“Obviously!”
I felt my worry deepen, anger bubbling beneath it. I was at a standoff with my own mind, torn between punching himall the way to his car or dragging him back to my house by the collar. I’d never actually risk him getting hurt, though. Just the thought of something happening to him felt like a sharp sting in the middle of my chest.
“I can’t let you drive like this.”
“I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“No, you’re not,” I snapped, pulling his arm back so he could look at me. Even drunk and half-frozen, his stupid eyes had a pull on me. Could alcohol make them less blue? Right now, they looked dimmer, clouded over. I hesitated, chewing the inside of my cheek before letting out a sigh. “Can we please come in?”
Chris’ eyes dropped to my lips, and I realized they were probably tinged blue from the cold. His gaze shifted down, landing on my bare feet planted on the snow-covered ground. I was freezing. His expression softened into concern, and his hand twitched, like he was about to reach for me. But he caught himself. Worry flickered through his eyes before he straightened abruptly, slipping back into that fake, unattached look.
“Whatever…” he muttered.
We walked back, and I held the door open for him as we moved inside. The warmth of the house hit me, but it was still not enough to chase the cold from my bones.
“Shit, it’s cold,” I whispered to myself as I shut the door, still shivering. Chris walked ahead of me without a word. My eyes betrayed me, slipping down to those broad shoulders and the way his jacket pulled tight over his arms. Those stupidly delicious arms. Arms that could wrap me up and warm me in an instant.
Stop it, Jules. Seriously. Get a grip.
He suddenly stopped and turned to face me, his voice so devastatingly broken.
“Why didn’t you text me the address? I was serious aboutgoing with you. And if you didn’t want me to… why didn’t you say something?”
“What? I…” The words got tangled in my brain. What was he even talking about? Then I noticed our voices were probably echoing up the stairs.Shit.It was three a.m., and if he woke the children and I had to deal with two cranky kids tomorrow while being drowsy and sleep-deprived, I was going toend him.“Come on,” I whispered and guided him toward the living room.
He let me guide him without argument, his steps slow and unsteady, like he’d burned through the last of his energy. He slumped onto the couch, sinking deep into the cushions with a defeated sigh. I stood there, looking at him properly. His shoulders were slouched, his face worn. He looked so tired and crushed, and even though I was still angry with him, my heart broke a little. I wondered if this was some sick, twisted game—telling me all the things he did the last time we saw each other, disappearing for a month, and then showing up in the middle of the night to wreck my sleep.
But if this was just a game, why did he look as messed up as I felt? Maybe even worse?
“I’ll get you something to eat. Wait here,” I said softly.
One thing at a time: first, make sure the drunk man doesn’t wake your children up.Then make sure he doesn’t storm off and get himself killed. Then attempt to get some damn sleep because I had an important meeting tomorrow. And finally, book an emergency therapy session—because, at this rate, I had no idea how much longer I could hold on to my sanity.
I headed into the kitchen, trying not to make any noise. With the open floor plan, Chris had a clear view of me as I moved around. I could feel his eyes on me, and I kept my focus on the cabinets. I opened the nearest one and grabbed the first package I saw, my hand closing around a box ofthose awful gluten-free cookies I bought for Liam on a whim. My eyes, though, drifted back to Chris.
He’d straightened up a bit and was looking down at the coffee table in front of him. Specifically, at one of Nova’s drawings. It was a chaotic little masterpiece—our whole family, surrounded by an army of dogs because, of course, she wouldn’t let go of the idea of us getting a puppy. He was smiling. It lit up his whole face, softening the weariness and sadness I’d seen earlier. For a second, it almost softened me up, too.Almost.
Then I noticed what his hand was doing.
He was reaching for the folder underneath the drawing.Oh, shit.My script.
Don’t read that.
My heart jumped into my throat. I abandoned the cup of milk I planned to grab and practically sprinted back to the living room, trying to keep my steps quiet but fast.
“I have this awful gluten-free cookie,” I said quickly, shoving the cookie at him.
He looked up at me, the faintest flicker of amusement in his tired eyes.
Then, holding up the folder, he said, “So, you’re also a writer here…” He referenced our shared dream, the one where I’d made it as a screenwriter. That’s how we’d met there.
Dream, Jules,I reminded myself firmly.Dream.
“It’s more of a hobby,” I dismissed it as casually as I could. I didn’t want to talk about it. The memory of the days when I believed I could make something of it was still too raw, too painful.
“Can I read it?” he asked.
“No way!” I blurted, snatching the script from his hands before he could open it. “Eat!” I insisted, shoving the cookie closer to him and sitting down on the couch, a little too closeto him, without even noticing it might be too much. I only realized I should probably have chosen the chair instead when his scent wrapped all around me—his cedar cologne mixed with the sharp tang of alcohol, making my head spin.
