Page 123 of A Little Crush
“Yeah, Rore. I really do.”
“I want to be married,” she murmurs with a reverence that shoots straight through me. “And I want two children. Maybe three. At least one boy and girl. Although, I’m not too picky on the gender part.”
My mouth lifts. “Of course not.”
“And I want Hades to live forever. And I want Archer to come back. And I want a home with a big tree in the front yard and a treehouse in the back for the kids.”
“Love a good treehouse,” I tell her.
“Right?” Her voice softens. “It would be amazing.”
It would. So much so I can almost see it. Rory outside in one of her sundresses with her mini-me on her hip, yelling at her little boy who’s playing a pirate from his treehouse and is dropping rocks from the top, pretending they’re cannonballs as he battles a fleet of ships. Hell, the picture is so clear, Ican’t help but want to draw myself beside her with Poppy on my shoulders.
It’s a dangerous thought. One I never thought I’d have again. One I never wanted to have again. Not after the fallout with Iris. Rory’s always had a way of being the exception, though. Is that what she is in this circumstance as well? Does she want to be?
Pushing past the tightness in my throat, I ask, “And your career?”
We still haven’t talked about it. About the deadline we set when she offered to help me out with Poppy. Instead, we’ve buried our heads in the sand, pretending like it doesn’t exist. She’s emailed me a few resumes here and there, but I haven’t had the stomach to open them, knowing that if I do, it’ll mean Rory’s quitting. Moving on. And my baby girl will have to rely on someone else—someone who isn’t me or the only other person who knows how to dry her tears while I’m on the ice. And damn, if it isn’t a hard pill to swallow, even when I know it’s inevitable. Or at least, it should be inevitable. Considering Rory’s lack of follow up emails, or how they’re fewer and farther in between, I can’t help but wonder if she’s choosing to ignore it, too. Like maybe, just maybe, she’s as happy with the arrangement as I am.
“Honestly?” She hesitates. “I don’t want to work when my kids are little. I want to be home and be present as much as I can, at least until they’re in school, you know? I know I paid a lot of money for my degree, and I love the idea of helping little kids any way I can. But…I don’t know. I guess I’m old fashioned.” Her shoulder lifts. “We’ll see, though. It’s not like I need to make any decisions anytime soon, right?”
She did it again. Turned the table. Left the ball in my court. Innocently probing for answers without showing her full hand. And maybe I should be bothered by it. By her lack of transparency when it comes to our relationship. But Ican’t. Because she’s never been wishy-washy about her feelings for me. Not in the way I’ve been with her. And if she needs to continue using ambiguity to protect herself until I can make up my own mind, so be it.
“And where is this treehouse?” I ask.
Rory sits up and peeks over her shoulder to face me again. “Selfishly? In Lockwood Heights. Close to my parents.” Indecision shines in her eyes. Or maybe it’s not indecision. Maybe it’s something else. Something I can’t quite pinpoint. “And you. If I get to be selfish, I want to be close to you.”
The organ in my chest swells as I drag my fingers along her cheek, watching the dying fire dance across her skin. Go figure. She’d be the one to knock me on my ass. The one to surprise me, even after knowing her all these years. The one to tell me what she really wants despite being able to use the ambiguity I was assuming she would without any fault of her own. Yet here she is, being braver and more direct than I’d ever given her credit. “Wanna be close to you, too, Beautiful,” I rasp.
“You do?” Her hushed voice tugs at the organ behind my sternum.
“Yeah. I really do.”
And damn, if it isn’t the truth.
“So, what does this mean?” she asks.
“It means you’re moving to Lockwood Heights.”
“And my position as Poppy’s nanny?”
“Is yours for however long you want it. I support you, Rore. Completely.”
With a soft smile, she whispers, “Thank you.”
43
RORY
“Woo-hoo!” I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth as Griffin slams one of the Tornados into the glass while one of his teammates swoops in to steal the puck.
“Go! Go! Go!” My mom’s cheer mingles with the rest of her friends’ from the suite. My dad has the box reserved for every home game, and it gets plenty of use. But this time? This time, it’s packed to the brim.
Scooting her glasses along the bridge of her nose, Dylan screams beside me, “Come on, Ollie! You got this! Get over there!”
“Hold me, hold me!” Parker, her youngest, chants.
Without tearing her focus from her husband on the ice, Dylan bends down and scoops up her child, balancing him on her hip before pointing to the flash of black and gold near the blue line while the rest of the kids run around the suite like they own it. “Say, ‘go, Daddy, go!” she tells him.
