Chapter 8 Lindsey
EIGHT
LINDSEY
It’s a good dream, despite the fact it’s only a dream. I’m willing to appreciate it for what it is. I rub my eyes until I’m awake enough to understand my surroundings, and it takes me a few more seconds to recognize the couch, this living room, and the strange absence of ghosts from my past.
I’m in the Quinn home. My boys are safe. I feel safe.
I sit up at that realization and glance around the dark space. Brooks was here when I fell asleep. On him.
Oh jeez.
I bury my face in my palms and sigh. At least I wasn’t drinking wine.
When I think about how I literally threw myself into him, though—gah!
I may as well have been drunk. I drop my hands into my lap and gather up the throw blanket he must have put over me.
I bring it to my chest and press my nose into the faux fur, breathing it in.
It smells like Brooks—a mix of linen dryer sheets and musky body wash.
I shouldn’t pay such close attention to the way he smells.
I push the blanket from my legs, then stand, stretching my arms above my head while I squint to read the time on the microwave oven across the kitchen. It’s too dark to be eight in the morning, so that must be a three I’m looking at. My mouth contorts with a sudden yawn. Definitely three a.m.
The faint light from upstairs catches my eye, so I cautiously take the steps until I spot movement in Brooks’s room.
I pause just outside his doorway and hold my breath so I don’t disturb him.
He’s holding Holly against his chest, rubbing circles on her back as he hums softly, his eyes closed.
I bet he has a nice singing voice. His lashes flutter as he rotates and sways, and when his gaze catches mine, a soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird . . .”
His whispered song is sweet, and it pushes my smile deeper into my cheeks. I was right. He can sing. At least enough for it to leave a mark. He lays his daughter back in her crib before treading toward me with light steps.
“I’m sorry if she woke you. She needed a change,” he says in a hushed tone as he pulls the door mostly shut.
“I don’t think I heard her. I woke up from a dream.
” I run my fingers through my tangled hair and scratch at my head.
Brooks reaches forward and helps by tucking one of my locks behind my ear.
His fingertips linger near my cheek, and his tongue peeks out of his lips.
The sight sends a rush of dopamine deep into my chest, making my heart flutter.
“What was your dream?” he says, his knuckles grazing my jawline as his hand falls away. The touch is faint enough to be accidental, but the way his gaze slides to my throat sends a different message.
“Well, at first, I was in my old house, and my ex was there. He was telling me I wouldn’t want to join him for his conference in the city because I wouldn’t know anyone, and I’d be bored.”
Brooks’s gaze lifts to mine as he rests a shoulder blade against the door frame. His head tilts.
“He say that to you a lot?”
I lift one shoulder and pull my mouth into a crooked, brief smile.
“When we first got married, never. Then I had the boys, and it made sense that I stayed home. I didn’t really have anyone to leave the kids with for a getaway. Still, it’s nice to be asked. To be wooed.” A bashful laugh slips from my lips.
“She likes to be wooed.” He says it with a smirk, amused but also as if he’s taking notes.
“All women like to be wooed, Brooks. Every single one of us.” I step forward and tap a finger on the center of his chest before walking toward my room, hoping he’ll follow while knowing he shouldn’t.
He does.
It’s dangerous territory we’re in, but it feels good to be in the vicinity of affection.
It’s been so long since someone looked at me like they wanted me for more than a grocery trip and babysitting.
And yeah, technically, the whole reason I’m living in this house is for babysitting.
But right now, that’s not how Brooks is treating me.
And I’m going to let myself indulge just a little.
“So, what else happened in your dream? After your ex told you not to bother joining him in the city?” Brooks hovers near my doorway while I move toward my bed.
My room is barely unpacked—stacks of clothing on the floor, a blanket thrown over my mattress because I never got around to putting on sheets today.
It’s still a million times homier than the spare room in my parents’ house.
“Well,” I say, looking up at the ceiling as I spin then flop down on the foot of my bed. “I went to the city anyway, and when I got there, I saw my husband having dinner with one of his former students. A very beautiful former student.”
