Page 30 of Sidelined By Love

“Maybe we should start withBlack Widowinstead,“ I mumble.

Zoe’s lips disappear as she bites into them and leans forward, propping her elbows on the table and chin in her hands. “He really is beautiful. Like a sculpture. And incredibly funny. Kind too. And terribly in love with his wife. Which makes him even more attractive.”

There’s a note of longing in her voice, and I wonder if she’s thinking about that actor the tabloids linked her to. It sounds like their relationship went up in flames, and she hasn’t mentioned him at all. But maybe she misses him.

The thought slams into my gut, stealing my breath for a split second.

I’ve got no right to be upset if she’s thinking about him. Except that he seems like a royal jerk, and Zoe deserves better.

Even if there’s a tiny bit of me that wishes that when she leaves the Springs she’ll miss me.

This is getting out of control, so I swoop around the table, clearing away empty plates. “All right. We get the picture. Chris Hemsworth is dreamy. But you, young lady”—I point a finger at Kenna—“are thirteen years old. And I’m not returning you to your mother any more boy crazy than I got you.”

“Uncle Gra-ant,” Kenna sighs. “I’m not boy crazy. I just have good taste.”

Zoe slaps a hand over her mouth, which does little to hide the smirk lighting her features. Finally, she mumbles, “What? She’s right. She just has good taste.”

“That’s it,” I grouch. “We’re watching an animated movie tonight.”

“But you promised.” Kenna stares up at me with enormous blue eyes, so much like her mom’s, and her bottom lip does a little tremble.

Chicken on a biscuit.

I can’t say no to that, and she knows it.

“Fine.”

Kenna cheers and practically yanks Zoe from her chair. As I rinse the plates and put them in the dishwasher, I hear Kenna telling Zoe how to use the recliners on either end of the couch. The electric buzz of the sofa really means only one thing. I’m going to end up sitting in the middle.

I don’t want to like that idea, but as I settle into the center seat of the brown leather sofa in my living room across from the eighty-inch screen mounted on the far wall, I’m anything but immune to the woman sitting to my left. Her very presence makes that side of my body warm. It makes my skin feel hyper-sensitive. Maybe she feels the same way.

I want to reach for her hand or the knee that’s bent in my direction because her foot is tucked under her.

My imagination is happy to fill in the possible responses she’d have to my touch—from slapping my face to pulling me in for a long, slow kiss. A spot deep in my stomach clenches.

I’ve missed that feeling. I mean, I have no business missing it. But I do. There’s something special about being with someone who gets you. Someone who lets you care for them. Someone who wants to care for you.

Tawna was not good at that last one.

But I have a feeling Zoe would be pretty great at it.

Wanting it and acting on it are two different things though. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I have enough self-control to keep my hands on my own knees.

By the time I finally shake off that train of thought, the movie is half over. The sun has fully set, the living room dark, save for the flickering screen. And I’ve lost at least one of my companions to sleep. Kenna is leaning on my shoulder, her eyes closed. Shoulders rise and fall in a shallow but steady rhythm. Her head begins to loll forward, so I reach across my body and catch it, tucking it back into place. She makes a little grunt, and I smooth her hair down until she snuggles into my arm, sighing back into sleep.

All that talk about Chris Hemsworth, and she can’t even stay awake to watch him.

I risk a glance toward my other side. Zoe’s eyes are closed too. Her head is tipped back, her lips parted slightly. She might be snoring, but I’ll never know for sure withThorin surround sound. Her arms are wrapped around both of her legs, her knees tucked against her chest.

My smart-watch confirms that it’s past 9:30, nearly Kenna’s bedtime. She has school tomorrow, so I wiggle free, careful not to disrupt the sleeping beauties. Scooping Kenna up, I make my way through the living room, avoiding the coffee table and the backpack she flung onto the floor when she got home from school.

Her room upstairs has a few more landmines, but I manage to get through them without tripping on a mound of clothes or a pile of books. I tuck her in and press my fingers to my lips before touching them to her forehead. “Good night, sweetie. Sleep well.” I pull her covers up to her chin and tuck them in at her shoulders. “Your mom will be home in one hundred and sixty-two days. I love you.”

Back at the couch, Zoe has shifted positions, her head on the armrest, hands stacked beneath her cheek. In the dim light, I can still make out her features and the smooth lines of her face. Squatting before her, I trail a finger from her forehead towardher ear to push a wayward piece of hair out of her face. Her skin is like satin, soft and supple. It’s even silkier than her hair.

She’s beautiful in a way that goes so much deeper than her appearance, and for a moment, I don’t know what to do with her. I could wake her and break the peaceful lines of her face. Or I could carry her to bed like Kenna.

But I only have one available bed in the house.

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