He lets out a long scoff. It’s the most animated sound I've heard from my son in weeks. "No way, old man."
"Old man?" Chevy laughs. "Oh, it's on. You and me. This weekend."
"You're on." I know Simon is trying to fight the smile. I can hear it in his voice—that grudging almost-amusement that pre-teens deploy when they refuse to admit an adult got to them.
I retreat down the hallway before Chevy comes inside, ducking into the bathroom to splash water on my face and compose myself.
My eyes are red. I look like I've been emotionally ambushed, which is accurate.
I'm dabbing under my eyes with a tissue when I hear the screen door close and footsteps in the kitchen. I take one more breath, and walk out.
Chevy's standing by the counter. He looks at me and knows immediately.
I don't say anything. I just cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around him tightly, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in the back of his shirt. He holds me without a word, one arm around my waist, the other hand cradling the back of my head, and his lips press against the top of my hair.
We stay that way for a long time. Long enough for my breathing to steady. Long enough for the tears to dry against the cotton of his shirt, and for the gratitude and the relief and the tenderness to settle into something I can carry.
"Thank you," I whisper into his chest.
He just holds me tighter.
Later that night, after Simon has gone to bed—voluntarily, at a reasonable hour, without slamming his door, which feels like a miracle of biblical proportions—Chevy and I are on the couch.
I've got my legs across his lap and he's rubbing my feet, which shouldn’t be allowed because it makes my brain go completely offline.
He looks at me, his eyes serious and a little vulnerable. “I wanted to tell you…I’m not here to replace Simon’s dad. I'm not here to fix your life. I just want to make you happy.” His fingers trace a circle on my ankle. “You're the first person who ever saw me for who I really am…not the face, not the jokes, not the version everyone assumes I am.”
My heart does something it hasn't done in years…it expands, making room for him. "You don't have to pretend with me," I say. "Ever."
He pulls me closer until I'm practically in his lap, cups my face, and kisses me…a slow, tender kiss that says I choose you with my eyes wide open.
I kiss him back with everything I have…without panicking or spiraling. Just me and this man and the intentional, extraordinary choice to let him in.
When he pulls back, he strokes over my lower lip with his thumb. "I'm going to make you come tonight," he murmurs against my mouth. "But you're going to have to be quiet. Your kid's down the hall."
The look I give him is equal parts challenge and desire. "You think I can't be quiet?"
His grin goes wicked. "I think you have a track record that suggests otherwise."
We barely make it to the bedroom.
His mouth is on my neck before the door clicks shut, and I'm pulling his shirt over his head before my brain catches upto my hands. We're a tangle of whispered laughter and frantic shushing as we stumble toward the bed in the dark.
"Lock the door," I hiss.
"Already did." He grins against my skin. "I'm a professional."
"A professional what?"
"We'll discuss my credentials later."
He eases me onto the bed and peels my shirt off, then my bra, unclasping it with that infuriating one-hand move that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. He kisses his way down my throat, between my breasts, over my stomach, and hooks his fingers into my waistband.
“These need to go,” he whispers, tugging my leggings down my hips.
“I love when you’re bossy. It’s adorable.”
“I love it when you’re sassy.” He grins and drags the leggings off, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he slides my panties down my legs, and his hands are spreading my thighs open. His mouth descends, and I have to shove a pillow over my face to muffle the sound that rips out of me.
