“Is massive, is actually what I was going to say. And special.”
She beams, and what is it about her? Why am I drawn to her wide smile and mossy green eyes and adorable, short, curvy body? She’s everything I should never notice but seem to more and more.
I nod and move on, watching as she moves efficiently around the kitchen while I start setting the table, pouring milk for Zoey and hitting up Micha’s extensive wine fridge for myself and Skylar because I could use a glass—or six—of wine tonight, and I bet Skylar could too.
It’s easier when I dislike her. So much easier. So, for now, I pour us some red wine and start sipping on it and try not to think beyond that. But she brushes past me. It’s innocent. A nothing of a move. Except with it comes her hair beneath my face, the soft texture tickling my chin, and her scent hits me like a bullet.
Before I know what the fuck I’m actually doing, I grab her arm, spin her around, set my glass of wine down so I can cup her face, and then I kiss her. Thankfully, some fucking intelligence and rational thought hit me at the last second, andinstead of her mouth, I move to her cheek right at the corner of her lips.
She startles against me, but I hold her steady, not increasing the kiss or even moving, but breathing and fucking smelling and just feeling her. It’s been two years since I’ve felt this, and it’s as perfect as it was that night. Only tonight I’m not drunk, and I have no excuse for what I’m doing, so I pull back and pick up my wine and create some distance.
She stares up at me, a million questions in her eyes. “For Zoey,” I manage even though my tongue feels impossibly thick in my mouth. “For the fairy lights and the drawing and making dinner and just giving her some peace and normality.” I swallow. “I just… thank you.”
She gives me a small, uncertain nod, but thankfully, my impulsivity dies there. “It’s hot. We’re ready.” Her voice is low. Quiet. She throws me an eye. “The salad is in the fridge. Can you grab it?”
“Sure. Absolutely.” Fuck! Why the fuck did I fucking kiss her?
We settle at the table, Zoey chattering about preschool and her new friend Maci, who has two moms and a turtle named Bob. Skylar asks about pets and favorite weekend activities and if she likes museums, because there’s a museum of ice cream in Boston and she’s anxious to go.
I listen. I nod and smile and eat.
But there’s no escaping it. Skylar is spending time with my child. I’m spending time with Skylar. We’re spending time together, the three of us. This is exactly what I need to avoid. Complication. Attachment. Vulnerability when I need to be strong for Zoey.
Skylar isn’t going to be permanent. Which means she needs to go. And not just from this house. But from all the other places she’s starting to creep into.
12
SKYLAR
Ireally need a haircut, but honestly, who has time for that? I shift my part around, only to settle on putting it up into a high ponytail. I’m nervous, which is ridiculous. I’m only looking at apartments, not being auctioned off to the highest bidder and forced into an arranged marriage. Though that’s pretty hot and sexy in my books, so maybe… argh! I’m a mess. Looking doesn’t have to equal buying, and I might find something that I love.
I don’t know why I’m freaking out. Something just feels off today.
My mom was supposed to join me this morning, but she ended up driving out to my grandparents’ compound along with all of my uncles to talk Fritz family business. She asked that I postpone this for another day or do it tomorrow on Sunday, but I just want to get the ball rolling and don’t want to put it off.
Aston has been cold and keeping his distance from me since I made lasagna and hung out with Zoey a couple of nights ago. Well, since the almost kiss. And right on cue, my stomachflutters. It happens every damn time I think about it or replay it in my head.
I appreciate him being distant after that, and it’s been fine. What I want actually, and what I tried to do for the full week we were living together before that, but instead of making things easier, it’s felt more strained. Maybe that’s just me since I seem to be the only one feeling the tension, but it’s another reason to go sooner rather than later.
I smear on a coat of pink lipstick and ignore the churning of my stomach as the smell of coffee, bacon, and French toast wafts its way up to my room. My stomach is off this morning, like the rest of me, and I know it’s just those nerves, but even the idea of coffee is off-putting.
The doorbell rings and I jump. Shit. How did it get this late? I run and open my door to ask Aston to get the door, but I hear the heavy stomps of his feet, so I take the extra second and shove a few last-minute items into my large, gray leather purse, slip into my Monroe leather boots, and fly out the door to the stairs when I hear Aston talking with my realtor.
“I’m here for Skylar Davenport,” he says. “I’m Elliot Abernathy.”
“Good for you. Is she expecting you?”
“Yes. Of course she is.”
“I doubt that. She hasn’t come down for coffee yet, and she never misses coffee.”
“Um. Well. I don’t know what to say to that other than she’s expecting me.”
“I’m coming,” I call out as I hit the bottom step and walk over to the door. Aston turns, and his eyes widen when he sees me before they drag up and down my body. By the time they reach my face, they’ve narrowed, and his features have hardened and turned almost accusatory. I blow past him and greet Elliot. “Hi. Thanks for coming to pick me up. It’s lovely to see you.”
“You too.” He glances over at Aston on my right, who’s only wearing a white T-shirt and flannel pants with an old-school Rebels hat on his head, his hair annoyingly sexy as it tickles out from the bottom of it. Though I think that last observation is only mine. His gaze snaps back to mine. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes. Let me grab my coat.”
