Chapter 41 Hutch
Hutch
The Bozeman airport buzzes with light chatter and the hum of rolling suitcases. As far as décor goes, the place looks more like one part hunting cabin and one part airport with all its exposed wood beams, paneling, and rock finishes.
I’m not usually one for crowds, but this one is manageable. Bozeman airport isn’t big—but there’s something to be said for meeting the man whose ex-wife you’re currently fucking that brings out the nerves in a guy.
I’m not worried about meeting Peter, but fuck if I’m not curious about him.
Ginger hasn’t said much, just that they’re still friends and co-parent well together.
But I can’t say I don’t think the guys a bit of a moron for letting Ginger get away.
Not that I’m complaining in the least. Especially since I’m the one who gets to enjoy the hell out of her company.
For now, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers, but I ignore it.
Across the way, a wall of windows lets in the kind of Montana light that makes everything feel wide open. They’re the kind of windows rich people pay good money to have built into their cabins.
I stand next to Ginger outside the baggage claim, hands in the pockets of my jeans, watching her scan the arrivals board even though she already knows the flight number by heart.
She’s so ready to have her kids back with her. I can tell by the way she cranes her neck every few minutes, then bites the skin on the side of her nail like she’s worried they might not come.
I lean over, tucking an arm around her waist and pressing a light kiss to her temple. “They’ll be here,” I murmur softly into her hair.
She nods, absently before turning her head to look at me, a sweet smile on her lips. “I know. I want them to be here already.”
I wasn’t sure I was. I mean, I’d met them—Tate and Jordan—and they were cute kids, even if Tate would sooner see my head on a pike than crack a smile in my direction.
Ginger and I haven’t talked any more about us or where this is headed since that morning in the kitchen. She hasn’t pushed. And I haven’t brought it up again, even though it tugs at me continually.
I don’t know if we’ll be able to keep doing what we’ve been doing, now that her boys will be here, or if we’ll have to go back to sneaking around. I don’t want to, but I'll follow her lead since she’s the mom.
I recognize and respect the hell out of her and know that the boys will come first, as they should.
It hits me now, standing in this airport, minutes from her past colliding with our present, that I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with myself when she leaves.
“They’re here,” she says, nodding down at her phone. “Peter texted.”
I look up in time to see two small boys sprinting through the space. They’re mirror images of each other, a little taller than the last time I saw them, crazy curly red hair bouncing as they run, gap-toothed grins for their mom.
And right behind them: Peter.
He’s tall—though not as tall as me, polished in a way I’ll never be. I know he’s some kind of tech guy. He’s dressed like one too, in a navy button-up, crisp slacks, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, phone in hand.
Peter smiles when he spots Ginger. The look isn’t flirty, but warm. Familiar.
“Hey, Gingersnap,” he says, pulling her into a friendly hug.
She laughs lightly, and I really hate that; him having a nickname for her.
A small, stupid flame of tension lights in my chest.
It’s not anger. Not even real jealousy. Just a kind of…
tightness. A reminder that Peter knows a version of Ginger that I don’t.
The carefree college girl. The woman she was the day they got married.
Peter knows her with swollen ankles and a belly rounded with twin boys.
They have history. Memories. Of a life together.
And me? I’m just the lucky son of a bitch that gets her now. For however long that lasts.
Ginger drops to her knees with tears in her eyes, wrapping her arms around both boys, before kissing each of them on a cheek. “My God, you guys are huge.” She laughs, pulling back to look at both of them.
Peter hangs back for a beat, letting Ginger have a minute with the boys, then steps forward, meeting my gaze. He’s curious but not territorial. Just polite.
“Hey,” he says, voice friendly, offering his hand. “Peter.”
“Hutch.” I grasp his hand, giving it a shake. “Good to meet you.”
Ginger glances between us, then smiles at Peter. “Flight go okay?”
Peter glances at her and then the boys. “Yeah. Everything went smoothly.”
“Glad to hear it. Thanks for bringing them.”
Peter nods like it’s no big deal, easy, same old, same old and that ache hits me again. Low and hard.
That morning in the kitchen pops up again in my mind.
This is what my future would look like if we took things further: Ginger sending her boys off to be with their dad and then waiting on pins and needles for them to come back.
I couldn’t imagine a life where I not only got to hold that baby but then had to watch it go again—over and over again, for at least eighteen years.
But now, standing in the airport watching Ginger light up with her boys, watching Peter slot in so easily beside her, I realize I may never be what she needs. No matter how badly I want to be.
And yet…as we make plans to head to lunch—Peter has a return flight to Seattle in four hours—it’s me, who Ginger looks over her shoulder at as we leave the airport.
It’s me, who she hangs back to walk next to while her boys and her ex walk ahead of us.
It’s my pinky she secretly links hers with as we step out into the afternoon sun.
Not Peter. Not her boys. Me. It feels so fucking good to be chosen by this woman. And maybe being chosen is enough.