A second knock sounds, this one a little louder and more insistent than the first one. “Oaklee? Are you awake?”
Cade?
I get up and quietly move to the front door, peeking through the little hole in the door. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing. I confirm with a second look through the peephole and unlock the door, slowly pulling it open.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his face full of worry.
“Yes, I—what are you doing here?”
Is it the alcohol still in my system causing my head to spin like this?
He looks exhausted. There are bags under his eyes, and his hair is sticking up in a thousand directions. “I never left.”
My mouth drops open, and I realize we’re standing in the doorway. I step back and wave my hand, allowing him inside. “You didn’t leave? Why?”
He stands in my living room, still looking like the most gorgeous man he is. My chest is tight as I stare at him, waiting.
“Because I didn’t want to leave you. What are you doing up? Are you okay?” he repeats.
I blink once. Twice.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Oaklee? Are you all right?
It takes several seconds before I’m able to formulate a single word to say, “Yes.”
“Okay, good,” he replies, visibly relaxing. “That’s good. I freaked out that something was wrong when I saw your lights go on.”
“Cade,” I say, reaching out and placing my palm against his arm. “Why were you still outside? It’s three in the morning.”
He glances down, a sheepish look on his face. “I, uh…can we sit?”
I nod, turning to move to the couch, but then remember my ice cream. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Do you want something to drink?”
“No thank you,” he replies, stopping when he sees my middle of the night snack sitting on the table. “Ice cream?”
I shrug. “I got snacky and it sounded good.”
He slides onto the chair opposite the one I was sitting in earlier and reaches for the spoon. Without asking, he dips it into the ice cream and takes a small bite. “Good stuff.”
I nod, waiting.
“You’re feeling okay? After drinking?”
“Yes, Dad,” I reply with a small grin. “I feel fine.”
“Good.” He hands over my spoon and levels me with a gaze. “I have to tell you something, and I’m scared.”
“You’re scared?”
He nods, watching as I take a small scoop of ice cream, just to give myself something to do with my hand. “I’m scared to tell you the truth.”
“About?” My voice doesn’t even sound like my own. It’s barely a whisper and hoarse.
“How I feel about you,” he confesses, watching as I lick the spoon.
Handing over the utensil, he takes his own small bite before continuing.
