“Cory? What the fuck?” He disappears again then the door is flung open, light spilling out into the garden. Wearing Ugg boots on his feet, sweats, a Boston B’s jersey, and brandishing a hockey stick as a weapon, he places one hand on the opposite door jam, blocking the door with his massive frame. It’s so fucking adorable I can’t stop myself from smiling.
“Hey, James. Sorry?—”
“Hey James. Hey James? What the hell, Cory. You almost knock my door down in the middle of the night after I explicitly told you to stay away, then give me,Hey James.”
Not sure why he did my voice like the Fat Comptroller from Thomas the Tank Engine, but it’s best not to mention that now. Can’t seem to stop myself saying this, though. “The middle of the night? It’s not even seven.”
It’s quite possible this will be my last night on earth.
“Did you come here to give me shit, or is there something you want? You’ve got seconds to tell me or this stick is going to become very closely acquainted with your prostate and your tonsils.”
Protectively, my butt-hole clenches around itself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I do need to talk to you about something really intense, and I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Actually I did, but I wanted to talk to you.”
“Why me?”
Yeah, Cory. Why him?“The truth is I don’t know why. I just … I mean, I want to talk to you all the time.” James inhales, and tilts his head to the side, like a big, burly puppy. When he says nothing, I add, “But especially now.”
There’s every chance he’s going to step back and slam the door in my face, and I’m readying myself for that, while hoping to god that’s not how this goes. When he doesn’t, I inch closer.
“It’s the bank. They’ve foreclosed. They’re taking Mom’s house.” James’ eyes soften before my own.
“Dylan and I are making pancakes for dinner. You hungry?”
James’gaze flicks back and forth between me and his plate. Ignoring it, I shovel another fluffy into my mouth and smile. His expression has been fixed since Dylan pulled out a seat and pushed me into it. Obviously he’s not comfortable with me being here, but why ask me inside to eat if you’re just going to sit and glare at me? We haven’t got to why I’m here yet, and despite the awkwardness, it’s a bit of a relief. Staring or no staring, a semi-peaceful family meal is what I need right now.
I’m not family, of course, but still.
“These are great, Dyl. You’ll have to give me the recipe.”
“There isn’t one,” James replies gruffly. “He does it all from memory. I’ve tried to jot it down as he goes, but they taste like rubber whenever I’ve tried.” Again he studies me, eyes narrowed and slightly twitching. It’s unnerving to say the least. If he’s going to yell at me, I’d rather just get it done with.
Maybe I should just ask what the deal is. Clearing my throat, I do just that.
“Apart from the whole you not wanting me here thing, is there something wrong? You keep looking at me like I’ve shot your puppy.”
“That’s Dad’s chair.” Words explode from his chest in a gulp of air like he’s been held underwater. “He hasn’t let anyone sit there since Dad died. Not me. Not Faith. Not even Cleo.”
I almost tread on the aforementioned cat as I leap to my feet. “I’m so sorry. I’ll move.”
“No!” James reaches over the table and manages to snag the hem of my shirt and hold me in place. “Please, you don’t have to. It’s just a shock. He’s …” James pauses, eyes beading with tears, “for every meal for almost six months, he’s watched the chair like he’s waiting for Dad to walk in. And the face thing, the touching. That’s always been reserved for me, Faith and Dad. That’s it. Then here you come, meeting him what? A couple of times, and he just lets you in. He has the most pure, beautiful heart, and he trusts you. That means something to me, Cub.”
I gasp so loud it should be embarrassing. “You called me, Cub. You haven’t done that since?—”
I don’t have the chance to finish that sentence. James stands, fists more of my shirt and drags me onto his body. “You mean something to me.” Trembling, he rests his forehead against mine. With three deep, shattered breaths, I inhale his always fresh, clean, man scent that’s mixed with maple syrup and bacon to create the most heavenly thing any nostril has ever smelled. “You came here to talk to me about your family. I’ve been rude. I’m sorry. I was just … Will you stay? I just have to do Dyl’s routine, and then maybe we can talk.”
“No,” I say way too quickly resulting in James’ pretty pout emerging.
“Oh. Sorry I?—”
“No, no, I mean, yes. How about I stay, we do the routine together, andthenwe talk.”
Exhaling slowly, he smiles. “Yeah.” Then nods, before placing a kiss on my nose that feels so intimate I shiver. “Together. That sounds perfect.”
I’m essentially a professional athlete,but by the time Dylan is snoozing, I’m tempted to roll him out of bed and snuggle in the warm spot he leaves behind.
“Fuck, Jamie,” I say as we descend the first set of stairs, pass through the kitchen, then down again to the basement. “I’m starting to understand why you look so grumpy all the time. You’re not moody, you’re exhausted.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.” Pulling me down with him, he flops onto the tiny sofa pushed up against the wall. There’s no lights on down here other than a tiny almost nightlight plugged in at the foot of the stairs, meaning like the nose kiss, it’s insanely intimate.
