumble under the weight of three little words that claw at my insides. So instead, I turn within his embrace, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Yeah, just...didn't sleep well."
He searches my face, his green eyes soft with concern, but I avert my gaze. I can't let him see the truth there, can't afford the luxury of vulnerability. Not when everything inside me yearns to lean into his touch, to confess sins and secrets best left buried.
Because I don’t trust this. I don’t trust him. I can’t. The first time broke me. If I let him in only for him to leave again? I think I’d shatter.
"Bad dreams?" he asks, and there's an edge of something more in his voice—a need to fix what's broken.
"Something like that," I lie, because the reality is far more complicated than a mere nightmare. It's the waking up that's haunting me—the realization that I'm in his arms, and how much I crave this closeness.
"Come here," Theo whispers, pulling me back against his chest. And I let him, because for just a few more seconds, I want to pretend that nothing has changed—that we're still those two lovesick teenagers who thought they could take on the world.
I can't ignore the shiver that runs down my spine, not from the cool morning air but from the weight of realization pressing down on me. I've lied to myself for so long, wrapping my heart in layers of pretense and denial, convincing myself it was all just temporary. Theo would move on just like last time.
But this...this unwavering grip he has on me, the way his arms feel like they're etched into my very being, it tells a different story. One where Theo never left, where every “goodbye” was just a pause between breaths, waiting to be drawn back in.
The thought terrifies me. The certainty that deep down, beneath the armor of independence and self-preservation, I never wanted him to let go. That maybe, just maybe, I've been craving this return, this reclamation of what we once had, even as I've been fighting against it with every fiber of my being.
And now, as his breath warms the nape of my neck, as his presence wraps around me, grounding yet unshakable, it's clear. This isn't just desire; it's an echo of love that refuses to fade, no matter how much I will it away.
Theo shifts behind me. I can feel his heart beating a rhythm that seems to synchronize with mine.
"Sky?" His voice is still groggy with sleep, laced with concern. It's too much.
"It’s nothing," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. I can't face him, can't let him see the raw fear and longing in my eyes. So I do the only thing I can—I pull away.
Gently, so as not to disturb the fragile peace between us, I slide out from under his arm, out of the warmth of our shared cocoon. The bed creaks softly as I plant my feet on the cold hardwood floor, and I feel the last vestiges of his touch slip away as I stand.
"Wait," Theo begins, but I'm already moving, tiptoeing across the room.
"Need some air," I lie again, the words tasting bitter on my tongue as I grab the first items of clothing within reach—some of my shorts and a sweatshirt that likely belongs to him—and shrug it over my head.
I shuffle into the kitchen, hoping he won’t follow but knowing he will. My feet are cold against the tile, but I'm grateful for the chill—it keeps my mind from wandering back to the warmth of the bed I left behind.
Lucas and Elodie are a welcome distraction. They're already perched at the island counter, their little legs swinging beneath the stools. Lucas spots me first, his face lighting up like I just walked in with a basket full of puppies.
“Skylar!” he exclaims, hopping off his stool and running toward me. His arms wrap around my waist in a tight hug, his head barely reaching my stomach.
Elodie, not one to be outdone, scurries over and attaches herself to my side, her tiny hands fisting the hem of Theo’s sweatshirt where it drapes over my thighs. "You're awake! Daddy said we shouldn't wake you."
I force a smile, pushing aside the lump in my throat. "Well, I'm awake now. What did you dream about?"
Lucas pulls back just enough to grin up at me. “I dreamed about hockey! And pancakes!”
Elodie gasps. “Me too! Pancakes with chocolate chips and whipped cream.”
Lucas looks instantly betrayed. “Mine had blueberries.”
I let out a soft laugh, ruffling his hair. “Guess we’ll have to make both, then. Won't we Daddy Cohen?”
As I approach the counter, Cohen turns from the stove, a spatula in hand. His eyes find mine, those deep blue pools that have a way of seeing right through someone. He gives me a once-over, and I can almost hear his thoughts clicking into place—Cohen never misses a beat, not even when he's buried in fatherhood and work responsibilities.
"Morning," I manage, my voice sounding more hoarse than I intended.
"Hey," he replies, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he steps closer. He hands me a mug of coffee, the black liquid steaming gently, and I wrap my fingers around it, savoring the heat as it seeps into my palms.
"Thanks," I murmur, lifting the cup to my lips, letting the bitter aroma fill my senses.
"Any time." His hand reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that contradicts the strength in his calloused fingers. It's a simple gesture, but my skin tingles where his touch lingers.
"Hey, kids," he continues. "Go on up to the playroom and I'll call you when pancakes are ready."
Lucas and Elodie hightail out of the kitchen, discussing which game they wanted to play first.
"Did you sleep okay?" Cohen asks, his voice low enough that it doesn't carry.
"Fine," I lie, and take another sip of coffee. "You?"
"Like a rock," he answers, but the shadows under his eyes tell a different story—one of late nights and early mornings, of burdens shouldered alone.
The doorbell's chime slices through the quiet hum of the kitchen, and Austin's voice echoes from the foyer, "I've got it!"
