When he finally came in, he smelled faintly of beer—the good stuff Crow had thrown in the basket—and lemon chicken.
I stared at the bedside clock—an old-fashioned, wind-up thing with glow-in-the-dark squares painted at the tips of the hands and above each number on the face. It was three a.m.
Late. Too late for a job.
This was the quiet fear. That what he was hiding wasn’t a what, but a who. That he had found someone else.
My mind, my logical detective, crime-solving mind, went through tonight’s evidence. Other than the hour, there was no reason for me to think he had been out with someone else. I didn’t smell perfume on him, didn’t smell alcohol other than the beer.
Except he’d showered, hadn’t he? And not in our shower where I might smell cologne, not in our shower where I might see his clothing in disarray.
No, well, yes. That was all true. It was also pretty paranoid, and there was little to back it up. If he’d been worried about me seeing his clothing, he would have started a load when he was in the laundry room.
So what did I know?
He was working a job out of town. He came home sweaty and tired and sore. There was mud on the boots he loved, and half the time his hair was plastered to his head from sweating under a hard hat.
He was working. That much I knew.
But no one worked a construction site this late at night. Certainly not the architect-slash-foreman.
Even catching up with paperwork shouldn’t keep him this late.
Something was going on. Something was probably wrong.
I knew that.
What I didn’t know was why he didn’t want to talk to me about it.
Spud thumped his tail again, but the dragon didn’t bother opening its eyes this time. Ryder softly greeted the dog, then used thecomecommand to get Spud to move down to the foot of the bed where he was supposed to sleep.
Where he slept when Ryder was home.
Before obeying, Spud got up and waited for pets and scritches, both of which included Ryder gently crooning what a good boy he was and the muted jangling of Spud’s tags.
With Spud settled, Ryder just stood there, maybe staring at me, maybe staring at the little blue flower pot on the window sill.
“I’m awake,” I said softly.
Ryderhmmmed. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
And this, this was familiar too. Too familiar. Time and patience were well and good, but falling into a habit—a rut—was safe. And it wouldn’t solve anything.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He tugged the blankets back and slipped between them. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts, he just scooted across the bed and curled up behind me. Warmer than Spud, the bend in his knees mimicking mine, his foot nudging under mine until our ankles were all tangled up.
His hand slid down my shoulder, rested on my hip, as if testing cold water. I shifted enough so I could lean back into him. He took the opportunity to drape his arm across my waist and slide his other arm up behind both of our heads.
I leaned my head back and just breathed, needing this, the contact, the touch. Knowing he was there, right there with me, holding me.
He bent his head so that his face was pressed in my hair. I felt him breathe me in.
“Meetings ran late. Then there was paperwork. And the client dropped in and wanted a tour. I didn’t mean for it to go so late. I tried to call. No battery.”
I waited. He breathed and breathed, then yawned. “The chicken was really good, Laney. Really good. And I was dreaming about that beer all day. Thanks.”
