Chapter 8
Eight
Lainey
I don’t know what’s come over me.
What I’m asking.
Why I’m asking Sawyer for it.
But the sight of him reaching for the handle had panic tearing through me, had me asking…him to stay.
Dumb.
So freaking dumb.
I’ve got this—I always do.
Who cares if my hands are shaking and my heart feels like it’s been lodged in the back of my throat for the last couple of hours?
I’ve got this.
And, God, Faye is right next door.
I don’t need Sawyer to stay.
But even as I open my mouth to take back the words, he murmurs, “Yeah, Pages. I’ll stay.”
Pages.
I hadn’t really processed him calling me that earlier.
But I do right now.
And it’s dangerous and dumb and…
I really freaking like it.
“You don’t have to,” I say, every cell in my body telling me to retreat, to step back, to slam up wall after wall.
Because if I admit I don’t have it—
Gently, oh so gently it threatens to set my soul on fire, he peels my fingers from his wrist, but when I expect him to release me, to take the out I’ve just given him…
Instead, he lifts it…and presses a kiss to my palm.
Heat and softness.
Need and fear.
They war inside me.
And I realize something. Realize why he’d been so careful not to touch me before we had our night together—not giving me the casual hugs in greeting or goodbye like the other men do, not slinging an arm around my shoulders like Smitty often does, hugging me in that bear-like way of his.
Not tugging at my ponytail like Gray does, sending a wink my way (and setting a slice of banana bread down in front of me).
Not bumping my shoulder like Leo or just giving me a much-needed and no-strings-attached embrace like Aiden.
But now that he’s touching me again, I understand why he avoided it.
Why we both did.
Because I want to lean into his body, want him to touch me more.
Because I want to tear off his clothes.
God, I am such an idiot.
And yet, I can’t make myself pull away.
“Let’s go eat cookies.”
I blink. Because… “Um, what?”
His mouth hitches up, but he drops my hand and shifts by me. “I think that Harper’s cookies can cure anything.”
Even idiotic attraction to a man I can never let myself have?
Because I won’t let myself have one.
Can’t risk it.
“Cookies, Pages!” he calls and I realize he’s already made it to the kitchen. “And how about hot chocolate to go with them?”
I exhale, shove back my hair (and all it does is bounce back into my face).
But I go down the hall.
And find him putting cookies on plates and—
“What are you doing?”
He holds up the bag of chocolate chips, expression going wary. “I was going to make us hot cocoa.” He sets the bag down. “I can replace the chocolate if you need it.”
“No, I…” I shake myself. “You’re going to make it from scratch?” I ask. “I just usually use the packets.”
His expression relaxes. “It’s only two ingredients, Pages, and it tastes a helluva lot better than the powder crap.”
“Really?” I ask and his mouth quirks.
“Sit,” he orders. “And enjoy the wonders of homemade hot cocoa.”
I laugh.
Then sober.
“You know you don’t have to do this, right?”
He’s a busy man and I’m sure he didn’t want his entire evening to be eaten up by fisticuffs in the parking lot and babysitting a grown woman.
“I know,” he says and turns, pouring milk into a saucepan and turning on the stove. “Tell me,” he says a moment later, “is Ollie excited about Christmas?”
I laugh. “So excited. Especially about his ever-changing Christmas list. I swear we must have sent a dozen letters to Santa already.”
“What’s on his list?” Sawyer asks as he stirs the milk slowly, steadily, evenly.
Like Sawyer himself.
“Legos and books and magnet tiles and a new race car bed”—my lips twitch—“and today he added something called a Grumpimal? They have this adorably grumpy penguin and because his name is Ollie too, my Ollie clearly needed it in his life. Unfortunately, they’re sold out, so I had to do some damage control there.
” I sigh and shake my head. “It’s not like I’m going to go over the top, but I love Christmas and it’s his first one since… ”
“So you want to make it special,” he supplies.
“Yes,” I whisper. “That.”
“You’re a good mom, Pages.”
“Thanks,” I say, still whispering, wanting to ask him about the nickname.
But it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?
He sets a mug in front of me, then grabs the other one and leans back against the counter.
The silence stretches and I pick it up, take a sip.
Then look at him in surprise. “This is really good.”
He chuckles. “I’m glad you like it.”
The quiet falls again.
At least until his phone buzzes. Again.
