Page 52 of Perfect Playbook

“Buenas noches, Logan.” Nino waves me goodnight.

“Dulces sueños,” I practiced how to saysweet dreamsand a few other basic things on some language app, hoping to keep the Spanish going. The Mendezes would always speak English in front of non-Spanish speakers, but I know their language is important to them. I don’t want Nino getting rusty just because of me.

Shay is impressed. I see the sparkle in her eyes, but her voice is deadpan.

“Decent accent.”

She heads down the hallway holding the tiny hand of a human she created at some point in all those years without me.

I should have known she’d be able to grow a kid that wonderful.

How did I end up without one?

I take my fork between my fingers and twirl it, her sugar scent still succulent in my kitchen.

How did I end up without her?

I’m not used to going to bed at nine-thirty p.m. But after staring blankly at the TV for an hour, I figure out of respect for Shay, I should try to slip into bed now and not disturb her sleep in the middle of the night. I pad in my socks quietly on the wood floor up the hallway, stopping to peek in Nino’s room where the door is cracked.

He’s not in the bed but curled up in the teepee. The fairy lights illuminate his precious features. His thick, long eyelashes rest peacefully on his cheeks, and he hugs his oven mitts. It’s just about the cutest and funniest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

Our bedroom door is closed. I turn the handle carefully, not wanting to wake Shay. A sliver of light from the hallway illuminates her face. Her hair cascades down bare shoulders, covered by nothing apart from two slinky, vulnerable spaghetti straps.

I slip inside and shut the door, quietly taking myself to the bathroom, worrying about every sound I make in there. I brush my teeth with only two spurts of water. My shower is fucking loud; I never noticed before. And then, I wonder if I should wear boxers or something to bed. I should. But I’m doing my best to make this place comfortable for Nino and Shay. Some things I gotta keep for me, and after being in sweaty pads all day, my dick just needs the air. It’s not like we’re going to touch each other.

I flick off the light to the bathroom and tiptoe to the bed with a hand towel over my dick, drop it, then slide under the sheets. Shay has put a pillow in the middle of the bed likesome sort of boundary but she’s always been wise beyond her years, so I accept she made a good decision.

I let out a long, quiet breath. I’m not tired. My skin is sensitive to everything. Even the sheets feel weighty and, dare I say, sensual tonight. I run my fingers through my hair. I need a fucking sleeping pill or something.

“Logan?” Shay whispers.

“Yeah?” I whisper back.

She turns from her one side away and onto the one facing me and hugs the pillow between us. Her hand is so close to my chest. Her warm body is now impossible to ignore.

She doesn’t say any more, but I feel her gaze on me right through the darkness.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

There’s something both dangerous and safe about this bed. Here, I smell her. From inches away. Just over the pillow, I can feel her breath. Her lips are one small dip away from mine.

“I’m okay,” she answers.

But the way she says it, I don’t think she is. I don’t know if inside this woman is the same Shay I knew from college, but if it is, getting her to talk is an art form. It takes finesse. Delicate stroking and a soft brush adding a thin veneer one layer at a time until we both see the picture.

I offer a topic that’s surely far away from whatever she’s thinking about. “I heard the cat will hate me.”

“Mmm. Likely.”

I put my hand on the pillow just under hers. She shifts as if getting more comfortable, and her body inches closer. I don’t want it to, but my dick thickens. My thoughts wander to what she’s wearing, if her bottoms are as skimpy as the top.

I wait for her to offer more, but she doesn’t. So I keep talking. This was how we did it. I talked and talked until she said what she needed to, maybe thinking her words would get lost in mine. But I never missed a single one of them. When Shay uses words, each one counts.

I search for more of the mundane. “Tom sorted out the credit cards and bank so you’re on my account now.”

“Why did you do that?”

“We’re married, Shay. It’s what people do. You want me to leave cash on the nightstand for my wife and kid?”

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