A few months ago, this would’ve left me feeling naked and raw and attacked.
But all I feel right now is a bone-deep connection to a man who understands me more than I understand myself, and who likes me because I understand him more than I thought I possibly could.
“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” I say.
“Little bit.” His eyes flicker over my face. “But for the first time in possibly forever, I don’t feel alone in it.”
This isn’t Let’s work this out of our systems.
This is I could be very serious about a relationship with you if one of us had the slightest nudge to get there.
“Are we friends?” I whisper.
He studies me, and I find myself holding my breath like the fate of my entire life depends on his answer.
But when he finally answers, it’s everything. “I want to be more than your friend, but I know it’s complicated, and I know we have to go slow, and I know there are people in your life who need to come before me.”
“For a while,” I acknowledge.
“I spent my entire childhood wishing someone would do for me what you’re doing for your daughter. I get it, Maisey. I do. She needs to come first. So whatever it takes—however long it takes—for her to get comfortable with the idea of us, I can wait.”
“You know what you said to Junie tonight?” I whisper. “That was a superhero speech. Do you have any idea how badly she needed to hear that?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“And do you know the worst part?”
“There . . . was a worst part?”
“Her own father wouldn’t have done that for her.”
His jaw tightens, and a feral growl emanates from deep inside his chest.
And I swoon.
I know I’ll have to explain this to Junie at some point. I know it won’t go the way I hope it does.
But I also know that this man will champion my daughter and build her up and go out of his way to make sure she’s comfortable if he wants to have a part in my life.
He knows I’m a package deal, whether she’s in high school or beyond.
And I trust him.
I trust him to care for her feelings and her needs and her wishes, and I’d trust him even if he weren’t lying on my living room rug half-naked with me.
“She doesn’t hate you,” I whisper to him.
He grunts.
“She doesn’t,” I repeat, stronger. “She just doesn’t want you to hurt me.”
His thumb stills. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”
“And I don’t want to hurt you. But I also don’t want to let you walk out of my door without a promise that we can do this again. Because I like you. Naked. Clothed. Tearing down barns. Cleaning out secret foot-fetish shrines. Talking. Listening. Understanding. Seeing my daughter for who she is and building her up for what she can do. I like you.”
He studies me in the flickering glow of the firelight. “You told me not all that long ago that you need to figure out who you are before you get involved with anyone else.”
“Sometimes figuring out who you are and who you want to be involves figuring out who to trust to go on the journey with you.”
His lips part and then slowly close again.
“Junie says I’m having a rebound and you’ll hurt me. But I like you. I like you a little more every day, and I like when you trust me, and I like when you let me see you. Whatever happens tomorrow, or next week or next month or whenever, I won’t regret that you’ve been part of my journey.”
He blinks and shakes his head.
“I know. I’m a little ridiculous.”
“No. You’re not.” He blinks again. “You just have a lot more Tony in you than I thought you did.”
“Oh.”
He lifts his brows.
“Does that mean this just got awkward?” I whisper.
His grin is slow, but oh my God, does it take my breath away. “Rest assured, at no point tonight have I felt like I’m naked with your uncle.”
I cringe. “You’re making this worse.”
His chuckle reverberates through my soul. “How about I make it better?” he murmurs as his hand slides down my bare hip and he leans in to press a kiss to my jaw.
My nipples tighten in excitement, and my already-satisfied vagina starts to smile in anticipation again. “I suppose you can try.”
This time, I get a full-on laugh.
It’s beautiful.
Much like everything he does to my body for the rest of the night.
Chapter 29
Flint
The last day of school before Thanksgiving break is always hellacious. It’s long. The kids have the energy of caffeinated squirrels. The PTA always brings in snacks to help us get through, but I don’t want snacks today.
I want the day to be over.
It’s been too many damn days since I’ve seen Maisey alone, and I want her. I want her at my house or hers, naked, in my bed or hers, my shower or hers, my living room or hers.
What I don’t want?
Her walking through the hallways handing out gingerbread turkeys and miniature pumpkin pies.
And I want to not feel weird every time I catch June Spencer looking at me during second period.
All my classes had tests yesterday, which served the double purpose of giving the kids a fighting chance at doing well and also letting me have today to grade the tests in class while they play math games in small groups.
Or so the theory goes.
In actuality, my students are far more interested in asking me questions all day than they are in entertaining themselves while I do my grading.
Especially in second period.
With June right there in the second row.
“Mr. Jackson, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Mr. Jackson, will you be at the parade?”
“Mr. Jackson, are you boycotting the shopping again this year?”
“Mr. Jackson, what should I get my boyfriend for Christmas?”
I finally give up, toss down my grading pen, and prop my feet on my desk. “Okay. You win. Go around the room. What’s everyone doing for Thanksgiving?”
It’s the usual stuff.
Going to Grandma’s. Someone’s hoping their dad doesn’t catch the garage on fire again when he fries a turkey. One family’s going skiing. Another’s hosting out-of-town family.
And then there’s June. “I’m going to see my dad and his snack of the week,” she announces.
She has a cool delivery that says she wants to not care, and she wants to not care what anyone else in the room thinks about it, but she also shoots me a look like she wants to know what I think of that.
“Does he have a new one?” Hugh asks her.
She shakes her head.
“Ew,” someone else says. “Do you think they’re going to get married? I saw last week’s People, and People says he’s gonna pop the question.”
June flinches, but she also sets her jaw the same way I’ve seen Maisey set her own jaw dozens of times. “He’s just being a guy.”
“Abigail,” I call. “Your turn.”
“Isn’t that just like a man to have to get married right away again because he can’t take care of himself?” Abigail replies.