Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Greta wants to sleep outside with me. She lasts all of ten minutes picking out constellations before she drifts off, her breaths easy and deep.
There are lots of highs being a parent, but there’s something incredibly satisfying about your kid sleeping peacefully, unencumbered.
When Kelly and I divorced, Greta had wicked night terrors for months. Bedtime became an ordeal. She needed so much reassurance and patience at a time of day when I was at my worst. Drained after a long day of keeping it together.
For a while, it was easier for me to sleep in her room.
Kelly wanted to put her on medication, but I resisted.
Not that medication isn’t a great tool in certain circumstances, but I didn’t think we were at that point.
As long as Greta could tolerate it, I wanted her to feel whatever she needed to feel.
Even though it was hard and scary. Even though I got even less sleep than usual.
Because how else do we learn to cope with loss, with our fears?
Something Dad used to tell me: The only way through it is through it.
The lights in Meg’s downstairs have long since gone out, but there’s a soft glow from the second story. Maybe her bedroom. Is she reading? Packing for her trip?
Spending the afternoon with her and Greta was so…easy.
I wish she was here.
The distant call of a loon wakes me before dawn, the dry air so still and crisp. The few beads of dew coating the foot of our blankets have almost melted thanks to the approaching sun. Next door, Meg’s kitchen light is on.
I’m not going over there. She doesn’t need me disrupting her routine.
Even if she’s leaving today and I don’t even know when I’ll see her again.
I suppress a groan and shut my eyes.
People leave all the time. Hell, I do it for work. It’s not a fucking crisis.
Plus she’s my date for Ev and Vivian’s wedding, for crying out loud. I’ll see her.
The problem is I want her to be more than just my plus one, my fake date.
I want her to be my somebody.
It’s a mess. Maybe it’s good she’s leaving. It’ll give me time to get my head on straight.
After checking on Greta, I tuck inside the house to brush my teeth and dress for a paddle.
Greta’s latest find from her online thrift store is folded on the top of my dresser.
It’s red, with that broken-in softness, and still smells of the strong detergent they always use.
In the center, a faded white crayfish, pincers out, is framed by “LET’S GET CRAY CRAY”.
I switch my pajama pants for a pair of trunks, then pad down to the kitchen.
Outside on the deck, Greta hasn’t moved, but to my surprise, Kody is curled into a ball at her side.
When I pad past them, he gives me a one-eyed glance before ignoring me.
That he doesn’t attack my ankles is an interesting development.
I stand at the corner of my deck, the voices in my head dialing up to a roar. All I have to do is grab my paddle and the board tucked under my deck, walk to the shore, and push off. By the time I get back, Meg will have left.
Is that really what I want?
I run my fingers through my hair and tug until it stings.
Fuck this.
When I climb the steps to Meg’s deck, she’s standing at her sink, coffee cup in hand and her gaze fixed on the view out her window. With the low lighting, her profile is even more striking. Her pert nose and long lashes. Her blonde hair swept back into an elegant twist.
I suck in a cooling breath, then tap my knuckles against the glass.
She turns, and her smile is like my own personal sunrise.
She sets her mug down and crosses her living room to let me in.
Dressed in a skirt with a narrow little belt and a fitted white blouse, she looks every bit the professional.
It shouldn’t make me want to wreck her right here in the middle of her kitchen, but I’ve never woken up this empty.
But it’s a reminder that someday—maybe not today, but soon enough—we’ll run out of fake dates, and then…she’ll move on. She should .
Meg slides open the door, her pale blue eyes warm as she smiles up at me. “Morning.”
I step inside and cradle her waist, my hands splaying out so I can ground myself in the warmth of her body and the soft curves I can’t stop thinking about, then lower my lips to hers. Her fresh scent fills my senses, a sharp reminder of those stolen hours we shared.
She softens in my embrace, releasing a whisper of a sigh against my mouth. Her lips linger on mine and her fingers curl around my forearms. The delicate softness of her hands reminds me of all the ways she touched me. With tenderness and hunger. With care.
When I lean back, her eyes flutter open, and she smiles. “This is a nice surprise. Do you want coffee?”
I want a lot more than that, but I swallow the jumble of words caught in my throat. “Sure.”
She steps back in those dark blue fuck me pumps and saunters back to the kitchen. I suppress a groan because her ass in that skirt should be illegal.
