Page 32 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
She sighs and the warmth of it teases my skin. “Anyway, I caught up to Im and we had a good talk. She’s pretty homesick, but she’s easy to redirect.”
I can tell she’s leaving out details, and there’s a tornado of urgent thoughts twisting in my mind—a beautiful woman who is standing so close that her candy scent is driving me crazy, a homesick daughter, and one stupid, stupid dog. I respond to the easiest of the three, fully distracted by the woman in front of me. “I’m sorry Hairy did this to you. I’ll find a kennel for her,” I say offhandedly.
“Aw, you can’t do that. Hairy was only worried about Imogen. That’s why she took off after her, I think. She was doing her dog job.” Sunny tilts her head to the side, leaning into my hand. “And Imogen relies on her a lot. I’ve been watching them. She’s like an emotional support animal for your daughter. She’s tuned in to her moods and calms her down.”
Huh. I haven’t noticed that. I always just thought of her as the big, dopey family dog. I had one of those growing up—an Irish setter named Fisher who was even dopier than Hairy, if that’s possible. His favorite pastime was to dig my boxer shorts out of the laundry and eat them. I’ve held Hairy to a Fisher expectation level. I guess I need to pay closer attention to her. It’s something to think about at another time. Like, when Sunny isn’t standing twelve inches away from me wearing those risqué glasses.
“All right. The dog can stay, but she’ll be receiving a harsh lecture from me in the morning,” I grumble.
Her voice lulls like she’s falling asleep where she stands, held up by my hand. “Every time I lecture Hairy, your daughter reminds me that she can’t understand me.” Her dark lashes flutter, and the breath from her soft laughter tickles my wrist.
Did she just fall asleep upright? I’m a human male. This is too much. I squeeze my eyes closed and release a slow breath. I count backwards from ten. Nothing helps. She needs to go home. Now.
“You have goosebumps,” she murmurs, tracing a line down my forearm with her fingertip.
Her voice almost shatters my weak effort at self-control. I wrap my free hand around her wrist, holding it in place. If she keeps doing that, whatever remains of my logic and restraint will evaporate. I search her big, brown eyes with mine. She’s blinking. Nervous. Questioning. And way too pure for a guy like me.
I can’t do this. I’m going to be strong this time.You’re Indiana Jones, you absolute turnip-for-brains.
“Have a good night, Sunny.”
I pull my hand away from her face and turn the doorknob.
13. Sunny’s Worst Nightmare
Istarted crying in my car, somewhere in between Anders’ suite and home. I don’t know why—probably a combination of exhaustion and pent-up frustration. There are a hundred things flying through my brain, all making the tears unstoppable. Micah Watson has been in the same county as me this week and I have had exactly one sighting.
On top of that, I can’t have what I’ve been pretending for my entire life that I don’t want. Since I was a teenager I’ve known that I can’t have kids. I think I’ve made peace with it. But not only is Imogen a daily reminder of everything that I’ve been talking myself out of for thirteen years, she’s exactly the kind of kid I would want—if I could have one.
Then, the cherry on top of this pathetic sundae is Anders. The man is nothing like I expected. I know he wanted to touch me tonight. He’s pretty easy to read. And in a reassuring, but unwelcome, display of self-control he didn’t make a single move. He was a perfect gentleman. He’s another thing I thought I didn’t want, which—SURPRISE—Idowant. Very much. And I can’t have him, either.
Pity party for one?
In thismental state, all I’m certain of is that life is categorically unfair and I need every minute of sleep I can get before my alarm goes off in—I check the time on my phone—six hours. Now I’m really bawling. I push through the door and stumble into the entryway, kicking off my sandals and dumping my bag on the floor.
“Sunny? Are you okay?” My mom is tucked under a quilt on the couch with a thick book in her hand.
“Mom?” I ask, just as my brain registers my mom’s cinnamon clove air freshener and the fact that I’m standing in her foyer.
Oh, lovely. I drove to my mom’s house. Again. I made the short commute from the resort to our family home so many times as a teenager, especially after working the late shift in the dining room, that I’m ashamed to say this isn’t the first time I’ve ended up here on autopilot.
“Ugh.” I shove my feet back into my shoes, and the tears ratchet up about ten notches. My face is going to be a swollen mess tomorrow if I don’t get this under control. I’m grumbling about all that is wrong with the world when I swipe my bag from the floor.
Probably for the best, my mother stops me before I can drive home in this state. She wraps me in one of her all-encompassing hugs and my entire being sighs with relief. Her familiar lavender scent reminds me that my world is not ending. There is hope. Mom is here.
She pulls away to look at me. “You’re exhausted. Sleep here. I’ll find out what happened to your face in the morning over birthday waffles.”
“Dog.” It’s the only explanation I have the energy for. I drop into my favorite armchair. My eyes are already closed. I didn’t quite make it to my old bedroom. “And I can’t do birthday waffles because they’re shooting early tomorrow and I have to wake up in like forty-five minutes.” I’m exaggerating, I know. I tend to bring the drama when I’m sleep deprived. This is why I’m usually such a stickler about my schedule. I prefer to be of sound mind.
“We canmake it work. What time do you really have to be there in the morning for Imogen?” That’s my mom, always coming at me with logic and reasonable questions.
“Six.”
“Tell you what. Get some rest. In the morning you can pick up Imogen and bring her here for birthday waffles. I’ll even keep an eye on her so you can take a nap. Sound good?” She pulls me to my feet. “You can’t miss birthday waffles. That’s a crime.”
The tears won’t stop. I will never be as good at life as my mother. She opened a successful resort that has brought rejuvenation and happiness to hundreds upon hundreds of our guests, all while raising five children. The bar is so high, I’ll need an Olympic-sized trampoline to reach it. I’ll never have a family to take care of anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter. When I tell her as much, she frowns and chuckles at the same time.
“You really are tired. You’ve been pushing too hard for too many weeks. I’m dragging you to your room now.”
