That was the thing about having your personal space and boundaries violated: it stuck with you for a long time.
Still, I’d have to face it today regardless, if only to pack some things before heading up to Sean’s for the foreseeable future.
The thought was depressing. I loved my brother, sister-in-law, and nephews, but the chaos of their home when I was so used to my solitude would be an adjustment.
“Would you like breakfast?” Birdie asked.
Yes. “Oh, no, that’s okay. I really should get home. Would you be able to give me a ride?”
“Sit down, Sutton.”
I hadn’t yet looked at Lane. I told myself it was because he was on my shit list after the ridiculous display of toxic masculinity he’d put on last night.
However, that would be a lie.
Ever since the first time I saw him when we were kids, I’d had a thing for Lane Lawless. I’d crushed on him foryearsbefore we ever got together. Looking at him now was a gut punch, a reminder that he was something I wanted for myself, craved on a soul-deep level, but could never have again.
Funny howeverythinghad changed over the years and yet that remained.
“I need to go home, Lane.”
“Why? As far as I’m concerned, your house is a crime scene. Access is restricted to law enforcement.”
“You can’t bar me from my own house!” I protested. “I need clothes. Boots’ food. My uniform.”
Fuck,work. I hadn’t thought about my next shift since the day before. Thankfully, I didn’t have to go back until tomorrow.
“Then you’ll be escorted inside to gather what you need.”
His tone brooked no room for argument but, damnit, Iwantedto argue. I was straight up spoiling for a fight.
Birdie, as if sensing the rising tension in the air, slid a plate of food toward me.
“Please eat, Sutton. Then you two can continue this…discussion.”
I had to admit, the omelet she’d plated up looked amazing, fragrant with mushrooms, bacon, peppers, and cheese. My stomach emitted another embarrassing growl and, unable to refuse, I took my plate to the table with heated cheeks, back to the room, needing to be as far away from Lane as possible.
“Thanks for this, Mama,” Lane murmured to Birdie as he dug into his own meal.
“Thank you, Birdie,” I dutifully parroted.
We ate in tense silence, the only sounds the clinking of our silverware and Birdie’s movements as she cleaned up the kitchen.
When she finished, she wasted no time leaving, but not without taking a parting shot at her son—spoken lowly, but not so low that I couldn’t hear every word—that had me grinning into my food.
“Stop being an asshole, Lane. She just went through something traumatic.”
Lane merely grumbled in response. Birdie passed by me, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly before disappearing.
Too late I realized I should’ve gone with her.
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Guess I better call someone for a ride.” I shifted so I could look over my shoulder at Lane, who had angled his head enough to glare at me in his periphery. “Unless you want to give me one.”
A smirk danced on his lips. “Sure.”
I flipped him a middle finger. “You know what I mean.”
His mouth flattened, and he asked, “Do you have somewhere you can go?”
