I step tentatively into the entryway, half wondering if I am breaking some rule by being here. “I’m not going to be tackled by a guard dog or anything, am I?”
For the briefest second, Sam’s face falters. The flicker of disappointment is small but noticeable. His tone is quieter when he answers. “The landlord doesn’t allow pets.”
“Maybe we can stop by Foster and Beth’s place after sledding,” Ben offers quickly, as if he senses the boy’s mood shift and wants to fix it. “You’re Cujo’s favourite—after me, of course.”
“He only likes you because you sneak him extra treats,” Madelyn teases, rolling her eyes.
“All the more reason to do it,” Ben counters with a grin. He slings an arm around her as they move toward the door. “We’ll see you later, Coach.”
“Have fun,” I tell them. The words are supposed to sound relaxed, but like everything that comes out of my mouth, it sounds like a command.
“You too!” Ben shoots back, winking when Sam isn’t looking. Madelyn swats him on the arm, but he only laughs, dragging her closer and planting a kiss on her flushed cheek.
They make an easy picture, the two of them, bundled against the cold. I’ve heard the story that they dated as teenagers before Ben left for the NHL, only to find their way back to each other in their thirties.
I watch as Ben escorts her around to her side of the car. It does not look like an obligation for him. It’s like he simply wants to stay near her for as long as possible.
I’ve never really had relationships because I never made room for them. Over the years it’s been one-night stands or casual things that ended before they could ask anything of me.
I close the door, noticing the doorknob is loose. The screws probably need to be tightened. I slip out of my boots, holding onto the wall for extra balance, not wanting to wobble on my bad knee.
The first thing I notice when I step farther inside the house is the smell. It smells like cookies. Elliot mentioned she was teaching a fitness class this morning. Had she made cookies before class? And are they the kind of cookies a mom makes for her son? Or cookies she’s making for extra cash?
I briefly wonder if I could convince her to accept more than the inflated rate I’m already paying her. I doubt it. I understand why she wouldn’t. I don’t know her that well, but I can tell that she’s headstrong. What I don’t know is why I care so much.
I step farther into what appears to be a living room. There’s a couch, a coffee table, and two small end tables. None of them match. There are picture frames scattered all aroundthe room and I go in for a closer look, picking up a frame from the closest table.
It’s a baby picture of Sam. At least, I assume it’s Sam, given the child has the same green eyes. I have no idea how old he would be in the picture. He doesn’t have any hair on his massive head.
“Hey.”
Her voice carries softly from the staircase. I look up, and for a moment I simply forget to breathe. Elliot descends in a faded The Tragically Hip T-shirt and dark leggings, her bare feet silent on the steps. Damp hair clings to her shoulders as she works at it with a towel, strands catching on her fingers when she brushes them behind her ears. She’s letting me see her dressed down and vulnerable and that is enough to make me lightheaded.
An ache starts in my chest. It intensifies the closer she gets, stretching out and taking over. I feel like I’ve just been given a glimpse at something I’ve never had, never even knew existed. But now that I have, I think I want it. No. I might need it.
It’s not just that she’s beautiful; though, good God, she is. So beautiful it’s hard to look directly at her. Her body is strong and soft at the same time. She stands straight, perfect posture even while completely relaxed. Have I ever noticed a person’s posture before?
“Sorry,” she says with a small laugh. “I thought I had enough time to shower. I tell myself I’ll be quick, but my mind wanders, and five minutes turns into twenty-five.”
I try not to think about Elliot in the shower. Try not to imagine if she just stood there for the entire time, or if her hands, like her mind, wandered too. Roaming her naked body, like the water droplets running off her as she washed herself from head to toe and everywhere in between. Did she linger on any specificparts?
I clear my throat, ordering myself to get a grip. “It’s fine. I’m early.”
Laughter lights up those pretty eyes. “An eager beaver! I like that. Ready to sweat?”
This woman is going to be the death of me. I scold the horny teenage boy currently living in my head and manage a grunt of approval.
CHAPTER TEN
ELLIOT
I always thoughtmy home was the perfect size. Not too big, not too small. Comfortable. Manageable. It never felt lacking, just lived-in. Sure, the place is older and could stand a few updates if I ever cared enough to drag it into this century, but it has always reminded me of that one sweatshirt you’ve had forever. The seams are frayed, the fabric thinning, but it fits so well you can’t imagine replacing it. This house has been that sweatshirt for me and Sam. I never believed we needed anything newer, and certainly nothing bigger.
That is until Arthur Stetson stepped into my living room.
The man takes up space in a way that feels almost impossible. He is everywhere at once, too large for everything in my house. The couch suddenly seems child-sized. It is far too low for someone with his knee, and I imagine him struggling to stand up from it. The armchair isn’t much better, squat and sagging. He’s like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks were six foot five and built like the broad side of a barn. And nothing in my home is “just right.”
I spin in aslow circle, scanning the room as though some hidden, perfect solution will materialize. It doesn’t.
