Chapter Sixteen Lily #2
Bryce grinned, hugging his father tight.
That would’ve been enough. Enough to do me the fuck in.
It was already a battle not to melt right there on the kitchen floor, but with Barrett’s face when he returned the hug—the way he closed his eyes, pressed his nose into Bryce’s hair—I was in mortal danger of bursting into tears.
Naturally, I grabbed another cookie and shoved it right the hell into my waiting mouth, because if anything could stem a hormone-induced meltdown, it was copious amounts of sugar.
Bryce pulled away and snatched another cookie, the entire thing disappearing in one bite. His cheeks puffed out as he chewed.
“How many have you had?” Barrett asked.
Bryce blinked, then swallowed the cookie. “I lost count.”
He sighed. “Last one, okay?”
Maggie perked up. “Did you bring home that stuff Bridget told me about?”
Barrett nodded. “Boxes are in the back of my truck if you want to go grab them.”
The kids tore out of the kitchen, and Robin whispered something to her husband, shooing him toward the hallway that led to the guest room.
“Did you try one?” I asked, nodding at the cookies.
“I don’t eat many sweets, but I’ll wait until she’s back in here.
” He eyed the remaining cookies. “Thank you for doing this.” His wide chest expanded on a deep breath, and God, he was wearing that black quarter-zip like he was doing it a favor.
“It means a lot. To Maggie.” His eyes met mine and held. “And to me.”
My pulse spiked, an erratic thudding in my ears that had me worried I might stroke out if this man and me and his kids had any more sweet little meaningful exchanges. Breaking shovels. Baking cookies. A girl could only take so much.
I licked my lips and pivoted toward the sink, where the mixing bowl was soaking in soapy water. “It’s no problem,” I said, grabbing a sponge and scrubbing the absolute shit out of that bowl.
“You do this often?”
The soapy water splashed up my forearms. “Wash dishes? Almost every day.”
He sighed, and I fought a smile, smothering it immediately as he came to join me at the sink. This close, I could smell him. Masculine and clean. Warmth emanated from his frame as he carefully picked up a dish towel and held out his hand.
I finished rinsing the bowl and handed it over to him, my throat tight and my brain all wobbly.
“You know what I was asking.”
It was the steady assurance in his voice, completely devoid of sarcasm, that ultimately did me in.
I did know what he was asking.
What is life like for you? Have you let anyone else in like this?
While he methodically dried the bowl, I scrubbed the remaining bits of dough off the mixing paddle, rinsing it carefully before handing that to Barrett as well.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’ve never done this before.”
He didn’t say anything right away, and for that, I was grateful. For some, opening up felt a lot like relief, but it wasn’t that way for me. A tight, uncomfortable ache bloomed somewhere under my ribs, and this was no different.
It was exposure, and just like yesterday, when I’d stood in front of the harsh, cold elements of Niagara, if I lingered too long, there was only so much I could handle before I cracked. The fact that they were beautiful didn’t matter, didn’t lessen the possible outcome of staying too long.
“What kind of bird is that?” he asked quietly as I turned off the faucet.
My hands froze, water still dripping from my fingers into the sink.
Plink, plink, plink.
For a minute, I stared down at the ink near my wrist, this one on the opposite arm from the outline of the car.
You don’t have to tell him anything.
You don’t have to.
You don’t.
But what if I did? What if I told him just a little bit more?
What would happen if I left this piece behind? Could I walk away unscathed knowing that Barrett King had possession of a part of my soul? He wouldn’t be aware, of course, but he’d still hold it all the same.
“Swallows,” I whispered. “We, um, we had a lot of barn swallows in our area, and my mom loved to make nesting boxes for them.”
More words crowded the back of my mouth.
About how she’d used to watch them from the deck off the back of our house.
How my dad had made as many of those boxes as she wanted because it made her feel better knowing they had a safe place to land, no matter how far they’d fly.
About how I could look back on that now and see the heartbreaking irony that had escaped me as a rebellious teen who wanted nothing more than to fly past that horizon myself. About how she’d let me.
My throat felt raw, and the sudden intimacy of the moment made it hard to breathe.
Barrett folded the towel, placing it on the counter with precise movements. Then he stilled before slowly turning his face toward me.
“Why you’d tell me?” he asked.
Something cinched tight around my lungs, a quick, hot rush of panic only making it worse. I couldn’t breathe through it. There were no more words wanting to be said, only a driving urge, the crack of the proverbial whip in the back of my mind spurring me into flight.
Leave. Now.
The last time I’d been in the kitchen feeling unmoored and unsteady, I played games with a man who admittedly didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want that to be my default anymore. Not with him.
“I, uh, I should get back home,” I said in a rush. “Larry needs to eat, and . . . he’s been really finicky lately.”
Barrett only nodded, and there was a desperate urge to look at his eyes. Could I get a sense of what he was thinking if I did that?
No. That was too dangerous. I left the kitchen, a deep breath punching from my lungs. But I didn’t make it far, pausing when the kids came inside with arms full of boxes.
“I have to go,” I told Maggie. “You did amazing, kid. I told you that, right?”
She grinned. “A couple times.”
Bryce sighed heavily. “She’s going to be unbearable after this.”
The laugh I let out helped ease some of the tension building in my chest.
“I’m serious,” Bryce said. “They’re giving her a show, and she can bake. It’s terrible.”
I smiled. “I heard. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find a way to humble her in no time.”
Maggie sniffed. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you cohost.”
He perked up. “Really?”
“Occasionally. But I’m the boss.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”
After saying goodbye to the kids, I set a hand on my trembling stomach and fumbled with my boots. When I straightened to remove my coat from the hook on the wall, I didn’t have to hear anything to know he was standing behind me again.
“What?” I asked, my natural defenses already kicking in.
“You know the drill,” he answered easily.
I glanced over my shoulder, taking him in with a small scoff. He was waiting, hands tucked into his pockets, biceps testing the seams of his sleeves. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him to start wearing his shirts a size bigger, but I didn’t think it would help anything.
“Seriously?”
Barrett didn’t answer. He simply watched me with utter stillness, endless patience, as I yanked my coat on.
My steps were fueled by the teeniest amount of embarrassed female rage, but I didn’t say anything else as I crossed the yard separating our houses. When I was on the front porch, I paused, my slightly more rational, less-bitchy defensive side finally taking the reins.
“You gonna do this every single time?” I asked.
Only, it didn’t come out snappish, and to my horror, it didn’t even sound all that bothered. It sounded like . . . oh God . . . it sounded like I was asking for reassurance.
“Yeah,” he said.
That was it. No explanation. Nothing.
“Why?” I asked raggedly.
Across the yards, Barrett watched me for a moment, his frame expanding on a deep breath. “I’ll answer that when you tell me why you explained your tattoos.”
Oh, fuck him. My eyes narrowed dangerously, and because I was too far away to tell, it almost looked like Barrett smiled.
“Good night, Lily,” he said, then disappeared into his house.