Cohen’s gaze takes on a more serious tone as he looks down at me. He hasn’t pulled back, still standing so close I can almost feel his chest with each breath. But something has shifted.
"Skylar," he murmurs, his tone carrying a weight that pins me to the spot. "We need to talk."
Before I can muster a response, Theo is there. His chest presses against my back, his arms possessively circling my waist. The oversized hoodie I've thrown on does little to shield me from the solidity of him, the familiar scent of his cologne engulfing me. For a moment, I'm drowning in memories, in what his touch used to mean. Still does.
"Hey," Theo breathes into my hair, the word a soft caress against my ear.
"Hey back," I echo, voice barely above a whisper. My gaze flits to Cohen, who watches us with an unreadable expression, his proximity setting my nerves alight.
Then, the atmosphere shifts, heavy footsteps signaling Austin's return. He strides into the kitchen, Brielle in tow. She's all sharp angles and sleek lines, the epitome of poise and polish. But her composure fractures when her gaze lands on me, disheveled in Theo's hoodie, trapped between the two men who've managed to unravel me in their own ways.
"You," Brielle seethes. Her eyes rake over me, taking in every detail—the tousled hair, the way I'm sandwiched between Theo and Cohen. It's a scene ripe for misinterpretation—although it isn’t really a misinterpretation, is it? From the tightening of Brielle's lips, I know she's drawing every possible conclusion.
"Hi, Brielle," I manage, stepping forward to untangle myself from Theo's embrace. I inch away from Cohen, too, striving for a semblance of professionalism despite the incriminating setup. But the room feels smaller now, charged with tension that no one dares to address—not yet.
The silence in the room feels like a tangible thing, thick and suffocating. I swallow hard, my pulse racing as I catch the narrowing of Brielle's eyes. Her perfectly shaped lips twist into a sneer, and she turns her head toward Austin, seeking some sort of solidarity in her outrage.
"Are you kidding me?" The sharpness in her voice slices through the tension, making everyone still. It's a sound that demands attention, from someone who is accustomed to bending others to their will.
Her gaze snaps back to me, dissecting every inch of my disarray with clinical precision. "This is completely inappropriate," she hisses, stepping closer. "How unprofessional can you be, nanny? Or is it teacher? Or whore? I knew it. I just didn’t realize—" She gestures at Theo and Cohen with a manicured hand, her tone dripping with disdain.
I feel my cheeks burn hot with embarrassment, but there's a fire in my belly, too. This isn't her place, her business. But then she takes it a step further, her eyes lighting up with a cruel kind of glee. "I should take this to the school board," she threatens, voice laced with smug satisfaction. "They would have a field day with this scandal."
The word “scandal” echoes in my mind, a harsh reminder of how quickly things can unravel. I'm frozen, caught between indignation and fear, the taste of bile rising in my throat. My hands clench into fists at my sides. Austin remains silent, his face an unreadable mask, his blue eyes cold and distant.
Brielle's triumphant smirk tells me she thinks she's won, but I can't—won't—let her have the last word. Not here. Not now.
It’s not Austin who puts her in her place. It’s Cohen.
"Enough, Brielle," he says, and the room seems to draw in a collective breath. "This isn't your concern."
She bristles visibly at his interference, but Cohen doesn't flinch, doesn't back down. He holds her glare with an unyielding stare, and I find myself momentarily grateful for the barrier he's placed between her venom and me.
Austin remains silent, his expression locked away behind a mask of indifference. It's unsettling, this silence of his—like the calm that comes before a storm. When Brielle finally huffs and storms off, her departure does nothing to lighten the atmosphere; if anything, it feels heavier, loaded with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.
"Lucas," Austin's voice breaks through the silence, sharp and clear, carrying up to the playroom. "Backpack. You're spending time with your mother."
The command hangs in the air, another point of tension, and suddenly I need to escape. Without a word, I turn on my heel and flee the kitchen, my feet carrying me quickly down the hallway, towards the sanctuary of my bedroom.
"Skylar!" Cohen's voice follows me, echoing off the walls, but I don't stop. Not until he throws out a single phrase, heavy with meaning, one that roots me to the spot.
"You mentioned Vegas."
My heart stutters in my chest, and I can't move, can't breathe.
I force a casual shrug, feigning ignorance as I pivot to face Cohen. "Vegas?" I let the word hang between us, playing dumb.
His eyes narrow, a silent plea for honesty that I'm not ready to give. "It was you, wasn't it?" His voice is a mix of frustration and something else—pain, maybe.
He wants to bring this up now ? I should have known letting Theo involve him the other night would only breed chaos. At first, I’d been hurt, angry that he didn’t remember me. But I’d since realized it was a good thing.
It was a drunken weekend. I’d been dressed like a damn sorority girl, my hair dyed an obnoxiously bright pink. I had looked completely different, nothing like myself. But I had sounded like me. I should have known that’s what would finally jog his memory: the sound of me coming apart at the seams with pleasure. He’d certainly heard it enough in Vegas.
I don’t need this on top of everything else. Why now?
