Page 22 of The Art of Being Merry
I hit the button to close the liftgate, and Willa starts her trek to the house. I wave to Beckett standing on the porch. When she reaches him, he takes the bags from her. Before going inside, he sets them down, bringing her into his arms, like she’s been gone for days instead of hours.
A resigned sigh expels, keeping me company the entire ride back to my house.
I leave my bags in the van because I don’t want the boys to see the presents I bought. I’ll grab them once they’re asleep.
Entering through the front door, I’m met with a sight: Dax and the boys are sitting at the table holding playing cards. A stack of discarded cards sits between them. It shouldn’t stir up emotions in me. I shouldn’t yearn for this to be a common occurrence. Regardless of who, this shouldn’t be the first time my boys are playing cards with someone who isn’t me. No matter how many times they begged their father to play with them or as a family, the asshole declined. Atlas resigned himself at five that his dad wouldn’t be a “games” dad. Jace didn’t even have a chance.
And now, here’s this practical stranger, happily—as evidenced by his heartwarming expression—playing cards on a Sunday with them. Like he has nothing in the world more pressing. Like they deserve his time and attention.
“Mama, you’re back. I missed you.” Jace runs over, barreling into my legs. I lift him into the air, burying my head in his neck to hide the tears threatening to escape. Over a freaking card game.
Man, I’m more of a mess than I give myself credit for.
“Missed you too, Jacey.” I choke out the words in his ear, hoping he can’t detect the emotion in them.
He pulls his torso back, steadying himself with his hands on my shoulders. “We saved you pizza. Did you know Dax likes the same as you?” His enthusiasm is off the charts, and it transfers to me.
When the meaning of his words fully processes, I peek around him to Dax. “Imagine that.”
He ignores my narrowed glare. “Are you hungry? I put the leftovers in the oven to warm up.”
“Famished. Shopping took a lot out of me.”
Dax glances at Atlas. “Can we take a time-out so I can get your mom lunch?”
“I can do it.” I’m so used to doing everything myself, it feels awkward not to.
I’m stopped in my tracks when Atlas says, “No, Mama.” He peers at Dax, while all I can do is watch from where I’m rooted in place. “Sure, we can take a break.”
Dax gets up from the table, walks to the oven, removes the pizza, and sets it on the counter. He puts a couple of pieces on a plate, setting it at the empty spot at the table next to him. “What can I get you to drink?”
I’m so flabbergasted, I don’t move immediately. Again, it’s a simple gesture, one that shouldn’t be this shocking. Not once would Keith have taken it upon himself to do something for me. At least not of his own accord. Yet here’s this man, who volunteered to be here, to give up time on his Sunday so I could do something nice for myself, and now he’s feeding me lunch. Lunch he ordered and had delivered on his own and had the forethought to keep warm for me.
The words Willa said earlier echo in my mind:He’s not built to be more than who he is.But right now, I’m too enthralled by his behavior to make any sort of sense about what it means. If it means anything.
“Sit.” Dax’s direct order further confuses me.
“Huh?”
He points to the table where he put the warm pizza. “Sit down, Clementine. Eat pizza. Drink whatever you want me to get you.”
I lower Jace to the ground and gape at this man who is attempting to take care of me, and all I can do is internally question his motives. Because, why? Why is he doing this? What’s in it for him?
When I don’t move fast enough for his liking, he physically walks me to the table with his hands on my shoulders.
“I don’t think you’ve said what you want to drink.”
“Water’s fine.”
Dax shakes his head. “Not what’s fine. What do you want?” He’s determined, I’ll give him that.
You.
Damn Willa for putting these stupid ideas in my head.
It makes little sense in the context of his question. I can’t drink him, but hell if my answer remains the same.
I want him. For whatever. One night, even, to experience the way he’d order me around the bedroom, because I’m going to assume that’s his style.
