Page 84 of Make Mine Sweet
“Angel?”
I open my eyes to find Ian hovering over me, one hand lightly touching my shoulder.
“I guess I fell asleep.” I stretch like a cat across the couch and sit up again. “I didn’t snore, did I?”
“Tiny bit.”
“Ugh.” I drag my palms over my face. “You’re not supposed to know about that yet.”
His eyebrows hitch up to his hairline.
Clearly, coming home from work was a bad idea all around. With any luck, I’m still asleep, and this is just a nightmare. I lightly pinch my forearm. Nothing.
“I meant to say at all. Ever. You will never know about that.” Definitely making things better, Tess.
He holds a hand out to me. Reluctantly, I slip mine into his, and he helps pull me to standing. We are way too close like this, practically pressed together, but he doesn’t back away.
“I can live withyet,” he says. “Come on. Dinner’s ready.”
My thrill over the promising possibility of yet is tempered by the reminder I’m behind schedule. “I have to give August an insulin bolus for his meal first.”
“Already did it. Double checked his numbers and plugged in the values.”
“Oh. Thank you.” August’s blood glucose numbers are the never-ending background noise in my head. Sometimes, they’re accompanied by alarms, both figurative and literal. Too high, too low, pump out of insulin, one of the cannulas has come loose—no day is ever completely free of a minor complication.
The best days, they’reonlyminor.
He tilts his head to the side. “August did it all, anyway. I just supervised.”
We go into the kitchen, which has undergone a miraculous transformation. The supplies from their baking extravaganza have been put away, the surfaces shiny and pristine. The only evidence of their afternoon fun is the plastic container full of cookies on the counter.
“Wow. It looks better in here than it did when I left this morning.”
He side-eyes me. “That’s because I got a solid five minutes of work out of my helper.”
“Told you.”
He leads me through the open back door to the patio table, already laid out with our dinner. There’s a fat, juicy hamburger topped with a slice of cheese on each plate, condiments, and a bowl of watermelon chunks in the center of the table.
August sits in his chair, his plate already served up. “I watched Dutch! He didn’t sneak a bite.”
The dog’s right next to the table, eyes locked on the food like a fluffy shark waiting to strike.
“You did good, kid.” Ian ruffles August’s hair as he passes him.
This can’t be the same man who glared at us when we first pulled up to the duplex a few weeks ago. Yet here he sits, ready to eat a meal he made for us after spending all day with August. He’s not fully smiling, but the slant to his mouth tells me he’s inching closer.
Inching closer. I don’t mind the theme.
August tells me about his day while we eat. My kid loves a good recap. He goes into detail about the games they played, the Lego buildings they made, the stories Ian read to him.
I’m sorry I missed that part…and also should probably never see it again. Watching August snuggle up in Ian’s lap last night was like a too-tight bear hug—cozy and warm, but it left me hurting in unexpected places, too. Everything I want mixed with everything I’m afraid of.
And the silly voices? I had no idea a man reading tongue-twister rhymes in an affected British accent would be so attractive.
“Ian, what’s your favorite kind of cake?” August asks, switching gears.
Ian seems to need a second to catch up. “Lemon, I guess.”
