Page 20 of Hideaway Whirlwind
Russell’s brows are bunched together behind Layla, passing me a duffel bag with whatever games he filched from Paul’s old bedroom. “You sure you’re ok with them staying with you?” he asks quietly after Layla settles back on the couch with her cereal.
“Best get back,” is all I say over my shoulder, having already turned to walk away.
Chapter 10
Teagan
Elliott is gone forhours, and I’m surprised by how upset I am when it begins to pour outside again, worrying about him when he’s a grown, competent man who knows how to take care of himself. Because what if he slipped on the ice and got hurt? I don’t know which direction he went or where Russell’s house is, and I have no idea how I would get in contact with Elliott or anyone else. My anxiety gets so bad, constantly getting up to press my nose to the little windows in his back door to look for the first sign of his return, that I automatically stand from the living room floor, where the kids and I had been playingGo Fishfor the millionth round, and go to Elliott when he finally returns.
Ice clings to his beard, sleet covering his broad shoulders, his fingers frigid and stiff from being exposed to the elements. As soon as he sets the bags on the kitchen table, I grab his hands, tucking them under my armpits since I read you aren’t supposed to rub them to get warm. Or wait, was the other way around?Crap.
“Why didn’t you wear gloves?” I ask, fussing over him. “You’ll be lucky to keep all your fingers.” I don’t stop to think what I’m doing when I bring one of his hands up to blow warm air over them, accidentally brushing his skin with my lips.
“Birdie,” he says low under his breath, almost like a moan, sliding his other hand around my upper back as he crowds me against the kitchen counter. “You were worried about me?”
“Of course, I was,” I snap, rolling my eyes up and meeting the deep blue pools of his, his expression thawing as much as his fingers. “Don’t worry me like that again.”
“Santa brought presents!” Dustin yells. Sydney and Kendall follow him to the table, jumping up and down when they find a duffel bag filled with games and puzzles—more presents than I’ve ever been able to afford for them at Christmas.
I’m quick to slip around Elliott, putting the table between us, busying myself with sorting through the other two bags, happy to see we’ll have more than the half bag of stale potato chips and the cans of sweet peas and carrots warmed on the stove that we had for breakfast and lunch.
“Oh, man.” I crack open a tepid ginger ale and drink it down, my shoulders relaxing as if I’ve just taken a sip of the nectar of the gods. “That’s the good stuff.”
Elliott clears his throat when I catch him watching me, and he shucks off his boots and his thick, light brown work jacket, worn over a vintage denim jacket that looks like it may be as old as me.
I set my coveted soda down and hold up one of the two pairs of trendy designer boot cut blue jeans mixed in with a few sweaters, sweatshirts, and fancy satin nightgowns with the tags still attached. “Whose clothes are these?”
“They’re from my sister-in-law, Layla. I think she’s around your age,” hesays offhandedly.
“Really? How old is she?”
“Twenty-six, if I remember correctly.”
His answer takes me aback. “How old is your brother?”
Elliott tugs at the end of his beard. “Fifty-three.”
“And you are…?”
“Fifty-five,” he answers in a low voice, scratching the back of his neck. He doesn’t look directly at me when he asks, “You?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Christ, I thought you were older,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the heel of his left palm down his face, knocking off the ice that has started to melt.
Sensing he’s uncomfortable and wanting to avoid any judgment in his eyes—which I’m well acquainted with, considering my age and the kids’ ages—I move on to folding the cute jeans, dropping them back in one of the tote bags since I doubt I can pull them up past my knees. “I take it all this stuff means we won’t be staying at their house?” I ask, holding up an unbelievably soft, cream sweater that will fit Sydney and Dustin better than it will me.
He grunts, and I bob my head, chewing the inside of my cheek. Maybe I’m not donethankinghim if we have to stay here for a little longer.
“Mama, Mama,” Kendall says with a whine, hugging my thighs, rubbing her eyes with her polar bear.
I pick her up, careful not to rest too much of her weight on my belly. “I need to put her down for a nap,” I tell Elliott, though I don’t take my eyes off Sydney and Dustin, who have settled at the table with a five-hundred-piece puzzle of a commercial dumpster with approximately twenty raccoons wearing sunglasses dancing on trash bags. Odd, but at leastthe kids are happy to finally have something to do.
“I’ll watch them,” he says. “If you’re ok with that.”
I have to be since I have no other option. “I’ll just be a minute.”
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