"Why didn't you say anything? Why did you let it go on this long? Why did you let me touch you when it was—"
"Because you didn't remember me!" The words erupt from me in a yell, raw and unfiltered. My throat burns with the effort to keep my composure from fracturing completely.
Turning away from his piercing gaze, I continue my retreat toward my room, but he's persistent, following close behind. He reaches out, trying to coax me into facing him, into explaining, but I can't—I won't.
Then, like an omen, Austin's figure fills the doorway, halting us both. His presence—a solid wall of tailored suit and controlled emotion—demands attention. His blue eyes, normally icy, seem ablaze with a fire I've stoked without meaning to.
Austin's gaze skewers me, his posture rigid as he orders Cohen out with a curt nod. "I need to talk to Skylar. Alone." There's an unspoken command there, one that speaks of boardrooms and power struggles.
Cohen hesitates, his expression torn between concern and frustration. His eyes flicker to mine, searching, questioning. I give him nothing, my face a mask of determination. He knows better than to argue with Austin in this mood. With a final, lingering look, Cohen exits, his reluctance clinging to the air like a tangible thing.
Now it's just Austin and me, another silent standoff. "You don’t get to just walk away,” he growls, the roughness in his voice betraying the cool exterior he maintains. It's a challenge, a dare for me to confront whatever is brewing beneath the surface.
I let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of the morning's chaos press down on me. My words are tinted with exasperation as I address him, "What do you want me to do, Austin? I live here. If you'd given us a heads-up about Brielle's visit, I wouldn't have been caught off guard...like this."
I gesture vaguely to my disheveled appearance—the hoodie hanging loose on my frame, the wild tumble of my hair. It's not the way I like to be seen. I value control over my image, over how I present myself to the world. But then again, Austin has a way of disrupting my equilibrium, leaving me flustered and more vulnerable than I care to admit.
“I wouldn’t have let my guard down like…that.”
I gesture vaguely toward the kitchen where I had most definitely let Theo and Cohen sandwich me, no matter how innocently.
Austin's scoff echoes in the room. "Yes, you would have," he says, his blue eyes ice-cold yet burning into me with an intensity I can't evade. He crosses the room, grabbing my arm before I can turn away from him. "This has been your game all along."
"What game?" My voice comes out sharper than intended, but I'm past caring. I jerk my arm free from his grasp, my skin tingling where his fingers lingered. “What do you want me to say, Austin?”
His face is inches from mine, every line of tension on his forehead etched with the need for control. "I want you to admit it," he snaps, the words slicing through the thick tension.
It's laughable, really, how he thinks he can pin this all on me. My laughter fills the space, bitter and jagged, like broken glass. "You think I’m the problem? You think I’m the only one who feels this?"
The question hangs there, suspended in the charged atmosphere. Austin’s gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does mine. We're locked in this dance, this battle of wills, and neither of us seems willing to back down.
The space between us shrinks, the heat of our argument morphing into something darker, heavier.
My breath hitches as Austin's hand moves—deliberate, rough—until his fingers curl around the back of my neck. His grip isn't painful, but it's firm, demanding my attention, refusing to let me slip away.
His breathing is ragged, matching the erratic rhythm of my own.
“Say it,” he growls, his voice low and edged with something raw. The sound rolls through me, awakening something I don't want to name.
I should shove him away. I should break free of the hold he has on me—both physical and otherwise. But I don’t.
Instead, I let myself feel it. The tension. The frustration. The way my body betrays me, drawn to him even as my mind screams at me to keep my distance.
His thumb brushes against the side of my throat, and I shudder. His eyes darken, tracking the movement, his pupils blown wide.
“Damn it, Skylar,” he mutters, his other hand clenching at his side like he’s fighting himself, like he’s trying to hold on to the last shreds of his restraint.
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering beneath his fingertips. “You think this is a game?” I challenge, my voice uneven, breathless.
His jaw flexes. “I think you like to play with fire,” he says, his fingers tightening just enough to make my knees go weak.
I don’t get the chance to respond before he yanks me forward, crushing his lips to mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a collision, a clash of anger and need.
Austin kisses me like he’s trying to prove a point, like he’s trying to punish me for making him want this, for making him feel something he swore he never would.
And God help me, I kiss him back.
He pulls back, pressing his lips to the corner of my jaw and tracing the line down to my throat. His breath is hot on my skin, his grip tight enough to send shudders cascading through me.
"This is a bad idea," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah," Austin's agreement comes out rough, strained. He's close, so close his features blur into a stormy expression I can feel but not see. And then his lips crash against mine again—hard, desperate, consuming. It’s like he's been wandering in a desert and I'm the first raindrop in years.
My mind screams protest, but my body betrays me, melting into the kiss. His tongue sweeps over mine, telling me he's starved for this—for me—and it ignites something fierce within my chest. This man, this infuriating, controlled man, is losing himself against my mouth, and it's terrifyingly exhilarating.
I grip his shirt, knuckles whitening as I pull him closer, or he pulls me; it doesn't matter. His taste, raw and intense, floods my senses, drowning out the voice that insists we're diving headfirst into chaos.