13. Tabitha
CHAPTER 13
TABITHA
Milo knew Rhys was coming back today. When I told him, he got excited, so I made sure not to rain on his parade. I suppose that’s why as soon as he wakes up from his nap, he blasts to the top of the stairs and calls down, “Is Ree here?” in the sweetest voice, brimming with genuine excitement.
“Yeah, buddy. Rhys is here.”
Tiny footsteps rush down the stairs, and I try not to wince. But I do hold my breath as I listen. He’s pretty coordinated for his age, and he is very clear about not wanting to be carried or helped too much because he’s not a baby anymore —his words, not mine. I try to respect that, but I still envision him toddling and falling down the stairs like the clumsy, tiny human he is.
Milo’s small footsteps summon Rhys’s bigger ones, eagerly taking the basement stairs two at a time to get to the little boy.
The sound of them rushing to greet each other on the main floor makes my heart twist uncharacteristically.
Rhys isn’t as bad as you make him out to be.
The thought pops up, and it’s not welcome. But I also know that, deep down, I have questions . I’ve spent the last two weeks wrestling with the reality that there might be more to this story than I first thought. That Erika may have been lying to me. That Rhys might have had a good reason for kicking her out.
After all, if I’ve learned anything recently, it’s that I’m the only person who thinks pinky promises are binding. Erika and I grew up making them to each other. They became something of a secret handshake between us. We shared first-kiss stories. Confessions about sneaking out. One time, I made her pinky promise not to be mad at me, then divulged that I’d borrowed her mascara, which was why we both had pink eye. I think she’d silently seethed at me for days, though she was never outwardly angry with me.
She’d kept her promises then. But that was before. Most recently, I promised to never give up on her. And she promised not to lie to me again. Then she did anyway.
Still, disliking Rhys is a safe place for me. Holding him responsible for what happened to Erika means I don’t have to feel like I failed her entirely. I can shovel some of the responsibility off onto him and save my sanity.
It’s not fair, but it’s the only way I’m holding it together.
The mind works in mysterious ways and all that.
Like now, as it goes all gooey watching them together. Milo launches himself into Rhys’s massive arms with a happy squeal. A dagger lodges in my throat as I watch Rhys nuzzle against his mussed curls and breathe him in. Again.
I turn my watery eyes out toward the backyard and give them a moment. I feel like an intruder. I feel torn. I feel guilty .
How can I hate someone who loves my nephew in a way that makes my chest ache and my teeth hurt? Especially in a world where more people to love him could never be a bad thing.
I actually want this.
The four words I’ve lost sleep over for the past two weeks. And the proof is right in front of me. Rhys clings to him, and he clings to Rhys.
It makes me question if I’m the bad guy in this equation. But then I think of his nightmares and the way he burrows against me when he’s scared. I think of the attention he gets from my parents. And at the very least, I know that this is the best place for him.
When they finally draw away from each other, Milo places one chubby hand on each of Rhys’s scruffy cheeks and looks at him. Really looks at him. Then he smiles and says, “I missed you.”
The grin Rhys gives him back is downright blinding, and I realize I’ve never seen him smile. Never heard him laugh, either.
“Missed you too, little man.”
“That’s our plant. Erika.” Milo points over at the pot with glee, and Rhys stiffens.
“Is that so?”
“It was Mama’s.”
“It was.” Rhys’s voice is thick, his eyes never leaving the little boy’s profile. “And it is such a nice plant.”
Milo grins and nods. “I love it.”
Rhys’s Adam’s apple bobs. “I love it too.”
I cough to cover the sad little moan that threatens to escape my throat, and they both turn to look at me.
They’re not related. But they sure look like they could be.
“Go swimming now?” I promised Milo a trip to the lake to swim this afternoon, and he never fails to remind me of the promises I’ve made. He switches gears so easily.
But I’m too agitated to join them, too worried about irritating Rhys and the potential consequence of him taking Milo away just to spite me. I don’t want to rain on their parade, and it strikes me that keeping a lower profile might be my best course of action.
