Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Emma
“So we’re really doing this?”
Steven laughs as he wrestles the safety goggles over his eyes.
The apron he picked is tiny, red with hot-pink paint splatters, and it barely covers his stomach.
He tugs the straps as loose as they’ll go, but it still hangs awkwardly on him.
He grins at it, then at me, unbothered. My heart swells at his willingness to do this with me.
“Unless you want to fight at Dr. Belo’s?” I tease.
“We can do that next week.”
“Ah…” I smile. “So, this fighting thing will be a weekly occurrence?”
“If that’s what we need to call it, sure.” He shrugs, but a mischievous grin tugs at his mouth.
Afternoon sunlight filters in through the single window of the art room, dappling his skin in warm specks of bronze. He looks happy, younger even, but still him. Always him. My chest aches with how much I love the sight of him like this. Playful, unguarded, and mine. All mine.
He picks up a mallet, tests its weight, then trades it for a baseball bat. When he pushes his sleeves past his shoulders, his arms tighten and shift, muscle moving under skin in a way that makes my stomach pull tight. The motion alone feels like an invitation.
I want him. Not just in this teasing way, but in the deep, constant way that lives in my bones. I want his hands on me, his weight, his voice close enough that I can feel it. The way you can only want someone that is promised to you and you alone.
“Are you checking me out?” he asks, winking.
“Maybe.” I pop my hip and reach for the mallet, but my eyes keep finding their way back to him.
“Good,” his voice drops as he steps behind me. His free hand settles on my waist and squeezes once. It’s gentle, sure, but also a little possessive. “Now tell me what to do.”
“We can start small.”
I slip into my best teacherly tone, but it wobbles the second his hand grazes against the sliver of skin at my waist. A shiver of heat darts up my spine. “Say something small,” I manage, breath catching, “and check in. Make sure we’re…you know?”
“Communicating?” he murmurs. I hum as his lips brush my collarbone. He presses a kiss there, his hand drifting higher. “We’re sure no one will come in here?”
“Mm-hmm.” My eyes flutter shut. “Bill locked the doors.”
“Thank God for Bill,” he whispers against my skin.
I laugh, unable to contain myself, and turn toward him.
He steps into me, dropping the bat on the table as our bodies press against it.
His hands flex on my waist, tension rolling through his muscles like he’s fighting whatever restraint he has left.
I’m losing mine too. I want him right here on this table.
He lets out a quiet sound against my neck, and that’s all it takes.
I grab his face and crash my mouth into his.
We’re all tangled limbs and messy, hungry kisses, barely staying upright.
My teeth catch his bottom lip, and his whole body goes taut.
Desire floods me like lava, hot and molten. There’s no stopping it.
His hands slide into my hair, kissing me hard and fast, until he stops abruptly. Breathing hard and grinning like a giddy teenager, he rests his forehead against mine.
“We need to stop,” he grumbles, like this is the last thing he actually wants to do.
“Why?” I whine, looping my arms around his neck.
“Because we are grown adults with a bed at home.” He kisses me once. “And a shower.” Another kiss. “And a kitchen floor.” He hums the words against my lips, and the sound skitters through me, all the way to my toes.
“Now,” I say, smiling, “who’s trouble?”
Steven is strong-willed—always has been. But watching him barely hold himself together? It’s devastatingly sexy. And somehow, it makes me feel sexy too.
He must read it all over my face, because he murmurs, “I want you so bad, Mrs. Jones.” He draws in a steadying breath. “But I want to do this for you too.” He nods toward the table of piled rubble, waiting to be wrecked.
The tension coiled low in my stomach slowly unspools at this sentiment, at the care in his words, his effort. My nose prickles, and I straighten, mentally buttoning myself up.
“Yes, you’re right,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
“Ladies first.”
With the mallet hanging at my side, I take a slow breath. Steven circles to the far side of the table and waits.
“You left your socks on the bathroom floor last week.” I bring the mallet down on a chunk of clay.
He snorts, watching me with eyes so earnest it makes me blush.
“You threw away our leftovers too soon.” He swings the bat and pieces fly.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling. It was sushi, and it was a week old.
