Chapter 17 #2
"Sure I do. You look at her the same way I look at Maggie. Like you're hungry and grateful and scared to death all at the same time."
Yeah. He's not wrong. "I don't know how to… reach her," I admit. Gritted out, like confessing something shameful. "Except in bed. It's the one place she lets go, and I—" I cut myself off.
James doesn't miss a beat. "She trusts you with her body. That matters more than you think."
"What if it doesn't?"
He shrugs. "Then you love her anyway."
Fuck.
James claps his big hand on my shoulder. "Bring her over for dinner tonight."
"Yeah?" Rougher than I intend.
"Yeah. Maggie's already making enough food to feed a battalion. You two come over. Sit at our table. Remember marriages do work. Might do the girl good to see fifty-year-olds still making it and still flirting over mashed potatoes."
That pulls an actual laugh out of me, shaky but real.
"Tell her it's a command performance," he adds. "From the Queen herself." He jerks his chin toward the back, where Maggie is banging around in the kitchen, humming off-key.
I nod. "I'll ask her."
"Don't ask. Invite. There's a difference."
Before I can answer, Malachi sticks his head in. "War room, girls."
James stands, joints cracking. "Coming, Your Majesty." He squeezes my shoulder once more as he passes.
We handle club business. Donovan's last known movements, Chuck's vanishing act, the money trails weaving through accounts they shouldn't touch.
Two years ago, I pulled Castiel's name out of a server in Chicago and flagged him as a financial threat.
Now he's circling Willowridge, my wife flinched at his name, and I still can't see how those two facts connect. The not knowing is eating me alive.
I give Malachi the intel, run scenarios, build contingencies. Do the job. The whole time, a steady drumbeat: Dinner. Sloane. Don't fuck this up.
I catch Sloane on her break around three. She's in the hospital courtyard, scrubs wrinkled, stethoscope draped around her neck, coffee in one hand and phone in the other. There's a faint crease between her brows. I could watch her do absolutely nothing for the rest of my life and not get bored.
She looks up the second I step out, as though she feels me before she sees me.
Her mouth softens. "Hey, husband."
Yeah. That. That word. It hits me immediately.
"Hey, nurse," I say, walking over. I dip down and steal a quick kiss before the nurse at the other table can pretend not to watch. "James and Maggie want us over for dinner tonight. Maggie's cooking. James promised stories."
Wariness flickers across her face. "Is this a 'we're worried about your marriage' intervention?"
"It's a 'we love you and want to feed you' intervention. Different vibe. Better side dishes."
Her lips twitch. "I don't want them to feel like they have to… fix us."
"Pretty sure they don't see it like that. But if it helps, I do want them to talk. About them. About… making it."
Her eyes search mine. Whatever she sees there satisfies something, because she exhales slowly.
"Okay. Dinner. I can go over after my shift."
"Good. I'll pick you up."
We talk for another minute about her day, the patient who coded and is somehow still hanging on, the paperwork that never ends.
She doesn't mention Candace. I don't bring up Donovan.
When her break ends, she squeezes my hand. "Thanks for coming by."
"Any excuse to look at you."
Her cheeks color. She rolls her eyes, but doesn't let go until the last possible second.
I head back to the clubhouse and spend the rest of the afternoon buried in the Chuck files with Malachi, cross-referencing Donovan's financials with every property record in the county.
By six, my eyes are shot and my neck is stiff, but we've got three new leads and a clearer picture of the money flow.
I leave the war room, text Sloane that I'm on my way, and ride to the hospital.
She's waiting in the lot, changed out of her scrubs into jeans and a soft sweater, hair down. She climbs on behind me, arms circling my waist, cheek pressed between my shoulders. I feel every microshift in her grip, every tightening when we hit a bump.
Maggie's house smells of garlic, rosemary, and chocolate when we walk up the steps. Maggie opens the door before I can knock. "There you are," she says, hauling Sloane into a hug first. "You're too skinny, and he's too grumpy. Come in, both of you."
"I am not too skinny," Sloane protests weakly.
"You are in my kitchen, which makes you too skinny. Come help me with the rolls."
She tugs Sloane toward the kitchen without giving her a chance to argue.
James appears behind her, grinning. "Told you," he murmurs. "Queen's command performance."
"Yeah," I say, watching Sloane disappear into the warmth and light. "Looks that way."
We eat at their big old table, wood scarred and worn from decades of elbows, spilled beer, and kids banging toys. Sloane takes a tentative bite of Maggie's roast chicken and makes a face, fighting how much she enjoys it.
Maggie catches it and smirks. "Thought so."
"It's really good," Sloane admits. "My arteries are filing a complaint, but they'll get over it."
"That's the spirit. One night of butter never killed anyone."
James and Maggie tell stories. They share the time James missed an anniversary because he was halfway to New Orleans on a bad tip, the fight they had when Maggie put a dent in James' first bike, the night she threw a plate at his head and he ducked so it broke the only nice vase they owned.
"You threw a plate?" Sloane asks, wide-eyed.
"He deserved worse," Maggie says serenely. "Started that fight thinking he was right and stayed in it long past wise. Sound familiar?" Her gaze cuts between us, sharp and knowing.
Sloane flushes, stabbing a potato. "Maybe."
James chuckles, topping up Sloane's wine. "We've had our share, kiddo. Doors slammed. Nights slept back-to-back. Times I thought she was going to walk, and times she thought I was too stubborn to bend."
"But you stayed," Sloane says quietly.
"We chose to," Maggie corrects gently. "Over and over."
Sloane's eyes land on me. She looks away quickly, fingers curling tighter around her fork. I recognize that expression. The one she gets when she's comparing herself to something and coming up short in her head.
