Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ARTHUR
I don’t know where to look. Scratch that—I know where I want to look, but I really, really shouldn’t. Doesn’t matter. I’m completely incapable of tearing my eyes away.
Elliot stands in front of me wearing a red plaid one-piece pajama situation.
Or maybe it’s the other way around—maybe the onesie is wearing her, because damn.
The thing is painted onto her body, stretching over slender shoulders, hugging her full breasts, clinging to the curve of her hips and the length of her thighs like it was tailor-made for sin instead of sleep.
It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. A flannel pajama onesie that covers her from neck to ankle should be the opposite of sexy. And yet I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, brows scrunching into those little lines I’ve started to memorize.
The words barely register because I’m still fighting to tear my eyes off her edible body and up to her beautiful, confused face. Her expression shifts in an instant, realization dawning.
“Our session. Shit—we rescheduled our session to tonight.”
I clear my throat. Then again, louder, because the first attempt didn’t work. “We did. But, uh, we can reschedule again if you…if you already have plans.” My gaze finally drops to the object in her hands, and I blurt out before I can stop myself, “Wait. Is that Jurassic Park?”
“Yes,” she says flatly.
And suddenly my lust-fogged brain starts trying—but failing—to make sense of the picture in front of me.
It’s six o’clock on a Friday night. Elliot is standing there in a faded red plaid onesie that looks older than her and yet is somehow sexier than anything I’ve ever seen in a lingerie pop up ad.
And she’s holding a DVD case for a movie that came out three decades ago.
Nope. None of this makes sense.
“You still use DVDs?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” she says again, more defensive this time.
“Okay.” I lift my hands in surrender. “Like I said, we can reschedule if you and Sam are having a movie night.”
The words leave my mouth, and instantly I know they’re wrong. Her face falls, and for one horrifying second, I think she might burst into tears right in front of me.
“Hey.” I step forward, gently nudging her inside before I shut the door behind us. I’ve seen this woman cry more times than I’d like, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen again tonight. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She sniffs. “And everything. It’s silly.”
I frown. “I’ll be the judge of what’s silly. Out with it.”
She sighs, and her breasts lift in a way that short-circuits every brain cell I have. I vibrate with awareness of her.
“Come on in,” she murmurs, turning away.
And it nearly kills me. Because if the front view of that flannel onesie had me rattled, the back view is lethal.
Her curves shift with every step, the snug fabric hugging her in ways that make my pulse slam against my throat.
I bite back a curse, dragging my gaze up before I do something insane, like reach out and grab her.
I kick off my shoes and follow, nearly face-planting over Sam’s school bag because, well, I’m not watching my feet. Not when there’s something infinitely more captivating swaying just ahead of me.
She leads me into what must be her TV room. A beat-up couch sits in the centre, bookshelves crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers flanking a dated television. On either side of it are stereo speakers that look old enough to belong in a museum.
She drops onto the couch, hugging a pillow tight against her chest. I hate it for blocking my view. I also love it for giving me one less distraction to wrestle with.
“Sam is at his first sleepover,” she says softly, fingers raking through her messy blonde waves. Suddenly, it all clicks.
Her laugh is shaky. “I know it’s ridiculous to get so emotional. Not that I’m upset…just emotional. Most kids his age have already spent a million nights away from home—grandparents, cousins, friends. But it’s always been just us. I guess I got used to it that way.”
Her eyes are glassy, her voice raw, and I can feel the weight of what she’s not saying: Sam is growing up, and she’s scared of being left behind.
“I don’t think it’s foolish,” I tell her as I lower myself onto the couch, careful not to sit too close. The couch groans in protest under my weight.
She laughs, but it’s without her usual warmth. “No? You weren’t here when he asked if he could go. My first instinct was to lock him in his room like Mother Gothel.”
“Who?”
“It’s from Tangled.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a movie. One of Sam’s favourites when he was little. It’s the story of Rapunzel.”
“Why didn’t they just call it Rapunzel?”
“The studio thought it wouldn’t appeal to boys.”
“Well, that’s stupid.”
“Agreed.” She looks miserable.
“Well, you’re not like that Mother…Goose person.”
“Mother Gothel.”
“Whatever.”
“How do you know I’m not a bad mom?” she whispers.
“When Sam told you about the sleepover, did you lock him in his room?”
Her eyes widen. “Of course not.”
