He cringes and presses his head to my sternum. “No. No talk of siblings or anyone else in here.”
I grin, then arch into his touch as his mouth presses a necklace of kisses to my chest. “Okay. Sounds reasonable.”
And after that, there is no one else on my mind but Grant.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Grant
My eyes pop open at seven to the eerie quiet and a sense something is off.
It’s about three seconds before I situate myself and remember the girls are at my folks’, so it’s normal they haven’t woken me. It’s not a bad sign.
Then I sink further into my senses and melt into the moment.
Sam lies next to me, the smooth skin of her back bare and calling to me. The number of times I bit my tongue and held in so many things should mean I can hardly talk today, but I feel more declarations tripping against the roof of my mouth begging to be set free.
You’re beautiful. You’re better than I could’ve imagined. I’m in love with you but I’m worried it’s too soon to say it. You’re mine, though I know it’s too soon to say that.
And then they come—the thoughts, those insidious whispers I managed to keep at bay yesterday.
You can’t love her right. You’ll fail her eventually. She deserves more than you can give. She’s not looking for someone, let alone someone like you.
I don’t want to wake her, so I slip out of bed as slowly as I can and tug on my jeans, then pad to the kitchen as quietly as possible to get some coffee started. I don’t want to sink into anything but the bliss of being with her, but I feel the worry in my gut.
Mr. Bingley trots over and rubs against my legs.
“You ready for breakfast, buddy?”
Without knowing for sure what her morning routine is, I take a stab at it and fill his food bowl with kitty kibble, then check the fridge and find a tiny container of wet food so I dish some of that out, too.
My mind is growing heavier, my thoughts too familiar and guilt-laden as I stand in the kitchen and stare out at my own driveway from a new angle. From here, I see my cruiser parked in one spot in front of the house. There’s a bucket and two rainbow-colored trowels tucked behind a bush in the front yard—Poppy and Lil made witch’s brew from rainwater and various ingredients a few days ago after school and I guess we never got the supplies cleaned up.
The house is exactly what I wanted it to be. I don’t remember dreaming of a certain kind of home as a kid or as a young man. I focused on college, then work, then advancing in rank and position, then achieving a place in the EMU, and finally, transitioning back here like my life depended on it.
Because it had. And so had Lily’s and Poppy’s.
Before them, I’d been dragging my feet on settling down. The time would come, but I wasn’t in a rush. I wasalways going to return to JV, always going to get back to occupying the in-town role as oldest son to Mary and Connor Ryan, but I wanted those twenty years in the military. I wanted the service, the meaning, the work. I loved it.
I didn’t love Michelle. Not enough, at least. And I can see how wrong it would’ve been for her to stay and let the girls get attached to her only to have us fall apart.
My mom helped me dream up this place. She never got to design her house since she and my dad have always lived in the Ryan family homestead house, as it’s fondly known, but she’s responsible for a great deal of designs here in Juniper View and beyond.
When we moved in, I wondered how long it’d take until it felt like home. We’d crash-landed at the homestead until this place was finished and I worried it’d feel utterly empty without my folks around. We had our moments of friction, but their support had kept me afloat. So having a house all to ourselves was nothing short of daunting.
Then I realized, by the time we got settled, it already did. The girls and I had been together eighteen months at that point and though everything else felt upside down here and there,theydidn’t.
Thank God, andfinally, they didn’t.
Being there with them felt like home.
And now, standing in bare feet sipping coffee with sounds of Mr. Bingley crunching on his breakfast and knowing Sam is dozing in bed, where I’ve just come from?
Damn if that doesn’t feel like home, too.
I want this in a way that is foreign to me. I didn’t choose the girls, though I would over and over again now. I didn’t really choose to leave the Army, though again, it was the right call and I can’t regret what it gave all of us.
But this? With Sam? There’s a bitter kind of crueltyhere in saying I choose Sam but it’s quite possible Ishouldn’t.