After adjusting myself so I can walk, I follow her.
The idea of her parading down the aisle of an airplane while guys get the same view has me gritting my teeth.
She’s never mentioned creeps trying to hit on her while she’s on the job, but there’s no way it hasn’t happened.
Anyone with a dick would want to bend her over the nearest surface.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve never been the possessive type. I don’t get jealous. A woman wants to be with me? Cool. She doesn’t? Then we’ll both just move along.
I’m not insecure about what I can offer. And I’ve always been clear about what that is. About my limits.
Except with Meg.
For maybe the first time in my life, I don’t want limits.
God, I suck at this. I might know how to pleasure her, annoy her, protect her, even be her fake date, but this—knowing what to say, what not to say, and when to say it? It’s pure anguish.
I pull up a stool at her counter. “Where are you flying?”
She reaches up for a mug, rising on her tippy toes, which does not help me quit thinking about all the ways I’d like to put these kitchen surfaces to work. “Seattle then Anchorage. Tomorrow it’s Dillingham. Then Kodiak.”
“What’s Alaska like in the summer?”
She pours my coffee and carries it over. “Pretty. So many mountains. Flying over the Alaska Range when the sun is rising is a view not to be missed.”
I take a sip, keeping my eyes on her.
“You’ve never been?” She raises her cup to her lips. I try not to stare at the stain her raspberry lipstick leaves on the rim.
Get a fucking grip. I run a hand through my hair. “Never had a reason.”
“Salmon fishing is popular.”
“Fishing is boring.”
She laughs, tilting her head back a little, exposing her delicate throat. It takes me back to the quickening of her pulse beneath my fingers when she came in my lap.
I suppress my groan with another sip of my coffee.
“On that, we agree,” she says, setting down her mug. The bracelet I gave her flashes in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and I can’t stop myself from reaching for her hand.
She gazes up at me, a question in her eyes.
I caress over the back of her knuckles. “You’re still wearing it.”
Her fingers fold over my palm. “A little extra bravery is always a good idea.”
“How do you handle flying with Russet?” I slip my thumb beneath the bracelet to stroke her dainty wrist.
“We’re both professionals.”
I stand and draw her into my arms. I don’t know what else to do, and everything I wanted to say when I walked over here is sitting on my heart like a boulder. “Be safe, shortcake,” I say with a sigh.
“Always.” She lifts her face to mine for a kiss.
The softness of her lips on mine sends heat dancing down my spine.
“I’ll be rooting for Greta tomorrow,” she says, stepping back. “When are you climbing Liberty Spires? ”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “Wednesday we’ll do the approach and bivvy. Climb Thursday.”
She tucks our mugs into her dishwasher, then leans back against her counter. “You guys be safe, too.”
“Always,” I say, but the smile tugging at my lips feels tight.
The resulting silence gets even more awkward, so I take a step back. “See you, Meg.”
“Yeah.” Tension strains the edges of her eyes. “You too.”
I let myself out of her sliding glass door and cross to the steps without looking back.
By the time my bare feet hit the sand, I’m practically sprinting to get my board and push off from shore.
All just so that I don’t have to hear her car door slam and her engine’s hum fading as she leaves?
The control I’ve tried to maintain is slipping through my fingers with every kiss, every touch, every flash of her pretty blue eyes.
I should do something about it, like fucking tell her .
But I just failed, epically. Because what could I possibly offer her beyond a good time?
I’m a washed-up single dad and ten years older than her.
My work demands that I that leave my family stranded for long periods of time, meaning I regularly miss important holidays like Christmas and Thanksgiving, birthdays, anniversaries.
And when I’m not working, I get twitchy if I’m caged in too long and need solitude to put my head right.
As if those weren’t enough of a deterrent, I may be looking at forty, but I have the emotional maturity of a gnat.
She’s kind and thoughtful and genuine. And don’t get me started on those knockout curves…or the adorable way she begs. Or how beautifully she lights up at my praise.
In short, she’s perfect for me.
But she could do so much better. And she should .
After dropping Greta at gymnastics practice, I stop at the hardware store for the new joist planks and the lumber, then return home.
Everett’s truck is parked in my driveway and he’s already down on the dock, working the last of the old planks free, so I slip on my Finn River Fire baseball cap and start ferrying the new boards to the water’s edge.