“Thanks.”
“I mean it. You looked…you looked really sad, and I want to make sure you’re okay. Just for…just for Shade. Because this is hard for him too, and I’m trying to do what I can to make it not so hard, but I’m lost here because you know very well I don’t have any experience with this. Being a nanny or otherwise.”
“Yet, I hired you.”
“Yet, you did, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that…that I just want to make sure you’re going to get through the next couple of days, and if not, you need to let me know so I can figure out how to cover for you the best I can. For Shade.”
She’s right. God, she’s right. She’s thoughtful, and she’s actually pretty damn nice. She even called a damn wildlife rescue and got that opossum relocated. Shade said she was about to try and bring it back to life by giving it CPR—she must have explained it to him—when they thought it had died. She wasn’t about to let it die in front of Shade. I’m not sure how far she would have gone, but imagining prim and proper Little Miss Rich and Spoiled out there, giving mouth to mouth to a wild animal made me want to burst out laughing when I heard about it. Thinking about it now makes me smile despite everything. The point is, she was willing to take a hard one for the team, and she’s willing to now. That means something—it means something to me, which hits me like a good old ball bagging. Never mind. There’s nothing good about a ball bagging. When you get tea bagged, it always feels quite fresh. Believe me.
“Luke?”
I’m still not facing her. Maybe I’m a coward, or maybe I just can’t. But I do get something out. Words I haven’t been able to speak out loud, words I can barely process, even just for myself.
“Do you know that when someone is taken from you, it’s not the big things you miss? It’s all the small bits and pieces that are stolen. They’re what matters. All the texts here and there, the goodbye kisses on the forehead or cheek, the brush of fingers, the how was your day that everyone takes for granted, and the token text to ask what I want for dinner. I even miss getting nagged to do the garbage or whatever else. It’s all those tiny bits. They add up, and those are what gets taken from you. It’s not just a person, your whole world, your whole life, or your whole future—not just all of that. It’s all the things in the present too. The things you don’t even realize you miss until they’re gone, and then you realize that all those things, they made up your entire world. If someone had told me that before I lose Britt, I would have laughed it off as being corny. Beyond corny. But it’s true. It’s so fucking true.”
“I—I’m…”
“Please don’t say sorry. You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do anything. Why should you be sorry?”
“Because I brought it up. Because you won’t look at me, so I know I’ve hurt you, and that’s exactly what I came in here to try and help avoid. Because you’re hurting, and maybe it has nothing to do with me, but I do feel bad because I care about Shade, and I know when you’re hurting, he can see it, and it makes him hurt too. Because I don’t like feeling useless, and there’s nothing I can really do, and it sucks, so I’m sorry about that too. I’m sorry you have to go through this, and Shade does too. I’m sorry the world is super shitty, and you both have to experience it every single day. I’m sorry Christmas is a piece-of-shit day when you have memories of it not being a piece-of-shit day. I’m sorry you have to endure your family tomorrow because that must suck too. It must be really awkward and horrible, and I wouldn’t want to do it. So, I’m sorry. I am. I don’t know what else to s…”
Maybe it’s the whisky, maybe I’m just really fucking lonely, maybe it’s because it’s Christmas, and you’re supposed to be charitable on Christmas, or maybe it’s because I just figured out this is what I actually need. No, it’s definitely the whisky. I just consumed three-quarters of a coffee mug, so my judgment is severely impaired. I’ve already said things I’d never normally say, so my inhibitions are gone. It’s guaranteed the whisky.
And just the whisky.
Blame it on the whisky then, like the classic rock or country song, but I turn away from staring at the dishwasher. I step towards Feeney and gently take her by the waist. I don’t grab her; I’m not an ogre. As soon as my hands move to her hips, which are both shapely and tiny—so feminine and delicate—it makes all the achy bits of me ache that much worse, and whatever she was going to say stops mid-sentence. Her breath catches in a ragged gasp, and her hands land on my chest, but she doesn’t push me away. Her fists ball in my t-shirt.
Her face tilts up, shocked, inquisitive, and confused, but her eyes—eyes so green they’re like a field of swaying green grass, grass as tall as a person’s waist and as thick and lush as velvet—are huge and dark, the pupils liquid with sudden desire.
I do blame the whisky because it only intensifies the loneliness I feel—the needs I’ve denied for so long that I forgot all about them. The whisky makes me feel human again. It makes me feel like a man with men’s needs. It makes me feel more like an actual human and less like an empty shell of a thing. It makes me hurt, it makes me want, and it even makes me hope.
Feeney says nothing, but her lush pink lips part in invitation.
I know this isn’t the solution she had in mind, this wasn’t what she was thinking when she walked into the kitchen, and this isn’t pity. She’s not letting me do this because she’s sorry or any of that nonsense. This is a moment. One of those classic moments that everyone talks, writes, and sings about. It’s sudden like fire. Like a downpour from a storm that blew up out of nowhere, one second the sky blue and clear, and the next instant, the storm driving down.
I shouldn’t do it, but I do. Because of the whisky. Because it’s been two years since another person even bothered to touch me, even in passing, because I’m lonely, and because I’m broken. Because…because…because I want to. Because of all of it and everything.
CHAPTER 13
Feeney
I know a bad idea when I see one.
This. This is a bad idea.
A bad idea that I can’t stop. It came out of nowhere, as bad ideas often do. It crouched down, waiting, and then it sprung. I don’t feel trapped, and I’m not pressured. This isn’t forced.
When I wrap my arms around Luke’s neck, yeah, it’s a bad idea, but it feels good. He’s warm and strong. Ultra-manly. All rock-hard muscle, straining tendon, and hot, silky skin. I press in against him, seeking his warmth—all of him with all of me. That’s what I want—his massive chest, huge shoulders, lean waist, and strong legs.
He bends his head, and I close my eyes, but when I feel his muscles tighten under my fingers and the rest of him tense, I realize he’s hesitating. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want to do this, but rather, he’s worried I don’t want him to. That it’s not right, that I’m his nanny, and blah, blah, blah. I know that. But right now, I don’t care. It’s wrong, but what bad idea isn’t?