Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Rhodes
I pause in the doorway of Chloe’s room and smile.
She’s sprawled diagonally across the mattress with one arm over her face, her stuffed rabbit that’s seen far better days tucked beneath the other.
Olive and Pear are curled at her feet.
And pink is all around.
I grin, flick off the lights—which means her bright pink nightlight has plenty of space to shine—and turn to leave.
But a glint has me stopping, lifting my hand.
My left hand.
I stare at my wedding ring and let the ache come—the pain of missing Anna, the hurt from all that we lost out on, the months and years of wanting things to be different, the memories that continue to fade with each day that passes.
“Enough,” I whisper. “Just…enough.”
Quietly, I move back across Chloe’s room, dodging toys and books, doing my best to not disturb the demon cat duo. I pause when I see the photo of her and Anna on her nightstand, my heart pulsing, and then…I keep moving.
To her closet.
I reach up and grab her brightly painted memory box.
When I open the lid, my favorite photograph of Anna is on top—and I smile as I study it, as I get lost in her grin, her wild hair, the careful way she cradled Chloe against her chest.
Love.
Anna’s.
Chloe’s.
Mine.
But it’s a love that’s softened at the edges. That’s faded into something that’s becoming a pleasant memory instead of an overwhelming discomfort.
Not gone forever. Not pushed away and forgotten.
Just…different.
Changed.
I’m changed.
I pick up the frame, running my fingers across the cool metal, then I sink to the floor with a sigh, thinking about the last few months…and the truth I’ve slowly accepted.
Finn laughing in my kitchen.
Finn sewing her blankets.
Finn worried—so damned worried—about Chloe when she was upset.
Trip coming up or not, Finn has become part of our family—one of those squares stitched into the fabric of our lives.
And Anna—
I look down at my ring.
She’s there too. In my memories. My heart.
“Just…not like this,” I whisper as I slowly slip the metal circle off my finger, place it in the circle of my palm. The gold is warm from my skin and scuffed from years of wearing it and…
I hold it for a long time.
Then I slowly set it in the box, right on top of the picture.
I put the lid on…
And tuck the box back onto the shelf.
She’s sitting on the couch, her fabric spread out in front of her and—
“This again?”
Her head jerks in my direction, guilt spreading across her face as she snags the remote and pauses the documentary.
On World War Two.
“Which one is it this time?” I ask, walking to the couch and sinking down next to her.
Our thighs brush and I feel that contact like wildfire licking through my veins.
The color rises in her cheeks as she looks over at me. “What?”
“Which documentary are you watching today?”
“This one is on the women who helped win the war,” she says softly. “Working at home, nursing on the battlefields, spying, picking up arms.” Her mouth curves. “Generally kicking ass on all fronts.”
I tuck one of her curls behind her ear. “Women tend to do that.”
Warm eyes on mine. “You think Coach Dee will be my friend?”
“What?”
“She’s kind of my hero.” More pink on her cheeks.
“I could see that.”
“Even if I don’t know how to skate?”
I laugh, shift a little closer. “Even then.”
She huffs out a laugh, and we’re so close now it glazes over my lips. “Do you think you could teach me?”
“To skate?”
A nod.
I grin, brush my knuckles over her cheek, down her throat. “So now we’re talking about trading Skating Skills for Braiding Skills?”
“Um, yes?”
“Then I accept.”
“You”—her brows drag together—“accept what exactly?”
“This,” I whisper.
And finally, finally, I give in.
I lean down and press my lips to hers.
She gasps and I taste her surprise on my tongue, but it’s only for a second before she melts against me.
And, fuck, that’s nice.
Soft where I’m hard, her moans vibrating from her chest to mine, her hands sliding up my chest and burying themselves in my hair. She tugs at the same time she plasters herself against me, and I snag her waist, drag her on top of me so she’s straddling me and—
“Fuck,” I groan.
Because that’s nice.
Hell, it’s fucking great.
She moans again as she rocks against me, and it only takes that slightest bit of movement for me to go hard, for my dick to begin protesting the confines of my pants.
“Rhodes,” she whispers. “This— You— Me—”
“I know,” I rasp, dropping my hand onto the back of her neck and dragging her mouth to mine for another long, searing kiss. “I know. But I want it, don’t you?”
“It’s complicated…and I’m leaving at the end of the season,” she whispers, the words soft puffs of air against my lips.
“Yes,” I agree. “But you’re here now.”
“Chloe—”
“She loves you.”
“But if you and I—” She nibbles at the corner of her mouth. “What if it goes wrong?”
“We’ve been living together while taking care of a four-year-old and two psychotic kittens—I think we’ve already been dealing with things going wrong.”
Amusement drifting across her face.
I stroke her cheek. “This doesn’t come with any expectations, Stitch. If it’s not working for you, all you have to do is tell me. It won’t affect your relationship with Chloe. I promise.”
Her gaze holds mine, as though searching my soul for answers.
“How long have you wanted this?” she whispers.
I smooth back her hair, let her see the truth of my words. “From the first time I saw you.”
She inhales, holds very still for a long, long moment.
Then she touches my jaw and murmurs,
“Kiss me, Rhodes.”