Page 53 of The Art of Being Merry
At some point, I’m sure you become immune to them. Though I’m not sure when. Because I still fall for Shania’s, and she’s fifteen. As the “fun uncle,” it’s my duty to make sure she gets what she wants. Within Autumn’s and my wallet’s limits.
“Dax might be busy,” Clementine tries.
“He’s not,” Atlas supplies.
“Of course, you’d know he’s not.” Atlas nods, not picking up on her clues. “Dax, would you like to join us for lunch?”
“I’d be honored.”
16
clem
Just another sharedmeal with Dax Nicholas.
No biggie.
“Dax likes burgers.”Of course, Atlas wormed the information out of Dax. It’s what he does best lately, especially with the man I shouldn’t be thinking about.
The man who invades my dreams, and my waking hours, too.
A man who could destroy me if I let him.
Which I can’t. Because it’s not aboutmeanymore. It’s about being there for my boys, meeting their basic needs, providing a life they deserve.
I can’t let thoughts of Dax derail this new life I’m forging here in Winterberry Junction. I have to stand on my own two feet.
I’m thinking these thoughts as if Dax would even be into me. Like he’d give me the time of day. As if he’d be a man I could count on.
Sure, he’s been so good to us the past few weeks, but bringing some meals, babysitting for a few hours, helping with a few chores around the house doesn’t make?—
I cut the thinking off. As far as the experiences I’ve had with men—okay, Keith might be one of only two—he’s gone above and beyond. He’s spent more time interacting with my kids than their father has in all of Jace’s life. Sure, that’s a gross exaggeration, buthe’s been there for them. He’s made them smile, made sure they were fed with foods they like, heck, even bought them ornaments for our tree.
And now he’s back at our house again, curled up on the couch, one kid on each side of him, and the image is wreaking havoc on every part of me.
This is what a Sunday afternoon should be like. This is what the boys are missing out on.
Nope. I can’t beat myself up. They’re healthy, they’re loved, they’re thriving. What more can I ask for?
In the middle of my mental freak-out, Dax enters the kitchen, taking a seat at the table where I’m finishing prepping the burgers.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yep,” I answer quickly. Too quickly, with the way his brow raises. “Yes.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
His question has my gaze leveling him.
Do I want him to leave? No, and therein lies the problem.
“What makes you ask that?” I try to keep my tone steady, but I’m not sure how successful I am.
“You seem upset. Trying to puzzle out in my mind what’s causing it, and all I can come up with is me intruding on your lunch.” His voice is so candid, his words so heartfelt, my fingers pause in the meat mixture. His caramel gaze is watchful, assessing my every action.
“It’s not you.” Again with the brow raise. “It’s not.” I’m not sure how to explain this to him when I can’t put it into words myself. “It’s just, what’s your endgame here? Why are you doing all these nice things for the boys? For us? For me?”
His fingers tousle his hair, and I have to tamp down the urge to add mine to the mix. Instead, I continue combining the ingredients for the burgers.