“I hate when you don’t make the bed the right way,” I say, landing another hit.
“I hate that you use all the hot water.”
I bark out a laugh. “I hate that you can use memory loss as an excuse.”
He laughs, loud and straight from his belly. But as he lifts the bat again, he catches my eyes, and there’s a tiny flicker of hesitation there. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
“That was a good one,” he says gently. “I hate my memory loss too. I hate it so much.” He swings, hard. Then again. I can see his anger pulling at his reserves, but he reins it in, hitting softer on the third strike.
He shakes out his shoulders and nods, satisfied with the shattered glass vase, then he says, “I hate when you run from our problems.”
It’s barely a whisper, but his eyes are locked on me, checking in.
I nod, accepting this. “I’m sorry.” I quietly tap the mallet against the table. “I hate that you want to fix them.”
He snorts at this, and so do I.
“I think some problems need time and space,” I offer.
He mulls this over, his pink lips twisting as he slowly comes to terms with the words. Then he gently taps the table. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I don’t hate that.” I smile.
Setting his bat down, he rounds the table and reaches for me. He slides the mallet from my hands and laces his fingers with mine.
“I hate…” he breathes, pulling me closer. “That you’re such a good mom.”
I bark out a laugh. “I’m sorry?”
He laughs too, then drops his head. “It makes me feel inadequate, like I may never catch up.”
“You will.” I say it without thinking, because I believe it. Even if he never remembers, he’s Steven, my Steven…he’ll catch up.
My chest aches at his words, though, at the frailness that clings to them.
His fears, his worries, the possibility of never getting the years back.
It all looms over him like a thick, suffocating fog.
I cup his face, rubbing the wetness away from underneath his eye.
He leans into my palm, and I feel the fog thin as he smiles.
“And I hate your lasagna.” He winces, as if confessing a mortal sin.
I gasp dramatically. “I hate your cold brew.”
“I make cold brew?” he asks.
“You try,” I encourage. “I hate that things get hard.” The words come out small, embarrassed. Life is hard. Marriage and loving someone is hard. I need to accept this. Nothing worth having comes easy.
“Me too,” he whispers, cupping my face. “But I want the hard. If that’s what it takes to have you, I want all of it.”
“Me too.”
His lips meet mine, soft and reverent, and I melt into him like butter on a hot pan.
A rapid fire of knocks rattle the door, then it swings open. Sawyer and Easton burst in, bypassing us completely as they head for the wall of tools and goggles. Ellie and Benny follow them in, Benny holding Josie.
“They couldn’t wait.” Ellie shrugs apologetically.
The boys are already smashing clay before we can step out of their way. Benny hands Josie to Steven, and she immediately reaches for his mouth. He winces then laughs softly, shifting her so she can’t grab him, holding her with such careful ease it pangs me in the ribs.
“Who’s paying me for this?” Malcolm calls from the hallway as he and Kate walk in carrying pizzas.
“I thought we were bringing our own?” Daniels says, trailing behind with a brown sack lunch. Mackenzie is close on his heels.
All at once, it’s chaos. Pizza boxes everywhere.
No plates, no napkins, clay dust floating through the air like glitter.
The room dissolves into joyful disorder, the kind that would normally have me spiraling, needing to take control.
Instead, I just watch, soaking it all in. I let myself feel everything.
Steven slips an arm around my waist, bouncing Josie on his hip. He watches the mess the way I do, like he’s afraid it might disappear if he blinks. I can almost hear his silent prayer: God, please let me keep this memory. Please don’t take this one away.
Once our bellies are full and the floor is a ruin of clay and crumbs, Benny leans back and asks, “Now what, boss?”
I shrug, leaning into Steven, strangely glad not to have an answer for once. “I don’t know.”
“I think…” He turns me to face him, lifting my chin. “I’m going to take my wife home now.”
I feel his smile wide against my mouth, and it sends that sweet flutter I’ve been missing unfurling through my chest and ribs. It’s warm, and tender, and safe. It feels like coming home after a long journey. Like love. Like something worth fighting for.