I feel emotional, and the beach always reminds me of Erika. Of swimming together as little kids. Of our dad burying us in the sand until only our heads poked out. Of tanning together as teenagers, but ending up looking like lobsters. Of taking Milo for his very first swim and watching his eyes go comically wide when he hit the cold water.
Fond memories pummel me. I cherish all those memories of her, and especially her with Milo. We always had fun together there, and I miss that version of her.
“Why don’t the two of you go? Have some time together. I need to… uh… clean the house,” I say, nodding with an obnoxiously bright smile on my face.
Rhys’s brow furrows as he watches me, but Milo’s excited clapping draws his attention away.
Which is good. I find it hard to breathe when Rhys looks at me too closely.
I’ve gotten pretty adept at avoiding Rhys over the past few days. We don’t talk much. In fact, we’re a little like ships passing in the night. I’m just biding my time, hoping to fly under the radar until he leaves tomorrow.
And I only know he’s leaving because I overheard him telling Milo.
Back out of the country for work, he says. Whatever that means. All I know is he usually comes here on a Tuesday and leaves by Saturday. I also know that he works out a lot, which is great because it leaves Milo and me alone. And then when I’m at the restaurant, Rhys hangs out with Milo. Which keeps him out of my hair. Which is also great. And last night when he went bowling (after grumbling something about how he didn’t want to but had made a commitment), I was already up in my room by the time he got home.
Okay, maybe I sprinted up the stairs when I saw his truck pull up.
But I still left dinner out for him. In fact, ever since hearing his stomach that night, I make extra food and leave him a plate. And though we don’t talk about it, he always eats it.
Today, I might do something on my own and let Rhys take the morning with Milo, since they clearly enjoy spending time with each other. I hate to admit that having Rhys here makes everything so much easier… but it does.
And it’s perfect. We barely see each other, and Milo is happy. Really fucking happy. His nightmares don’t seem as bad as they were, but he still sleeps with me every night—something I know Rhys has noticed, though he hasn’t commented.
I’ve started making coffee extra early and retreating to the back deck to enjoy the peace and quiet of a summer morning in the valley.
But today I don’t get out of the house early enough. I’m in the kitchen, wearing a baby-blue lounge set—too-short shorts and a skimpy spaghetti-strap top—with the coffeepot in one hand and a mug in the other. Just as I’m mid-pour, a shirtless, chiseled Rhys appears in the doorway, prompting me to gawk and then spill piping hot coffee all over my hand.
“Fuck, fuuuck,” I hiss, setting the coffee on the counter. I shake my hand out, sending a smattering of droplets over my clothes.
“Shit, Tabby.” His voice is rough and heavy with sleep as he rushes forward and grabs my scalded red hand, turning it over gently for inspection like he’s a doctor and not a porn star. “Are you okay?” His tousled hair and the soft heat radiating from his skin speak of a man who just rolled out of bed.
“I’m fine.” He’s too close, his scent too alluring, like lemongrass with a hint of something smokier. I need to draw away, to create space between us, but his fingers clamp around my forearm, and he grumbles as he marches me over to the deep farm sink.
He flicks on the cold water, testing the temperature with his free hand before giving a terse nod and gently lowering my stinging one beneath the cool stream.
I hiss when the water hits it and try to pull away from him—I’m perfectly capable of tending to my own burn. But his hand has an unyielding grip, not aggressive, but not forgiving either. He doesn’t let me go.
It’s only when I sigh and surrender to his hold that his thumb brushes against my skin.
Once. Twice. I shiver.
A third time. I soften.
I don’t know how long we stand there, him pressed flush against me. My only protection against him is a flimsy layer of fabric.
“There,” he says quietly, turning my hand over again to assess the damage, water streaming over the opposite side.
“I’ve had worse burns,” I mutter. And it’s true. Burns are a fact of life when you work in a kitchen.
Rhys doesn’t seem to care about my thoughts on the matter, though. He ignores me and carries on overreacting. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Under the sink. I can?—”
Before I can finish, he drops down at my bare feet and yanks the kitchen cupboard open. I can’t help but stare at the way his lips pop open on a breathy sigh as he rifles through the contents.
