Page 31 of Knotted Laces

In the middle of a different night, as though it was only the two of us awake in the entire universe.

That was…uncomfortable.

It had made me run, made me distance myself.

Until Lex all but smacked me around—or bribed me with cinnamon rolls—to get me to attend another Jackson event.

Cam wasn’t there.

He’d made it to the NHL.

So, he wasn’t there for a lot of events over the years.

And…I guess I’d forgotten.

Or buried my response to his words, to the way his intense stare had pinned me in place, as though he’d seen me—allof me.

But it all came rushing back two weeks ago.

And all those feelings were so much stronger because…

Cam’s not just the youngest Jackson any longer.

Sitting next to him on the couch, smelling the spicy scent of him, seeing the stubble on his cheeks, critically aware of the strength of him as he sat so close, as he patiently taught me how to play a video game had been so much more.

It began because I was worried about him.

It ended with me tucking a blanket around his sleeping form…but wanting to crawl onto the couch next to him.

I didn’t, of course.

Instead, I got the hell out of his house before I said or did something stupid.

And I worked with more of that ruthless authority.

And now…I’m here.

Sighing, I clomp up the three stairs leading to the narrow porch—not bothering to be quiet—and reach forward to jab at the doorbell.

I hear it go off inside, listen for footsteps.

And wait.

“Jesus,” I grumble, jabbing at the button again, impatiently waiting, and after a third ring goes unanswered, I mutter a curse and try the handle.

The metal knob turns under my palm.

“Idiot,” I mutter, knowing Ireallyneed to talk to him about safety, before I push inside, closing the door behind me.

The house is dark and quiet, and my nape prickles as I move into the hall, gaze scanning the space, half-expecting to find him parked in front of the TV with his headphones on, unable to hear me as he games with his online friends.

But the TV is off and the entire space is lifeless.

My fingers itch with the urge to reach for my gun, carefully tucked into my holster, but I resist the impulse and move down the narrow hall to the back of the cabin.

One door is a linen closet.

Another is a bathroom.

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