Chapter 14
14
[Vale]
I cannot believe I am doing this.
I don’t even know how I’m going to get Cort up the stairs or back out of here again.
“Didn’t even sneak boys into my room when I was a teenager,” I mutter to myself as I tiptoe up the steps.
A soft chuckle behind me causes me to spin and place a finger over my lips to shush him.
I’ve been walking up the stairs as quietly as I can, hoping the kids aren’t in tune to the double set of footsteps climbing the treads.
Unfortunately, my bedroom is at the end of the hallway.
Without direction, Cort passes me and takes the lead, moving down the hall like I’d seen him do a thousand times when we were kids.
Only, back then he was headed to Stone’s bedroom beside mine.
Presently, he goes to the final door and lets himself into my room.
I should be cussing him out.
Scolding him for appearing out of nowhere.
Unannounced. Late at night .
But something inside me doused the angry fire burning in my chest while we were staring at one another downstairs.
When he was spinning his hat in his hands, like a nervous twitch, and his eyes spoke a thousand words, all of which my heart wanted to interpret with more meaning than what he really desires.
A massage .
The nerve of this guy.
Making a house call.
To my home.
I don’t have a massage table here and while I could use the sturdy kitchen table, I didn’t want Cort exposed in a main room of the house.
Being in my bedroom isn’t exactly better, though.
After I close the door, I watch as Cort takes in the soft pink walls and black and pink rug.
The white comforter and the fluffy rose-colored blanket folded at the end of the bed.
This room was yellow when I was a child, but the color has changed numerous times over the years, the latest being a light blush that’s feminine and sweet without being childish.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” His mouth hooks at the corner, like he’s fighting laughter.
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Lie down on the bed.” Nothing about that command sounds right.
Cort. My bedroom. My bed.
He doesn’t bat an eye.
He sets his hat on a chair near my dresser and sits on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
I turn away from him, not wanting to watch him peel off his shirt, but then I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror over my dresser.
I should close my eyes, but I cannot pull them away from the sight of this man slowly unbuttoning his shirt and then shrugging it off his shoulders, exposing the wide breadth of them, and revealing his back.
It’s like slowly unwrapping a birthday gift and it isn’t even my birthday.
He tosses the shirt to the opposite side of the bed and catches me watching him through the reflection.
Without a pause, he twists and lies flat on his belly, head on one of my pillows.
Everything about this scene is wrong.
So wrong.
But my feet move across the rug, and I stand beside the bed.
Cort is positioned lower than a massage table height and I’d ask to straddle the backs of his thighs if I didn’t consider that a dangerous position.
Instead, I reach for the jar of honey balm on my nightstand and lather up my hands, not bothering to ask him where it hurts.
With his head turned on the pillow, I watch his eyes close the moment I touch him.
His brows pinch, signaling I’ve hit the mark, and I concentrate on his lower left lat.
A once-a-week massage should be enough to loosen him up.
He should also be doing stretches on his own to alleviate pain.
However, I don’t mention either method because I’m too irritated with him for barging in on my night and pissed at myself for letting him get away with it.
Fifteen minutes . Then his ass is out the door, and he owes me a huge tip for this inconvenience.
A soft knock comes to my door, and I freeze.
With my hands still on Cort’s back, I press down on him and crane my neck, glancing over my shoulder at the lock on the doorknob.
Dammit, I didn’t lock the door.
My heart seesaws while my lungs stop working.
Please don’t let Hudson come in here , I beg the Universe.
“I’ll be right out, bud,” I call to my son, hoping he’ll respect the closed door and not barge into my room.
As he’s gotten older, he’s become a little more reticent to walk in without an invitation and I appreciate his hesitation.
I have never ever experienced a situation like this one—a man in my bedroom—and I do not want this to be that first-time-for-everything moment.
“Just wanted to say goodnight. ”
I hang my head, thinking once again about the sweetness of my son and the kind gesture he made for Amelia.