I drop my gaze to his, and he blinks a few times.
“That part wasn’t in the dream, was it?”
I suck my lips into a tight straight line and slowly shake my head.
“He’s an idiot,” he says.
I breathe out a short laugh and exhale before falling back on my palms and kicking my feet back and forth.
“Mostly, yeah. I mean, he has a PhD, but I think he cheated to get it. I mean, once a cheater . . .”
We both laugh quietly at my terrible joke.
“But”—I straighten my neck and widen my eyes on his—“My dream did get better.”
“How so?” he asks while slowly working his way across my room toward me. I scoot to my right, making room for him to sit next to me, and the way my body hums with nervous energy should be a warning sign. If it is, I choose to ignore it.
“You showed up, for starters,” I say, biting the tip of my tongue as it peeks out of my nervous smile. I fight my urge to glance to my left, but I can feel Brooks’s eyes on me.
“Did I kick your ex’s ass?”
I shake my head, my smile itching to grow. I give in to a sideways glance instead.
“You gave me a job, moved me into my dream house, then put me to sleep while I wallowed in self-pity.” I pull my knees up and hug them as he holds my stare, letting his head fall to the same side so we match.
Neither of us blinks for several seconds, until the itch to laugh is too great and we both give in. I lean into his side, and he pushes his weight back into me. I could stay like this—bare arm against arm—until it leads to something more, but this is enough, and I’m not drunk, so I know better.
“You do know that’s what really happened, right? I mean, except for the wallowing in self-pity part.”
I roll my eyes and utter, “I know. There was a little wallowing, though.”
He shakes his head.
“Being human is not wallowing. And wanting your kids to feel your love is far from self-pity. I know your feelings are about more than resorts versus Legos.”
The gentle nudge of his elbow at my side is followed by another, and his second poke finds my ticklish spot.
“She likes to be wooed, and she’s ticklish,” he says, wiggling his fingers between us as if he’s about to pin me with tickles. More temptation. Sigh.
I narrow my gaze on him.
“Are you scouting me like one of your opponents?”
He rocks back with a short laugh then gets to his feet, shaking his head as he pushes his palms into his pockets.
“We’re on the same team. So no, Lindsey. I’m merely taking notes on what you like.”
His upper lip twitches, the movement so small that I wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t staring at his face. It makes his right eye flinch just a hair. And the quiet second or two that follows feels like a slip in time, lasting for minutes rather than the tiny breath it does.
“You know, if . . .” He stops himself, biting the inside of his cheek.
My lips buzz, and I have to suck the top one in to scratch the itch. It keeps me from asking—if what?
If I didn’t work for him. If he wasn’t mere weeks into learning he was a father. If this house wasn’t full of kids, and I wasn’t looking at what I fear is about to become a messy divorce.
Another time. Different versions of us.
“Nevermind,” he mumbles.
He walks to the corner of my room and pulls out the comforter, folded along with a few towels, from my laundry basket.
He turns to me and nods his head for me to scoot back in my bed.
I do, hugging one pillow to my chest while resting my head on the other before he fluffs out the floral bedspread that I stole from my parents’ house.
The blanket’s weight is soothing, and I pull in the edges so I’m cocooned.
“Get some sleep. I have to be up in a few hours, so I’ll try to be quiet when I leave for workouts. Maybe Holly will sleep in.”
I close my eyes and pull my blanket under my chin, embracing the darkness behind my eyelids.
“It’s not Holly who’s going to wake me. Those boys haven’t slept past six since birth. But don’t worry, my eyes are programmed to pop open at five-fifty-five every day. It’s like magic,” I say, feeling the pull of slumber take me under.
“A constant five a.m. sounds like a curse to me, but I love that you see it as a blessing.” He chuckles. “Good night, Lindsey. I hope you get to finish your dream. And I hope whoever he is in there, he woos you.”
I hope you do, too, Brooks.