“I can come by your place later instead.”
I shake my head. Roe’s worth more than that.
“We aren’t sneaking around.”
He huffs a laugh, and something eases in me just a little. We stand like that for a beat too long—close enough that it says something. Too close for it not to.
Then Jamie comes barreling back down the sidewalk. “Roe!”
Roe braces to catch the impact of twelve-year-old hockey player, a practiced move now. Jamie wraps his arms around Roe’s shoulders like he never left.
I get caught up in the look in Roe’s eye that says if I was cool with it, he would kiss the hell out of me right now.
With a sure hand, I reach out and tuck a stray hair behind his ear. The look on his face makes my knees weak.
And just like that, the tension softens. Or maybe shifts. It’s still there—coiled under my skin—but Jamie buffers it with his easy joy, like he doesn’t know what the town is whispering.
I let Monroe go and gesture toward my truck, watching the sunset play off his skin.
“How about a ride, Monroe?”
Chapter fifteen
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Riley Novak: Saw Roe Monroe and Gabe Thatcher walking downtown last night. Together. Talking close. Real close.
Patti Jensen: That wasn’t talking. That was soft smiling. Soft. SMILING. Thatcher.
Stan Gordon: You’re all going to have to back off and let them find their way.
I end up staying the night. Somehow.
I wake up, a little disoriented by not being in my own place and not being in a hotel, but damn the bed is comfortable, the clean, still-crisp sheets sliding against me as I burrow deeper into the incredible way the pillow next to me smells.
I shift to my side and shove the pillow under my chest, feeling my morning wood turn into something more serious when I wake up enough to register that the scent is Thatcher’s.
With a groan, I burrow deeper still, only shooting a hand out to find my phone on the nightstand. I have way overslept—8:30 a.m.—which is the longest I can remember sleeping in since rehab.
Pulling my face out of the Thatcher-scented pillow, I notice the quiet of the house, the lingering smell of coffee, and something else I can’t quite place. Thatcher’s house always smells of vanilla and fresh wood, so the scent I can’t place must have been breakfast for him and Jamie.
Last night I practically fell asleep when I made the mistake of sitting on the couch after eating soup Thatch had made. I was just so damn comfortable. Thatcher’s house is like home—warm and relaxing—and the lack of sleep from being on the road caught up with me. I can remember Thatcher’s voice low in my ear, and him pulling me to my feet and putting me to bed.
I snuggle down further in Thatcher’s king-size bed. Maybe it’s bigger than that. I could sprawl out and so could he with plenty of room.
The sound of quick footsteps comes from the staircase, and I hear the door open.
“See you, Dad!” Jamie calls loud enough I can hear it perfectly, and Thatcher’s reply, at a normal volume, is muffled. Then the front door closes.
Pulling myself out of the bed is a slog, but the thought of Thatcher’s scent on Thatcher’s skin, and his warm body next to mine is enough of an incentive. I rush through my morning essentials, surprised to see my leather toiletry bag in his bathroom until hazy memories surface of being half asleep while he asked me if I needed to take any medication and him placing a toothbrush in my hand last night.
I head toward the kitchen, and Thatcher looks over his shoulder from his stool at the island when I turn the corner.
“Hey,” he says, standing up, and I pull him to me, wrapping my arms around him.
His breath catches on my ear.
