23. Sloane #2
My heart squeezes against my ribcage. I hold the phone to my chest, feeling something bloom there. Every single thing this man does makes me fall deeper.
There's no stopping this now, even if I wanted to.
He'll love it.
So will I.
The breeze picks up, rustling the pages of my forgotten novel. I check the time. It's somehow already 4:15. They'll be home soon.
I fold my chair and gather my sandals, wanting to greet them when they get home.
As I approach the driveway, a white van with "Coastal Catering" emblazoned on the side pulls in ahead of me. A young woman in crisp black pants hops out, hauling four large paper bags.
"Delivery for Carrigan?" She checks her phone.
"I can take those." I reach for the bags, peeking inside to find neatly packaged containers of what appears to be a healthy picnic spread.
After signing for the delivery, I'm arranging everything in the kitchen when I hear the garage door rumble open. Lennon's voice carries through the house, more animated than I've heard in days.
"And they had this playground inside! With tubes you could climb through!" Lennon bursts into the kitchen, eyes bright. "Sloane! We flew in an airplane! And we had chicken nuggets with orange-pink sauce that's really, really good!"
Pope follows behind, suit jacket folded over one arm, looking both exhausted and relieved. Our eyes meet over Lennon's head.
"Sounds delicious," I say, raising an eyebrow at Pope, the one who claims to be "Mr. Healthy Eater."
Pope shrugs, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Who can resist Chick-fil-A? Kids have to be kids sometimes."
"What's all this?" Lennon points to the bags on the counter.
"Dinner and a movie," Pope answers. "Outside for our special night."
Lennon's eyes widen. "Really? Can we go now?"
"Let's wind down a little, maybe you could take a bath. We want to wait until it gets dark."
With that, he's off to the playroom.
I watch Lennon's feet disappear into the room adjacent to us, his energy a stark contrast to Pope's controlled exhaustion. His shoulders drop slightly once Lennon is out of sight, the careful composure he maintains slipping just enough for me to notice.
"How was the meeting?" I ask, keeping my voice casual as I unpack containers of grilled vegetables and flatbreads.
Pope loosens his tie with one hand. "Long. Stressful. Lennon did great, though."
I notice the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. "And you? You look like you've been through a war zone."
"Feels that way." He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the careful styling. "Jacksonville's courthouse is not a place I'd ever want to bring a kid."
Something in his expression tells me there's more he's not saying.
"Pope, is everything okay? With Lennon's case?"
He meets my eyes, hesitating. "I want to tell you everything. I do. But right now, I need a shower and about twenty minutes to decompress before movie night."
I nod, resisting the urge to press. "Go. I'll get this set up and help Lennon with his bath."
He squeezes my hand briefly. "Thank you."
Whatever happened in Jacksonville, I'll have to wait to find out.
By the time we're settled on plush blankets spread across the lawn, I haven't had another moment alone with Pope. I'm going to let him talk when he's ready.
The movie technician adjusts the projector as twilight deepens around us. Lanterns glow warmly against the salt-scented breeze, casting a golden haze over the picnic Pope ordered. It's a feast, with grilled chicken skewers, fresh fruit, zucchini and broccoli still smoky from the grill.
“ Turning Red is one of my favorites,” I whisper to Lennon as the Pixar logo splashes across the screen.
“I’ve never seen it, but I wanted to for a long time.” He settles between Pope and me, bundled in a blanket even though the air is warm.
Pope leans close, his voice low. “I asked Lennon what movie he’d pick if he could watch anything. He said Turning Red, so that’s what I ordered. Could’ve been an R-rated slasher for all I knew.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “You’re safe.”
“Mr. Carrigan,” the technician says, interrupting us as he finishes packing up cables.
“Yes,” Pope answers, straightening slightly.
“You’re all set. Once the movie ends it’ll shut off automatically. Our guys will be by in the morning to break everything down.”
“Thank you. This has been great.”
“Happy to do it, sir. Enjoy.” The man disappears toward the driveway, leaving only the faint crunch of his footsteps against the gravel.
The screen flickers, painting Pope’s profile in shifting colors. I find myself watching him more than the movie. I adore the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, how his gaze drops to Lennon every few minutes.
Pope keeps a careful distance between us, but sometimes his hand brushes mine when we both reach for a piece of fruit. The touch sparks through me every time.
Halfway in, Lennon’s head droops. Pope slides an arm around him, easing him closer and adjusting the blanket with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
“Here,” I whisper, leaning in to help, my fingers smoothing the fabric over Lennon’s shoulder.
Pope’s hand meets mine in the dark. This time, neither of us lets go. His grip lingers, though his eyes stay unreadable. I search his face. I can see he's tired, shuttered, maybe holding something back, but all I feel is the quiet burn of his skin against mine.
The glow from the TV flickers across his face, shadows carving him into something I should not want this badly.
My hand stays locked in his, hot and steady, even with Lennon curled warm against us. The thought slams into me before I can stop it: I want to kiss him anyway. God help me, I want it enough to forget all the reasons I shouldn’t.