The door closest to the stairs cracks open and Noah emerges, followed by his dog, who darts down the stairs.
“What’s in there?” I ask as he shuts the door behind him.
“It’s the primary bedroom. Here.” He holds out his hand, dropping four red pills into my palm. “Eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen. This should help you sleep.”
I accept and swallow them dry.
Speaking of sleep… The bed in Mercer’s room is really only big enough for two people, and I don’t see him offering to take the floor again tonight.
Honestly, he and Noah did me a solid last night, letting me sleep beside Sawyer. I didn’t realize it in the moment, but they trusted me. And they prioritized my comfort, because like hell could I have slept on the floor. Or worse—in a separate room from my girl.
Tonight’s different.
Everything’s different now.
If they want to sleep with Sawyer, I’d be okay finding somewhere else to rest my head. As much as I’d love to hold my girl all night, my commitment to try isn’t just about sex. I need to be considerate of their needs and willing to share in other ways, too. Plus, I’m exhausted and in a fair amount of pain. I don’t care where I sleep tonight, as long as it’s in a real bed.
I tip my chin toward the primary. “I assume there’s a bed in there?”
“There is,” he hedges, grimacing. “But it’s off limits.”
I frown. “Why?” Despite what these guys have thought of me up until now, I’m not asking to antagonize him. I’m genuinely interested, and for some reason I don’t understand, I feel safe enough in his presence to ask questions.
He turns to the door and stares at it for a few seconds. When he turns back to me, he’s wearing a disapproving scowl that makes me feel surprisingly small.
Fuckin’ A. With a grimace, I shake my head. I didn’t mean to piss him off—
“My wife died. That was our room. That was our bed.”
Shock slams into me, sending me back a step so I bump into the wall.
He’s a widower?
How did she die? How long has she been gone?
Most importantly, does Sawyer know?
He sighs, then provides a few more crumbs of information, as if he’s read my mind. “Her name was Meg. We were college sweethearts. She died tragically and unexpectedly. And yes, Sawyer knows. If you have questions, you can ask, but not tonight. I’m exhausted, and if I fall into a grief spiral in the middle of a snowstorm, it won’t do any of us any good.”
That’s a sentiment I can appreciate.
But now I’ve made shit awkward, and fuck—I don’t know what to say. Should I offer condolences? He said point-blank he doesn’t want to talk about her right now. Which I guess is okay, but I still don’t know if I’ll have a bed to sleep in tonight.
I lean against the wall and regard him. Before I’ve thought better of it, I say, “Dead people don’t come back, ya know.”
Noah’s face twists up in anguish, and I have to look away, my chest suddenly aching.
“That’s a pretty awful thing to say.” His reply is stilted and husky, like he’s barely keeping it together.
Dammit. I should apologize. Instead, I hear myself trying to justify my slip-up. “Maybe. It’s always felt more like a hopeful promise for me.”
The more I think about it, the louder the warning bells in my head ring. If this guy is still so wrapped up in grief he’s declared an entire room of his house off limits, what sort of emotional bandwidth does he have to support and love Sawyer?
I’m tempted to double down.
But that word echoes in my head. Enough. The definition is different for everyone. Hell, the definition could even be different from day to day.
So what if he’s grieving? Who cares if he can’t be everything for her, all the time?
