Page 40 of The Art of Being Merry
I need him . . .
Ugh.
After all Dax’s done for us today, I simply can’t kick him out now that his job is completed. Now that our perfectly imperfect Christmas tree is standing upright in the stand and the branches prepared to fall into their positions. At least the pine scent is more overbearing than Dax’s. I’m taking every little win I can, no matter how insignificant.
But yeah, he needs to leave. He needs to take his handsome, cocky, sweet-ass self and walk out the door. Mostly before I beg him for something I have no right even asking for. No matter my desire for Dax, it’s inappropriate and a colossal mistake.
Even for me.
While I’ve been busying myself with cleaning up the dinner dishes I neglected when it was time to leave earlier, he’s been tinkering with the tree in the stand, making sure it’s perfect. He can’t help inserting himself into the project, taking over. In this case, I’m allowing it. I wasn’t kidding when I told him I had next to zero desire to shop for the tree, let alone do everything needed to get it inside and set up. And now, he’ll be here to help decoratetomorrow as well, something else that has the butterflies in my abdomen flipping with delight.
Long as he doesn’t mess with my ideas for how the lights will go on.
In case he feels the need to voice his opinions, I might put them on before he gets here.
Sure, in my spare time.
“Well, I guess my job here is done.” Dax’s comment breaks through my trance, pulling me out of my head and back to the present.
Jace throws his arms around Dax’s legs. “Thank you.” His gratitude is genuine, and I love that he feels comfortable with another adult male. Doesn’t hurt it’s Dax.
Dax musses his hair and taps his back, not put off in the slightest about my kid’s need for a hug. He welcomes it, another thing I love for Jace. “Sure thing, Jinglebug. Happy to help.”
Jinglebug. Gah. Could that be any cuter for Jace? And the way he calls AtlasAcealso pulls on my heartstrings. If I let myself get sucked into it too far, I’ll be a mess.
“Yeah, thanks,” Atlas says, observing their interaction from a distance. He holds his hand out, and Dax doesn’t question it, instead placing his hand in my son’s as if it’s a business transaction. My heart squeezes at how he follows their lead, indulging each of their requests on their terms.
Keith wouldn’t have even acknowledged their appreciation.
Gah. I have to stop comparing Dax to my ex. It’s not a healthy way to pass the time.
I’ve already expressed my gratitude to Dax, but the boys don’t know that, so I say, “Thank you for this evening, Dax. Your help has been very helpful.” A wordsmith I am not.
He snickers. “Glad I could help.” Is it me, or is there an undercurrent of . . . something in the way he emphasizes help? Probably me.
“We’ll see you tomorrow. Text me when you’re on your way, and I’ll make sure dinner is ready when you get here.”
“I’m not the guy who needs to sit down to a hot dinner the minute he walks through the door.”
His implication is clear, though it’s odd in the context of our relationship.
“Noted” is all I can say.
“Night, Clementine.”
The way he uses my whole name—probably on purpose; he seems like that kind of guy—might be one of the sexiest things about him. It shouldn’t affect me the way it does, but I can’t help the emotions flooding me every time.
“Night, Dax. Thanks again.”
He tips his imaginary hat. “My pleasure.” He zips up his coat and vanishes through the front door.
It takes about five full minutes for my heart rate to regulate before I announce, “Shower time.” Atlas doesn’t even suggest doing it on his own, even though I would have given in tonight. But since I don’t have to, I help them get in together, making sure they’re all washed before they get out, all the while my mind replaying this entire night on a loop.
“That meal was delicious, Clementine.” Dax pats his stomach, selling his appreciation. His tone is sincere, and I don’t question the fact he enjoyed it. Not when he heartily ate two large servings, moaning through some bites, the sound almost making me come at the table.
In front of my boys.
Totes inappropriate on every level.
