But by late afternoon, Chloe is fading.
She lasts another ten minutes before curling up on a stack of folded blankets in the back of the booth and passing out cold.
The remainder of my time passes quickly and Rhodes stays to help me break down.
I load the bins. He carries them to my car and stacks them in the trunk.
And something that usually takes me more than an hour is finished in less than half that time.
When he tosses the tent over his shoulder (it should be noted he does this like it weighs nothing…and maybe it’s demonstrating another of his skills—that being using those muscles of his to my benefit), I carry Chloe.
He stashes the tent in my car, shuts the hatch, and turns.
My breath catches.
Because we’re closer than I realized.
Close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, that I catch the clean, spicy scent of him in the air, that I can feel the heat of his body.
Close…just not close enough.
“I should get her home,” he says quietly and I jerk myself out of my thoughts, carefully transfer her into his arms.
“Of course. Thanks for your help.”
His gaze holds mine. “You make really beautiful blankets, Finn. I hope you know that.”
“I—” My heart stutters and, oddly, I feel like crying. “Thanks.”
He smiles, reaches out a hand as though he’s going to touch me. Then he freezes, wraps it around Chloe’s back. “See you back at the house?”
I nod and he turns, walks away.
I stand there, watching him go for far longer than I should.
Then I force myself to get into my car.
Because this—whateverthisis?—
It’s not something I should get used to having.
To wanting.
Toneeding.
Eight
Rhodes
I wake to a noise downstairs.
At first, I think it’s one of the kittens—they seem to prefer being most active during the nighttime hours.
Much to my chagrin…and my sleeping patterns.
But as I roll over, intending to go back to sleep I smell something.
Cookies.