“Just fucking let me take care of you. Where is it?” He glances up at me, and my stomach bottoms out. All those dark features homed in on me. Him on his knees for me . Wanting to take care of me .
“At… at… uh…” I stutter, and his gaze drops to the hem of my shorts, eyes skirting the curve of my ass. My cheeks flare. God . Who knows what he can see from that angle?
“At the back,” I say, forcing the words out through a dry throat.
He returns his attention to the task at hand and emerges with the white box. He opens it right there on the floor with a near-violent flick and rummages inside before grumbling something I can’t make out, right as his fingers wrap around the burn lotion.
“It’s not—” Necessary is what I’m about to say, but he stands now, towering over me and stealing my words. He slaps the tap off, and then his hands are on my waist, the contact like an electric current zipping across my skin.
It makes me hiss out a breath that he mistakes for pain.
“ I’m fine ,” he mutters, mimicking me while shaking his head. Then he hoists me up onto the counter like I’m a feather and steps close enough that my knees bump against his steely quads.
He’s still inspecting my burn with an expression that makes it seem like it’s offended him. When he carefully swipes the lotion over my pink skin, it’s too much. Deep down, I feel like I don’t deserve the level of doting.
He’s too gentle. So handsome that it hurts. I’m forced to look away from the way he tends to me.
Stupidly, I opt to soak in his naked torso instead. A fool’s strategy to keep from wanting to climb him.
My eyes trace hard line after hard line, the masculine dark hair leading up from his waist, a bit thicker on his chest.
Then I stop.
Just below his right collarbone is a heavy bruise, its edges fading to yellow. Without thinking, I reach up and run my fingertips over it, as if I can wipe it away. But it does no such thing.
“What is this?”
“A bruise.” Leave it to Rhys to give me nothing.
“From what? What the hell kind of porn are you filming?”
“I don’t do porn, Tabby.” Despite his harsh tone, he continues rubbing my hand gently. “I already told you that.”
“You did. But I don’t believe you. Are you okay?” I let my genuine worry seep into my words, hoping he’ll hear my concern. My fingers move away from the bruise and trail up over his collarbone, as though checking for any further damage of their own accord.
I shift my body to look at him, trying to make eye contact, but he keeps his focus on my hand. I swear I can hear his teeth grind. “I’m fine. And even if I wasn’t, it’s none of your business.”
Rearing back at that, I regard him more coolly now, yanking my hand away with enough force that I finally break free from his hold. Of course, his body still has me caged in where I’m seated.
“The feeling is mutual, and yet you hauled me up here to fix what wasn’t your business.”
“You need help.”
A dry laugh crests my lips. “What?”
Rhys glares down at me and moves his hands to either side of my hips, propping them against the counter, effectively caging me in. “With Milo. I’ve been here for all of three days, and it’s been busy with both of us taking care of him. I can see you’re doing too much for one person. You’re tired. You’ve lost weight. You need help.”
Now it’s my turn to go rigid. Sure, I’m tired a lot. And yes, sometimes I forget to eat more than coffee.
But that’s not why I spilled the hot liquid on myself.
They say the days are long, but the years are short. Soon Milo won’t need me the way he does right now. And I don’t begrudge him this time. I revel in it, especially knowing Rhys could yank it out from under me at any moment.
“Oh, and you think you can do better?”
One firm nod from the mountain man. “I can afford to hire help.”
My jaw goes slack. He hit me right where it hurts. In the finances. “Are you kidding me right now? That’s your grand plan? Take Milo away from everything he knows and hire help to care for him?”
Rhys maintains an emotionless stare and says nothing.
I lift a hand and give him a push. Right on his bruise. “Are you taking him with you tomorrow?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.
“No.”
His one-word answer is enough for me. I hop off the counter and shove past him to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee. Then I march outside like I wanted to do before his naked torso walked into the kitchen and fucked everything up.
But it’s not as relaxing as I anticipated. I’m angry and horny, and I feel like Rhys is watching me through the glass doors. But I refuse to check in case he sees and gets satisfaction out of thinking I care.
The next day, he leaves, and we don’t see each other or say goodbye.
The weird part is, I feel guilty about it.