“You can get that,” I say.
He silences it, tucks it back away. “It can wait.” Then as I’m processing how good that feels—for someone to choose being in this moment with me, he asks, “Will you tell me about him?”
I freeze, stomach twisting as I run my finger along the outside of the mug, tracing nonsensical patterns on the porcelain. “About Ben?”
“Yeah.” He sets his mug down. “But if you don't want to talk about him, I get that, too.” The words are even, contained, almost expressionless, but there's something in his eyes that makes me want to open up.
Some part of me that trusts him.
Alarm bells blare through my mind, but I find myself allowing him in anyway. “There's nothing to tell, really. We got together very young. We had Ollie.” I run my finger over the curve of the handle. “Then he got sick and died.”
He doesn’t speak for a long time.
Neither do I.
Until he asks, “Were you happy?”
It's such an innocent question. Yet, it’s one that makes the guilt tear through me again.
Because it’s yes and it’s…no. Or maybe not as happy as I should have been.
“Yes,” I say. “In the beginning I was. But we were so young and over time everything just got really messed up.”
Another blip of quiet.
Then his words are so soft, they barely reach my ears. “I know what that's like.”
“You do?” I ask, shock rippling through me.
“Yeah, I do.” He stares down at his feet. “There was a girl when I was just starting out, someone who I thought would be by my side for…everything, I guess.”
My heart spasms.
“And it turned out that the people that we became just weren't compatible anymore.” His mouth curves into a sad smile. “Sometimes love isn't enough, is it?”
I pick up my mug, take another sip of hot chocolate. “No,” I murmur. “No, it's not.”
Then there’s no more talking.
We just sip our hot chocolates and eat some cookies. And I do it not thinking about the strange man from the parking lot. Not thinking about Ben and all the ways that he disappointed me.
Instead, I’m thinking about what life could have been like.
Because I’m sitting here with a man who I don’t love, who I can’t claim to know all that well and…I’m having more of an honest conversation with him than I ever had with the man I loved and married and made a kid with.
God, what would it have been like to have waited, to have not—
Slam!
The walls crash down around that thought.
Because if my life hadn't been my life, I wouldn't have Ollie. I wouldn't be here now.
And that's not acceptable.
Not even as a dumb thought exercise.
As if sensing the change in my mood, Sawyer turns and places his mug in the sink. Then comes over as though he’s going to grab mine.
But I shoot to my feet, walk by him and do it myself, rinsing both and putting them in the dishwasher.
Something bristles inside me when he puts the uneaten cookies back into the container and snaps on the lid and I all but snatch the plate from him, rinsing that too.
He lingers at my side for a moment. “I’ll leave you to the rest of your night,” he murmurs.
I nod. “Yeah, thanks,” I say. And it's too brusque. Too rude for all he's done for me tonight—for how long he stayed, for the care he showed me.
But I can't seem to stop myself.
Nor from clipping out, “Goodnight.”
It’s a dismissal. A bitchy one at that.
Sawyer just nods, and says, “Lock up behind me, Pages.”
I nod, dry my hands on a towel.
But by the time I make it to the door, he's already gone, his car pulling away.
Heart squeezing, insides twisting, I flip the lock.
I’m exhausted and I want to go up to bed, want to sleep for twelve hours straight…or maybe for an eternity.
But the whole reason Ollie’s sleeping over at Veronica’s is so I can get ahead of the Christmas prep.
So, I spend the next hours wrapping presents from me (and from Santa), and prepping the dough for cinnamon rolls I’ll bake off tomorrow, and making sure I have gifts for everyone in the Grizzlies family.
It’s my first big holiday with them and I want it to be special for them too, want to show them how much it means for me and Ollie to be so welcomed.
But even as I finish with all of that, I move on to a hundred other unnecessary things—I plot a book that I'm never going to write, I dust the ornaments on the Christmas tree, I scrub at nonexistent dust on the baseboards, fluff pillows that don’t need fluffing…
I just generally keep myself busy until I'm so exhausted I fall into bed.
And just as I'm about to close my eyes, I remember that my car is still at the bookstore.
Dammit.
But exhaustion is pulling heavily at my mind, my body.
So, I decide that's a Tomorrow Lainey problem.
Unfortunately, Tomorrow Lainey doesn’t realize how many more problems she’s going to face.