Page 106 of When It's Us
I’m not sure what I expected from her—a lot of questions I don’t have the answers to, pity, anger on my behalf, maybe—but she doesn’t give me any of those. She drops her lips to my chest, pressing a soft kiss there and gives me space to breathe.
I press a kiss to her temple and whisper into her hair, “No more heavy shit tonight, okay?”
She nods against my chest. “Okay.”
Ginger
Slippingoutfromunderthe sleeping giant wrapped around me is no easy task, but somehow I manage. Even in sleep he’s larger than life, and the longer I lay here, watching him sleep, the more I realize I could get used to this.Veryused to this.
Last night in the bar, he’d completely and utterly owned me. And I’d eaten it up. Then we’d come back here, and he’d surprised me with tenderness and vulnerability.
I’d never intended the tour of his tattoos to turn to what it did, but now that I know the story behind the little footprint, I’m finally seeing Hutch for everything he is. There’s a tenderness to him that he hides under years of pain, and as hard as I know it must have been for him to open up to me about it, especially since no one, not even his family knows, I feel honored to have him share it with me.
Sure, he still lives in a van, something I’ll never understand, and he is still quite possibly the most arrogant man I’ve ever met, but as I look around at the low bed, the nightstand, and dresser, I can’t help but wonder why me? Why did he choose me of all people to not only open up to, but to create a space for me that felt new, ours.
What made me so special? From what I’ve gathered in passing from his siblings and Wren—hell, from what he told me, he’s beenliving out here like this for more than ten years. And the women in town? The ones who were adamant that he never kissed and never slept with the same woman twice…why me?
After one last glance at him, I rise quietly from the bed and pull on one of his huge flannels, wrapping it around my naked body. I feel like I’ve run a marathon, muscles sore and a dull ache between my thighs. I feel utterly wrecked in the best way, and still, doubt lingers.
Padding softly down the stairs, I fasten three buttons and roll the sleeves of the flannel twice. It’s amazing to me how wearing his clothes makes me feel tiny. I’ve never felt that way in my entire adult life and I kind of love it.
Once downstairs in what constitutes his kitchen—it’s really just a stove, a sliver of countertop, and a half-sized fridge—I find the coffee maker and a tin of coffee and set about making a pot. It’s one of those smaller ones that only makes four cups, but it’ll do. I quietly open the fridge and find caramel creamer and a plastic container of sugar in the cupboard above the stove.
As the coffee brews, I lean back against the counter and glance around the shop, then up to the loft where I left him sleeping facedown, hair scattered around his pillow. It’s quiet up there, and while he’d have to get out of bed and look over the railing to catch me, I take the chance to poke around anyway.
I’m not snooping per se, but after our conversation last night, I’m finding I am more curious than ever about Hutch.
By passing the couch, I’m careful to watch where I walk, because while this space is a living area, it’s also full of tools, wood and various power tools, both electric and battery-powered. It’s sectioned off so that the living space is separate from the work space, but there is still a fine layer of dust covering most of the surfaces.
Two large monitors sit dark on top of his desk, as does a closed laptop. The surface of the desk is cluttered with various post it notes with names, phone numbers and measurements scribbled onthem. There are a couple of books on architecture, what looks like a sketchbook—although I don’t open it to look—various pencils and fine line markers as well as a handful of red pens.
There’s a stack of color swatches and a handful of cardboard paint samples next to a pile of rolled-up papers held coiled with rubber bands.Under the open laptop is what looks like a floor plan, marked up with what I’m guessing is one of those red pens. There are a couple of fixture catalogs with lighting, bathroom fixtures, and flooring on the covers.
My eyes land on the bookshelf, which is filled to the brink with novels, what look like code books, and even some comics. But it’s the framed photos on the shelves that catch my eye.
I swallow, emotion clogging my throat when I approach the shelf and my eyes land on what looks like a picture of all the Hayes kids from when they were young. Hayley looks to be about four or five, which would put Hutch around thirteen and Hank as the oldest sibling at around seventeen or eighteen.
There’s a photo of Hutch and his brother’s with their dad Duke, all on horseback. I’m not sure how old it is, but they’re all wearing matching grins. There’s a picture of Hutch standing next to a tiny Paige, her hand clasped in his, and another picture of Hutch at Hank and Wren’s wedding, holding both Hazel and Amelia, a giant grin stretching his face.
God, he looks good with a couple of babies in his arms.
Knowing what I do now, I can see why someone might choose the life he lives. I obviously only got a small snippet of how everything went down with his ex, but given the circumstances, it’s not too hard to see how much it traumatized him.
He’s set himself up for the perfect life of never letting anyone in, not truly, anyway. He’ll never get hurt that way again. He never really stays in one place too long, even living out of his van so he can head off wherever he wants when things get too heavy or when he feels the urge.
I cringe when I think about the times I told him he wouldn’t understand being a parent. I didn’t know what happened with his ex and the baby, and I never could have guessed that she and what happened were the reason for how he lives, but something cracks open in my chest at the flip way I dismissed him and his concern for not only me but also my boys.
It also stands to reason that’s why he’s dead set against relationships, never kissing, or getting too close to another woman. Why would he after what he went through?
I glance back up to the loft, uncertainty twisting in my stomach. So what does it all mean for me? For what we’ve been doing? We’ve been kissing almost as much as we’ve been fucking, and that confuses me more than anything. I could chalk up the sex to being really compatible, our chemistry is off the charts, but what about the kissing? What about that bed upstairs and him surprising me with it? What does it mean?
And now that I’m standing here in his flannel in his ‘house’ the morning after he called me baby and claimed me as his…I’m more confused than I’ve ever been. Because what we did was more than fucking—okay, the bar was absolutely filthy and yes, fucking—but afterward? What we shared upstairs last night? The words he used…were they thrown out in the heat of the moment? Or did he mean them? You don’t touch someone with that much tenderness and claim them with your body and your words the way he did me all night long if you’re only fucking.
“Find anything interesting?”
I jump at the deep baritone of his sleepy voice.
When I turn, I don’t know why I expect to find irritation on his face when his voice carried none, but he’s watching me, a little smirk on his lips.
