“That’s what you’re afraid of.” Ms. Wilma’s arm tightens, gathering me closer, dog and all. “You’re scared that dashing young man and his son will abandon you and never come back, leaving you behind just like your father.”
“Maybe. Yeah.” I lean my brow to her thin shoulder.
God, she’s so kind, and it hurts something fierce. But in a good, honest way.
“I guess I’d have to trust him to stay, wouldn’t I?” I ask, sniffing.
“Is trusting people so very bad?” she whispers with a smile.
“Yes! It sucks, Ms. Wilma,” I hiss, and watch as Alaska spins around, laughing, while Eli spreads his arms wide and yells with sheer joy. “So why do I want to believe you so much?”
Trust.
That’s what it boils down to in the end.
It’s always been a matter of trust and always will be.
But after getting through the day, after sharing a dinner full of laughter and warmth with Alaska and Eli, I realize what I told Ms. Wilma wasn’t quite right.
It’s not them I don’t trust.
Paxton saved my life and Eli rescued my sense of humor. They’ve gone above and beyond to win my confidence.
That’s not the issue.
It’s that I don’t trust myself to be good enough for them.
But talking to the old woman makes one thing clear—my worthiness isn’t for me to decide.
Only Alaska can decide if I’m good enough for him and his son.
After dinner, I linger in the doorway to Eli’s room, watching Alaska slowly talk his son to sleep yet again. It’s becoming one of my favorite moments, the perfect way to wind down a long day.
There’s just something sweeter than pie about watching this giant cave bear of a man taking care of his cub with so much attentiveness and warmth. You see so many fathers who only do the bare minimum, who just go through the motions, always thinking that providing financially for their families is where their job ends. It’s too much to expect them to provide emotionally, too.
Not Paxton Charter.
It’s crystal clear that he’d give everything for Elijah.
And I’m starting to think I would, too.
That kid’s got me just as enchanted as his father in his own way. Before, I never really saw myself as someone who could ever go for having kids.
Not anymore.
This is one child I definitely don’t mind having in my life.
Looking up to me. Needing me. Asking me to help keep him safe and comfortable and make his life a stable place to dream.
It makes me feel like I’m a part of this beautiful thing they have together.
Maybe it’s a little selfish of me, but yeah, I want that feeling.
I want it to stay. Permanently.
Once Eli’s fully tuckered out, nuzzled against his pillow, Alaska stands. He moves quietly to the doorway of his son’s bedroom and gently pulls the door until it just barely latches, silent and careful.
“Hey,” he near-whispers, looking down at me with those chocolate whorls for eyes that gleam like decadent truffles in the dark.
“Hey,” I answer, my lips curling as I tilt my head toward the back deck. “Want to have a beer?”
“Babe, you never have to ask,” he whispers, brushing his fingers through my hair and smiling so wide his eyes twinkle.
The surprise on his face leaves me punch-drunk until he moves.
We head out through the glass-fronted back door, sinking down in the comfortable chairs with the fire pit between us and a six-pack iced down in a bucket on the deck.
While he lights the fire pit, I crack a couple drinks open and pass one to him.
With another mesmerizing smile tucked in his halo of beard, he settles into his chair and leans back, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the beer.
“Gorgeous night for a gorgeous lady,” he says, tilting his head to the sky.
“Oh, stop,” I say, swatting at him playfully as I hide my blush behind a slurp of beer.
He’s right about one thing—it’s a marvelously clear, starry night.
But somehow, all I can see is Paxton, and how relaxed he looks under the glowing sky.
How his aura of peace—doesn’t pax mean peace in Latin?—reaches out to lap at me like waves to a shore, calming all the rioting feelings inside me until I’m just as tranquil as him.
He does that.
I’m full of destructive storms.
But he never flinches.
He tames them until they’re mellow, all rain and gentle breezes, something that nourishes rather than destroys.
I make myself look away from him—from the perfect physique of his tall, thick build, from his handsome face and how his beard brings out the highlights of his mouth, his cheekbones, and those dark, expressive eyes.
My gaze follows his up to the sky.
When I was young, I traveled the West Coast one summer. I’ve spent a little time in cities here and there, and the thing I always missed most in Seattle and LA was not being able to see the stars so clear and bright.
City stars are scattered muddy things, if you can see them at all. A dot here, a pinprick there.
It’s only out here, in places where the night gets truly dark, that the stars forge a path. The Milky Way’s belt rolls across the sky in a brilliant streak that slowly fades at the edges into something softer, darker, welcoming and deep.
I’m still looking at those stars when I say, “I talked to Ms. Wilma today. About a lot of things. But mostly about you.”
“Yeah?” he rumbles, a touch of warm curiosity in his voice. “Telling her we need more towels because I use them all?”
“Nothing quite like that.” I can’t help but giggle anyway. When did we get so domestic? “She made me think about a lot of things, Alaska. She made me realize a lot of things, too. Like the fact that I’ve been hiding behind my fear. I’ve been scared to tell you the truth from the start, but not just about Paisley. About me. About what I want. About how afraid I am of...” I swallow, breathe deep, make myself push on. “Of there being something real between us. An us at all, I mean, instead of us just playing pretend for cover because I don’t want to get chopped up into little pieces.”
Alaska has this stillness to him I swear I can feel.
Like the night itself gets quieter, waiting for him to speak, the raw anticipation of sparks and static on the air.
“Do you want an us, Fliss?”
Heavy pause.
Then my nerves soften and my throat opens so I can speak.
“Yeah. I think I do.” My voice almost breaks, but I hold it steady. “I’ve been telling myself this whole time not to read too much into things. You’re just being an amazing guy and you’d do this for any lady in distress, I’m sure, but...but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
Such a small question, a front for the ginormous fuzzy feelings hidden behind tiny words.
The kind of question that makes you realize some part of your heart never grew up. It still wants to bundle these wild, conflicting emotions into a crumpled note and scribbled words, I like you, do you like me?
Love notes were easier then, though.
Nothing at stake but a semester of embarrassment. Or maybe even a few months of thinking you’d be together forever until classes changed and you never saw each other anymore, and then you were just over as a fact of life.