When I meet his eye, the unspoken answer passes between us.How real this could be.
It’s a different side of him I see when his brow furrows – not the closed-off part, nor the mischievous, fun-and-games part. ‘A little.’
I take his hand in mine and give it a firm squeeze. I don’twant to push. I’m honestly still scared, too. But it feels a bit less frightening when you’re trying to figure it out together.
‘I’ve been pretty scared since Tali’s mom left.’ I feel his voice in the vibrations of his chest as he continues. ‘You know, as one is. Decided I’d try not to focus on that and put my kid first.’ He plants a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Till you spilled coffee all over yourself and ploughed into the gas station.’
‘It was chai,’ I correct him. My heart practically skips a beat, though. Is this what it’s like to become more than a fleeting moment in someone’s life? To become a constant? In a way, it feels like trying to stay on a tightrope. Fighting the urge to bail before it’s too late, and I’m all in. No longer just a game I’m playing. Except every time I sway, Rod knows just the right way to pull me back into balance.
‘Same difference,’ he chuckles. He turns to meet my eyes, and he sets his wine glass down on the side table. His thumb traces a gentle back-and-forth along my jaw. ‘Either way. I guess what I wanna say … I’m sorry if it’s slow going. I’m sorry if it might be painful. It’s just that looking my fears in the eyes for the first time since Tali was born is—’
‘Rodney Wilson.’ A lump in my throat grows the way it never has before. This man absolutely wrecks me. ‘You don’t get to apologize for being human.’ I press my forehead to his. His eyes flutter closed, and he nods, a quiet gesture of understanding. ‘We can look our fears in the eyes together.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Sheriff Sugar and Spice
Rod
Genny plops yet another kid on a ‘pony’. Of course, we only have horses, so said pony is just a small horse, but the line for ‘pony rides’ has aggregated to the point where it stretches about fifteen ankle-biters back. Tali has way more friends than I was prepared to host, and that’s not even counting all their parents. It turns out my daughter is a social butterfly, which means I’m trapped at the grill, yelling across the property to get my sister’s attention.
‘GENNY!’
Very obliviously, she goes on walking the horse by the reins. I groan, but I start making her plate. I don’t need to ask her to know she has the Wilson family appetite: ‘I’ll take a little of everything.’
‘Hey, Jor,’ I call behind me, ‘is there still tiramisu?’
‘We’re running low, but I saved her a slice.’ Jordan passes me a plate with a wink, a fork not far behind. ‘Whatever Bianca sent is flying straight out of the dish.’
I nod in agreement, flipping the chicken before turning back towards her. Considering she didn’t sign up for this birthday party to be a militaristic endeavour complete with a conveyor belt of food, and a plethora of ‘Wild West’ entertainment, she’s taken it in her stride, which doesn’t surprise me given how good she is with the kids at camp. She’s more on Tali’s theme than I am, with a white tank top under a denim vest, matching blue jeans, and one of her saddle bronc belt buckles. Of course, she has a straw cowboy hat on to top the whole thing off, and a plastic gold star attached to her vest reading SHERIFF in Comic Sans. Her wavy black hair dances across her cheeks in the warm breeze. She’s got to be the most beautiful sheriff I’ve ever seen. Plenty of other less civil thoughts dance through my brain, but I shove them away on account of the children’s birthday party going on around us.
‘Did you eat?’ I ask. Then, for good measure, ‘Sheriff?’
Jordan rolls her eyes with a laugh. ‘I don’t know who gave this to me. Probably someone’s kid. But yes, I absolutely did. Before you ask, Genny set my lunch aside in the kitchen. No contamination. Did you?’
‘Not … totally.’
‘Great. Here.’ She’s terrifyingly fast in preparing a plate of tiramisu, which she digs into with a fork and holds out in front of me. ‘Open.’
I oblige, more out of surprise than anything else. I’m the one who usually chases everyone else down and makes sure they have lunch. That care, that concern … it feels pretty nice at Jordan’s hand.
She feeds me a bite, those happy creases forming beside her eyes as she takes the fork back. ‘You can eat the rest yourself, hotshot.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I manage around Bia’s heavenly tiramisu. ‘Ten-four, Sheriff J-Dog.’
‘Stop that,’ she commands. It doesn’t really come off intimidating, because just as she speaks, the dogs storm the tiramisu table, or at least attempt to. Jordan reacts too quickly, getting on her knees ridiculously fast for someone in jeans, and taking them both in her arms. Her laughter is audible. I can’t quite see her, so I peer around the table.
The furry brothers are licking her face to high heaven. She gives them scritches at their necks and behind their ears as they bark inFinally! Someone to harass!I also take note of the unimportant but evident fact that her butt looks a little too good in those jeans.
‘Scout! Boo!’ I call, hoping my dogs will take the cue to stop attacking guests. ‘Let’s go! I got food!’
Even the promise of grub doesn’t force them to budge. Jordan has them in a metaphorical vice. They get their paws all up on her knees, burying their snouts in her shoulders. ‘You are such good boys!’ she croons. ‘Such pretty boys!’
‘You’re spoiling my dogs,’ I point out, and she glances back at me with a smirk.
‘Ooh, sorry. Can’t help it if they like me better.’
‘They’re gonna eat you. This is how they start. Butter up the prey.’