She thinks I won't choose her once I know. She's wrong. But I can't prove it until she lets me in.
"It's a choice you make on days you don't feel like it," Maggie continues, passing the bread. "And if you're lucky, the feeling comes back around and knocks you flat again."
James reaches over, pats the back of her hand with his big paw, and she shoots him a look that's half exasperation, half pure adoration.
Sloane goes still. Her eyes soften, then flicker away.
I watch her pull back into herself. Shoulders first, then her eyes.
Across the table, James and Maggie lean into each other without thinking.
Thirty years of muscle memory. Sloane sees it too.
I catch her watching them with that unreadable expression she wears when something hurts and she won't say why.
We move to the living room after dinner. Maggie insists on sending us home with leftovers. James insists Sloane sits in his recliner by saying, "You worked twelve hours, then survived my wife's cooking. You've earned the good chair."
At one point, Maggie pulls Sloane into the kitchen under the guise of dessert.
James excuses himself to the bathroom, and I get up to grab another beer.
But I stop in the hallway when I hear their voices through the kitchen doorway.
Maggie's low and steady, Sloane's thin and careful. I know I should keep walking. I don't.
"You look like you're waiting for someone to say 'just kidding' and snatch this away," Maggie says, sliding cake onto plates.
Sloane shifts on her feet. "I—no. I'm just—"
"Scared," Maggie supplies. "You can say it."
Sloane swallows. "I don't… have a great track record with… permanent."
Maggie hums. "You know what my mama said when James asked for my hand?
" Sloane shakes her head. "'You could do better,'" Maggie says dryly.
"Then she told him the same thing about me when I left the room.
" She smiles faintly. "We weren't anyone's idea of perfect.
We just decided we would out-stubborn whatever tried to break us. "
Sloane's mouth curves, slow and hesitant. "You make it sound simple."
"It's hard as hell," Maggie corrects. "Simple and hard. You pick each other. Deal with the ugly. You don't run when it gets scary." Her gaze softens. "I know that boy. He'd burn this town down before he'd hurt you on purpose. He already has, you know. Picked you."
Sloane stares at the cake, then up at Maggie. "What if I'm the one who hurts him?"
"Then you apologize. And you let him forgive you. That's the part people always forget."
Sloane's voice drops to barely a whisper. "What if what I did is… unforgivable?"
Maggie's gaze sharpens, but her voice stays gentle. "Then you let him be the one to decide that. Not you."
I back away before they notice me, heart pounding harder than it should.
Unforgivable. The word lodges under my ribs and stays there, sharp-edged, turning with each breath.
She didn't say what happened to me. She said what I did.
When we finally say goodbye—stuffed, warm, a little looser at the edges than when we walked in—Maggie hugs Sloane again and kisses my cheek.
"Take care of our girl," she says in my ear.
"I'm trying," I whisper back.
"Stop trying," she says. "Do."
James pulls me into a brief, crushing hug on the porch. "You good?"
"Getting there."
He nods, satisfied. "Good. Now go home and be stupid about each other somewhere else."
Sloane holds on tight the whole ride home, arms snug around my waist, cheek pressed to my back. Every time I shift gears, her fingers flex, holding tighter, reminding herself I'm solid. At home, she toes off her shoes by the door and leans against the wall, eyes closed.
"That was…" She searches. "A lot. In a good way."
"Yeah. They are."
We move through the bedtime motions with more ease than last night. She tugs one of my shirts over her head, wearing nothing underneath. The flash of bare thigh, and outline of her nipples pressing against thin cotton make my blood heat instantly.
She catches me staring and rolls her eyes, but there's warmth in it. "You're ridiculous."
"Accurate. Also, you're the one walking around our bedroom in my shirt with no bra. I'm only human."
She pauses by the bed, fingers twisting in the hem.
"I'm… sorry. For the other night. And walking out. For making you feel like you're on the outside when you've done nothing but stand by my side."
I sit on the edge of the mattress, elbows on my knees. "I pushed when you weren't ready. That's on me. I just—"
"Want to keep me covered," she finishes quietly. "I know."
"Yeah. And I'm selfish with it. I don't…" I drag a hand down my face. "I don't know how to not want every piece of you. Even the ones you think will make me run." She stares at me as if she's waiting for the catch.
"James and Maggie…" She swallows. "They make it look… possible."
"It is," I say. No hesitation. "For us."
Her mouth tightens. "You can't know that."
"I do. Because I know myself. And I know you. I know I'm already too far gone, sweetheart. There's no coming back from you."
We just look at each other for a long moment. She moves first. Crosses the space, climbs into bed. Instead of turning to her side, she crawls straight into my lap, knees bracketing my thighs. Rests her forehead against mine, hands on my shoulders.
"I'm still scared," she whispers.
"Me too," I admit, fingers circling her waist, just holding. "Doesn't change a damn thing."
She exhales, shaky. I think about what James said this morning. Might as well give it to her.
"James told me something today," I say quietly. "Said I look at you like I'm hungry and grateful and scared to death all at the same time."
A huff of breath that's almost a laugh. "He's not wrong," she whispers.
"No. He's not." I don't kiss her. I want to. God, I want to.
But I sit there with her in my lap and let the moment be whatever it is. She leans in until her nose brushes mine.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"For what?"
"For not giving up. Even when I make it tempting."
I grin, small and crooked. "You're not getting rid of me that easy, Turner."
She slides off my lap and curls beside me, tucking herself into my side like she always does, head on my chest, hand resting right over my heart. This time, when I wrap my arm around her, there's no hesitation. I press a kiss into her hair, breathe her in, and let my eyes close.