Glancing down at Cort, I notice his eyes are open, but I’m not certain he’s breathing either.
“Just give me one second, baby, and I’ll come to your room.” I should check on all the kids anyway and then lock my damn door.
When I pull away from Cort, he holds his position.
Arms underneath my pillow.
Head turned to the side.
Back on display. Eyes on me.
Shaking my head, I rub my hands together, trying to blend in the honey balm on my fingers.
Then, to be extra petty at his presence, I swipe my hands over Cort’s denim-clad thighs, using them like a towel to remove the excess.
Cort doesn’t move; he doesn’t even speak.
With a tsk , I slip out my door as best I can without fully opening it and head down the hallway.
Inside Hudson’s room, Atticus is fast asleep.
However, Hudson is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
“What’s the matter, baby?” I whisper.
Please don’t let him know his baseball coach is in my bedroom .
I pull up his blanket, and he tucks it beneath his arms before I smooth the covers over his chest.
“Think Amelia is okay in there?”
“I’ll check on her next, buddy, but I bet she’s fine. That was really sweet of you to give her the bear.”
“It’s not her Blue, though.”
“It was still thoughtful. You’re a good friend.” And if he keeps up the gestures, he’ll make a great boyfriend one day.
I take a seat on the edge of his bed and glance once more at Atticus in the other bed before whispering to Hudson.
“Do you think there is something to worry about between Amelia and her brother and father?” I ask, prying into lives that are not my concern through an eleven-year-old.
“Like what?” Hudson counters .
I love his innocence, and shrug.
“Just want to remind you that you can tell me anything. Or come to me with anything.” I stroke my finger playfully down his nose and he smiles.
“Get some sleep.” I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.
Before I’m fully standing, he rolls to his side, and I slip from his room, checking on Amelia as promised before returning to my uninvited guest.
Quietly entering my room, Cort remains in the same position he was in when I left.
Hands beneath the pillow.
Belly pressed into the cover.
Back on display. Only, his eyes are closed.
“Cort,” I whisper, stepping closer to the bed.
“Cort,” I repeat, jabbing his tight shoulder.
“Cortland Haven,” I state a little louder but not loud enough that Hudson might hear me through the wall.
I smack his arm, causing him to lift his head, rub his nose against the pillow, and turn his head in the opposite direction.
He didn’t open his eyes.
Didn’t even blink at me.
And now he’s settled back down, fast asleep.
“Are you kidding me?” I say in a normal tone, which still has no effect on the resting intruder.
I stare down at Cort for several seconds wondering what the heck to do with him before I concede defeat and follow through on my nightly routine.
With it as late as it is, I’m drained of all energy.
When I return to my room, Cort hasn’t budged and as much as it’s a risk to have him caught in our home, in my room, I’m also too tired to fight with him right now.
It’s his funeral, I guess .
I round my double bed, of which Cort is taking up most of the space, and rest on my back at first, staring up at the ceiling much like Hudson was doing next door.
Eventually, I turn on my side, face Cort, and slip my hands beneath the pillow in a loose prayer pose.
Cort’s forehead is furrowed even in sleep.
His nose strong. His lips are pouty and surrounded by a trimmed layer of facial hair that’s a thirsty mix of silver and ink.
I slide my hands closer to him, fingertips almost touching his forearm but still respectfully distant.
My thumb twitches, wanting to reach out and trace the fine lines and firm edges of his face, as if my finger is a painter’s brush which can memorize this creation before me.
Instead, I hold still, watching Cort for another minute before my eyes slowly drift shut.
He stirs beside me, and I sense Cort moving his arm, thinking he’ll assume I’m asleep and sneak from my bedroom.
Instead, his hand slides over mine, curling between my index finger and thumb so he’s holding four of my fingers within his larger grasp.
We sleep like this for I don’t know how long, before the heat of his hand is gone, and the warmth of a fingertip strokes over my cheek, brushing my hair around my ear.
Then, I wake to a cold, empty bed.