Page 128 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
“I do not.” I poke his ribs under the sheet. “And if I did, it would be downright adorable.”
“It is,” he says solemnly, catching my hand and tucking it under his chin like it belongs there. His stubble is warm against my knuckles. “Weaponized adorability.”
We lie there looking at each other in the blue pre-morning. The curtains are just a shade lighter than the room, the kind of quiet that makes whispers feel too loud. He shifts closer, slow, like he’s approaching a skittish animal, and slides his palm over my hip to the small of my back. The heat of his hand there does ridiculous things to my nervous system.
“How’s your stomach?” he asks, thumb making lazy arcs I can feel all the way to my toes.
“Negotiating,” I admit. “The union is demanding toast.”
“Management can meet those demands.” He nods, very serious. “Possibly with a side of ginger.”
“And lemon,” I say, because the craving is instantaneous the second I admit anything out loud.
“I think I can manage that,” he murmurs, and I laugh into the pillow.
For a minute, it’s just breath and quiet touches. I trace the line of his jaw with a fingertip, then the pale edge where his black eye is almost gone. He catches my wrist gently, kisses the heel of my hand like he’s saying thank you without words.
“I’m sorry,” he says then, simple and low. “For last night. For disappearing. For making you worry. I should’ve texted. I should’ve come straight to you.”
Some tight knot under my breastbone loosens. “Thank you,” I whisper. “You scared me.”
“I know.” His brow pulls, and he tips his forehead to mine. “It won’t happen again. Running, I mean. I might still be an idiot sometimes.”
“I have extensive experience managing idiots,” I say softly. “I’m related to one.”
He huffs a laugh against my mouth. “Fair.”
We breathe together. His hand spreads warmth on my back. I slide my leg between his and feel him exhale, long and quiet.
“You can tell me when your head gets loud,” I say into the space where our noses almost touch. “Even if you can’t make it quieter yet. Just… aim the noise at me. I can take it. I’m not delicate.”
“I will,” he says, and I feel the truth of it in the way his fingers tighten briefly. “Same deal applies to you, FYI. If the union of your stomach demands saltines at 3:00 in the morning, I’ll be there.”
“Crossing a picket line?” I whisper. “Scandalous.”
“Only for you,” he says, and kisses the corner of my smile.
We fall into that small, drowsy stretch of conversation that only exists at 4:00 a.m. He asks what’s on deck today—muffins first, then sticky buns, a few more taste tests for the film fest this weekend. He listens as if each item is breaking news, nodding with that focused bartender face.
I tell him my mom will come in at 6:00 and try to make me sit, and I’ll pretend to argue while secretly being relieved. He promises to swing by with lunch, which I know means a sandwich and one of the house-made pickles I love.
We fall silent, and I don’t want to break it, but I do. “I’m glad you came,” I say, stroking my thumb over his cheek.
His gaze flicks to mine. “I really am sorry about yesterday,” he says, quietly. “I won’t run like that again.”
I nod, because the speech I’d rehearsed has nowhere to go in the face of simple truth, and because relief is loosening muscles I didn’t know I’d tightened. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
“Will you tell me what happened?” I ask after a moment. “Not right now, necessarily. Just… when you can.”
He nods, then pulls me close, tucking me against his chest and wrapping his arms around me.
Then he starts speaking and tells me everything. What happened when he was eighteen, the men in the bar, what they said, where he went, and finally, Jason showing up.
I listen to his voice, feel the rumble in his chest. The way his arms tighten around me to keep me in place when I want to jump up in outrage at the horrible things they said to him, what his father did to him.
When he finally goes quiet, his palm spreads at my back like he’s bracing me for the recoil.