“Did you tell him you didn’t want him to go? Or make up some ridiculous excuse to keep him home?”
“No.”
“Exactly.” I lean in just slightly, holding her gaze. “Even though it scares you, even though you hate thinking about him growing up and pulling away, you still let him go. Because you’d never stand in his way. Because you’re a good mom.”
Her seafoam eyes are practically glowing in the soft light. They search mine like she doesn’t quite believe me. “You really think I’m a good mom?”
“I don’t just think it. I know you are. And Sam knows it too. You’ll never lose him.”
Her smile trembles, watery around the edges, and I worry for a second that I’ve pushed too far. That I’ve said too much.
“Someone once told me that change is hard,” I add, teasingly.
Elliot bites her bottom lip, clearly remembering. “Oh? And who was this wise person?”
“Just some crazy woman who once tried to run me over with her car.”
She throws the pillow at me, laughing now, and the sound heals something in me. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did. You cheered me up.” She pushes her hair back from her face. “We can still do the session, if you want. I’ll go upstairs and change.”
“No.” I wave her off. “It’s fine. I’ll keep up with the exercises on my own. You’re in your…” My brain blanks. Fantasy flannel? Porno Plaid? “Pajamas. I’ll let you get back to your movie. I’ve heard it’s good.”
Her mouth falls open in disbelief, and it’s instantly harder to keep my thoughts anywhere near PG-13. Harder being the operative word. Because fuck. That mouth. The things I want it to do. Thank God the pillow’s back in my lap, serving a second, more urgent purpose.
“You’ve never seen Jurassic Park?”
“Nope.”
“I—how? Why?” She looks personally offended.
I drag in a breath. “I remember when it came out. The ads were everywhere. You couldn’t escape them. One of the kids in my class invited me to his eleventh birthday party. They were all going to see it on opening weekend.”
“So why didn’t you go?”
My fingers toy with the pillow fringe while I decide how much to admit. “My dad didn’t want me to. Said he had a training session planned.”
“On a weekend night?” she asks, baffled.
“Sure. Weekends. School nights. Holidays.” I shrug. “Hockey came before everything.”
“But you loved it?”
“The sport itself? Yeah.” Hockey wasn’t just a hobby. It was a vocation. My vocation.
She tilts her head, waiting.
“But the rest of it—the spotlight, the pressure? That I could’ve done without. My dad had played pro. Built a reputation. So when people started watching me, I never knew if it was because of my skill…or because I was his kid.”
Her expression softens. “Do you talk to him much?”
“All the time.”
Her smile returns, tentative. “So you’re close.”
I laugh, low and sharp. “Not even a little. He wasn’t really a dad. More of a coach. One who yelled a lot…and showed up drunk to games.”
“That’s awful. Was it just you?”
“I have a younger sister, Britt. He ignored her, for the most part.”
“Do you see her often?”
“A couple times a year. She’s in Vancouver so it’s not like she’s close.”
“Is she close with your dad?”
“No. She cut contact with him completely after our mom died.”
“How…how did she—”
“Aneurysm. I was twenty-two, Britt was eighteen.” I remember her calling me after my game crying. Crying so hard she couldn’t talk.
“I’m so sorry.” Her brows pinch, pain flickering across her features. “That must’ve been hard.”
“It was quick and painless. Her death was much easier than her life with my father.” I clear my throat, pushing the memories back down where they belong. The room suddenly feels too small, too filled with things I don’t usually say out loud. “I should get going.”
“You could stay.” She blurts it so fast, it takes me a moment to make sense of her words.
“Stay?” I echo, like I need her to spell it out.
“To watch the movie. It’s a classic. Your eleven-year-old self was robbed.”
I shift my weight on the couch, pretending to hesitate. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Please?” Her eyes catch mine, a flicker of mischief under the plea. “It’s way less pathetic for me to be home on a Friday night, eating pizza and watching dinosaurs, if I’m not alone.”
My stomach betrays me with a low growl. “You have pizza?”
“Not yet. But I will once I order it.” She leans a little closer, her voice teasing. “I also have cookies.”
I lift a brow. “Which body part are these ones?”
Her laughter spills out of her quickly. “For your information, they’re flower cookies. Leftovers from a tulip festival committee meeting.”
She’s still smiling when she looks at me, the kind of smile that makes it hard to think about anything but how close she’s sitting to me.
“Alright,” I say, letting my mouth curve the tiniest amount. “I’ll stay.”