When I first brought Rowan home, Father foisted another bodyguard on me, claiming it wasn’t safe for either of us without one. I didn’t fight him on it because I was too preoccupied with my son. After a year, he removed the man out of the blue, stating we didn’t need protection anymore. Honestly, half the time, I wonder if Joseph Lawson is getting early-onset dementia or his OCD is just that whacked. Anyway, I can’t say I’ve missed having a bodyguard until small moments like this, when I wouldn’t mind having someone around for my peace of mind.
I coax Rowan out of the woods, only relaxing when we are back on our bikes and heading home. We stop at the small neighborhood bakery on the way, and I buy a fresh loaf of crusty bread to go with the pasta I am making for dinner.
After my little Firecracker has consumed his body weight in pasta, I bathe him and dress him in clean pajamas. Then I snuggle into bed with him, reading another few pages of James and the Giant Peach. When his eyelids grow heavy and he is struggling to keep his eyes open, I set the book down and press a kiss to his brow. “Good night, sweetheart. I love you. Sleep tight.”
“Night, Mommy,” he whispers in a sleepy tone. “Love you, too.”
I finish cleaning the kitchen, and then I take a nice long hot shower. Emerging from the bathroom, I notice I missed a call from my boyfriend, so I call him back while I pull on sleep shorts and a tank. Nightfall has descended, and I pop my cell on speaker while I walk around the house, pulling down the blinds. Dion answers just as I’m about to hang up. “Give me a sec,” he shouts, loud music blaring in the background.
Wandering into the kitchen, I flick the overhead light on as I pad to the refrigerator, removing a chilled bottle of wine. I set my cell down on the marble countertop while I pour myself a much-needed drink. Noise mutes on the phone, and my ears give a silent thumbs-up.
“Hey, babe,” Dion says. “Sorry about that. We’re at this sports bar a block from our hotel and it’s freaking crazy. The Yankees are trouncing the Cubs and the whole place is going nuts.”
“It’s cool.” I secure the cap on the wine bottle, popping it back in the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you except I saw your missed call.”
“I called to let you know I landed safely in New York and that I miss you already.”
I laugh softly. “You only saw me last night.”
“And your point is?”
“It’s too soon to miss me.”
“I miss you the second I drop you home after our dates.”
I smile into the empty room. This man is so unbelievably sweet. “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy about you.”
“You’re such a charmer. I have no idea how you reached thirty without some woman tying you down.” The words are out of my mouth before I can reclaim them.
“I just hadn’t met the right woman,” he replies, and my smile fades.
I like Dion.
A lot.
He’s a gentleman, and he treats me with respect. He’s hot, and funny, and smart, and Rowan already worships the ground he walks on. Although, my son isn’t aware that I’m dating his teacher because I won’t introduce any man to him until I know it’s serious.
I made a mistake when Rowan was three and introduced him to the guy I was dating then. When things ended, Rowan was devastated because he had grown close to Julian.
So now, I have strict self-imposed rules.
Rules Dion knows about and has always supported, but lately, he’s asking me when we can make it official with my son, forcing me to confront the reality of our relationship. I tried arguing it’s risky to let Rowan know about us, as Dion could get in trouble with the school for dating a parent, but he said it’s a risk he’s willing to take.
Truth is, Dion is perfect on paper, and I’m enjoying spending time with him, but he doesn’t set my heart racing or ignite a flame with his touch. Not like…
“Sierra. Are you still there?”
Dion pulls me out of my head. “I’m here. I should let you get back to the guys.”
“I freaked you out again, huh?”
“No, it’s just—”
“It’s okay, babe. You don’t need to explain, and I’m sorry if I’m rushing you. I don’t mean to.”
“I know you don’t, and let’s not stress about it. We can talk when you’re back.”
“Our flight gets in late Sunday, but I could drop by Monday night after Rowan is asleep?”
“I’ll cook a late dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“You know I enjoy cooking. It relaxes me, and I want to cook for you.”
A door bangs in the background, and a hushed conversation ensues. I sip my glass of wine while I wait for Dion to speak. “Sorry, babe. We’re heading to another bar. I gotta go.”
“Have fun. I’ll see you Monday.”
Like the coward I am, I hang up before he can tell me he loves me.
I wonder if there is something wrong with me. Some vital missing piece that has screwed up my internal wiring.
Dion is perfectly sweet and romantic, and the sex is good. He loves me, and he loves Rowan, and I know if I made more of a commitment that a proposal would be forthcoming, yet the very thought makes me break out in hives.
I haven’t told Dion I love him because I don’t have those feelings for him. I don’t know if I ever will. I like his company, and we have fun. Our relationship is nice. Easy-breezy. Comfortable. Borderline boring. But there is a certain predictability with boring that is reassuring.
Yet is that enough reason to continue dating him? Am I settling? Or will every guy I meet always fall short compared to Ben. And how ridiculous is it to still fixate on a man who tossed me so easily to the curb?
Ugh. I take a big slurp of my wine, wishing Dion was enough. I feel like I’m shortchanging him and cheating myself. Now that he is pushing to take things to the next level, I’m feeling like I should probably break things off before they get messy. The last thing I need is things getting complicated with Rowan’s teacher.
Sighing, I pad into the dark living room with my wine in one hand and my cell in the other, planning a night with some Friends reruns. I’m in desperate need of a little light relief and Joey, Chandler, and crew are the perfect remedy.
I’m moving toward the couch, in the direction of the large freestanding lamp, when a subtle motion in the corner of the room sends my blood pressure skyrocketing. Out of the corner of my eye, I detect a shape hiding in the shadows beside the fireplace.
Holy fuck! Someone is in the house!
Panic powers through my veins, and my heart jumps, pumping frenetically, to the point I fear I’ll have a heart attack if I can’t slow it down. Rooted to the spot, I silently talk myself off the ledge. If someone was in here, they would have made themselves known by now, and the alarm would have sounded. I’m probably just freaking myself out for no reason. Like in the woods earlier.
With my heart jackhammering against my rib cage, I slowly turn around, ready to confront my torrid imagination, because I have convinced myself I’m just imagining things again.
A blur rushes past me, and I open my mouth to scream when a hand clamps down hard over my lips. My cell phone and my wine slip through my fingers, crashing to the ground. Glass smashes on the hardwood floor, and liquid splashes my bare legs. Blood rushes to my head as my heart tries to beat a path out of my chest. Warm breath fans across my cheek as I’m hauled against a solid body. I can scarcely think over the screaming in my head and the frantic pounding in my chest.