I should regret last night. The way I held her. The way we almost crossed a line neither of us can uncross. But lying here in the predawn gray, all I can think about is how her breath caught when my thumb traced her jaw. How close I came to tasting her mouth.
How much I want to do it again.
Downstairs, the kitchen hums with Wright family chaos. Jim's making pancakes. Emma's refereeing a debate between Connor and Maisie about syrup quantities. The coffee maker gurgles.
Lucy stands at the counter wrapping gifts, scissors and tape and ribbon spread around her. Green sweater, hair in a messy bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. When she reaches for the tape dispenser, the sweater rides up. I catch the curve of her lower back and have to look away before Connor notices where my attention lands.
"Morning," I manage.
She glances up. Our eyes lock. Pink floods her cheeks and I know she's thinking about last night. About my hands cupping her face. About how close we came before I stopped.
"Hi." Her voice has that breathy quality that goes straight to my groin.
I take the chair diagonally from her because sitting directly across feels dangerous. Our knees still bump under the table. Neither of us moves away.
"Sleep okay?" Emma asks, pouring coffee.
"Fine," Lucy says too fast.
"No," I say at the same time.
Connor's gaze ping-pongs between us. His eyes narrow. "You two are acting weird."
"We're not weird," Lucy protests. She picks up her coffee mug, takes a sip, makes a face. Looks down at the floating ribbons she apparently dropped in without noticing.
"Not weird at all," Emma says, hiding her grin behind her own mug.
Lucy fishes out the ribbons with two fingers, cheeks flaming. I focus on my pancakes before Connor's suspicion sharpens into certainty. But I feel her gaze on me. Feel the pull like gravity.
Breakfast stretches into torture. Lucy reaches for the syrup and her sweater pulls tight. I remember how she felt pressed against me last night. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and I remember my fingers itching to do the same thing. She licks maple syrup off her thumb and I nearly choke on my orange juice.
"Uncle Ryder?" Maisie tugs my sleeve. "Can you read me a story?"
Thank god for three-year-olds and their perfect timing.
I follow her to the living room, settle on the couch with her curled against my side. She hands me a worn copy ofThe Snowy Dayand I start reading. Her small hand rests on my arm, thumb finding her mouth as she listens.
Lucy appears in the doorway with laundry. She stops when she sees us. Something soft crosses her face. Tender and wanting and so clear that my chest tightens.
She sets the basket down and joins us on the couch, close enough that her thigh presses against mine. Neither of us acknowledges the contact. Neither of us moves away.
When the story ends, Maisie demands another. Then another. By the third book, she's asleep against my shoulder, breathing soft and even.
"You're good with her," Lucy whispers.
"She's easy."
"She doesn't fall asleep on just anyone." Lucy tucks the blanket around Maisie. Her fingers brush my arm. "She trusts you."
The words hit deeper than they should. Trust. Something I haven't earned in a long time. Something I'm not sure I deserve.
Lucy's phone lights up on the side table. She glances at the screen, and her expression shifts. Goes tight.
"Everything okay?"
"It's Jessica from the hospital fundraiser board. I should..." She carefully extracts herself from the couch. "I'll be right back."
She disappears into the kitchen. I stay on the couch with Maisie sleeping against me, listening to the murmur of Lucy's voice. Can't make out words, but I hear the shift in tone. The worry.
