Page 89 of Make Mine Sweet
His utter confidence—in himself, in me—lifts my heart like a bird in flight. It’s new to flying and its wings are shaky, but it’s still up there, doing its thing. I want to lose myself in this moment, maybe let it develop into something more. But I can’t.
I pull back. “I hate to tell you this…”
“I smell like puke?” His mouth slanting into another smile sends my wobbly heart-bird even higher. “I know. I snuck next door to get a fresh shirt, but I need to shower.”
“You cleaned everything up already?” I try to peek past him as though I’ll spot a tell-tale puddle somewhere.
“I’m offended that you think I would leave it for you to handle.”
He can’t be too offended. He’s still got me snuggled up in his arms. “I’m grateful you didn’t, if that helps.”
“Depends on how grateful.”
My traitor eyes focus on his mouth. Even though I was just thinking I wanted to finally take a risk and lean in…I can’t. I’m standing here wrapped in his warm arms, and he gave me the perfect opportunity, but those last few inches between us feel like oceans.
“Very,” is all I manage. Not flirty. Not bold. Barely even lukewarm.
He tightens his arms a fraction. “You’ll be busy with August the rest of the day. What do you say to a movie marathon in between checks? Keep your mind from spiraling.”
“I didn’t say I was spiraling.” I had a toe on the line, though.
He gently sweeps a lock of hair away from my forehead. “Maybe it’s for both of us.”
He’s been worried, too? He hasn’t shown it. I love his confidence, but I love this hint of softness even more.
“I can leave you to handle it if you want me to,” he says when I stay silent too long.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
He nods like everything’s been decided. “I’ll order us something for dinner later. You just focus on August. And my movies.”
“Is it going to be all Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
His smile quirks up. “You read my mind.”
He leans closer to kiss my forehead, pausing whole seconds in that sweet gesture. Then he releases me and steps toward the door. “I’ll be back.”
I point a finger gun at him. “Predator.”
His thunderstruck expression tells me I might have got that wrong.
“Angel, no. That’s…” He runs a hand over his forehead like he’s trying to keep the exasperation in. “We’re going to have a serious talk about this one day.”
I wish I could save myself here, but I have minimal knowledge of his favorite actor. “I don’t watch those kinds of movies.”
“You don’t have to watch it to know the quote. There’s a whole cultural lexicon aroundThe Terminator—” He lifts a hand in the air. “Never mind. We’ll discuss later. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
He leaves me reeling from him using the phrase “cultural lexicon.” Calm in medical situations, has a soft spot for my child, and well read. This pirate is the whole package.
I check in on August. He’s already asleep, his pale hair stuck to his sweaty face, one hand on the dog’s neck. Dutch’s eyes shift my way, and his tail slaps against the bed a few times, but he doesn’t move from his cuddle spot.
I grab the monitors off August’s dresser, double-checking his numbers haven’t sunk too low yet. I take everything with me into the living room and collapse onto the couch. Then, I have to check my own phone.
Wren: How’s A?
Mom: Please give an update on August when you can.
Mom: Take tomorrow off. Wren & I can cover for you.
