Page 67 of Single Dad Dilemma
“I don’t eat many sweets, but I’ll wait until she’s back in here.” He eyed the remaining cookies. “Thank you for doing this.” His wide chest expanded on a deep breath, and God, he was wearing that black quarter-zip like he was doing it a favor. “It means a lot. To Maggie.” His eyes met mine and held. “And to me.”
My pulse spiked, an erratic thudding in my ears that had me worried I might stroke out if this man and me and his kids had any more sweet little meaningful exchanges. Breaking shovels. Baking cookies. A girl could only take so much.
I licked my lips and pivoted toward the sink, where the mixing bowl was soaking in soapy water. “It’s no problem,” I said, grabbing a sponge and scrubbing the absolute shit out of that bowl.
“You do this often?”
The soapy water splashed up my forearms. “Wash dishes? Almost every day.”
He sighed, and I fought a smile, smothering it immediately as he came to join me at the sink. This close, I could smell him. Masculine and clean. Warmth emanated from his frame as he carefully picked up a dish towel and held out his hand.
I finished rinsing the bowl and handed it over to him, my throat tight and my brain all wobbly.
“You know what I was asking.”
It was the steady assurance in his voice, completely devoid of sarcasm, that ultimately did me in.
I did know what he was asking.
What is life like for you? Have you let anyone else in like this?
While he methodically dried the bowl, I scrubbed the remaining bits of dough off the mixing paddle, rinsing it carefully before handing that to Barrett as well.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’ve never done this before.”
He didn’t say anything right away, and for that, I was grateful. For some, opening up felt a lot like relief, but it wasn’t that way for me. A tight, uncomfortable ache bloomed somewhere under my ribs, and this was no different.
It was exposure, and just like yesterday, when I’d stood in front of the harsh, cold elements of Niagara, if I lingered too long, there was only so much I could handle before I cracked. The fact that they were beautiful didn’t matter, didn’t lessen the possible outcome of staying too long.
“What kind of bird is that?” he asked quietly as I turned off the faucet.
My hands froze, water still dripping from my fingers into the sink.
Plink, plink, plink.
For a minute, I stared down at the ink near my wrist, this one on the opposite arm from the outline of the car.
You don’t have to tell him anything.
You don’t have to.
You don’t.
But what if I did? What if I told him just a little bit more?
What would happen if I left this piece behind? Could I walk away unscathed knowing that Barrett King had possession of a part of my soul? He wouldn’t be aware, of course, but he’d still hold it all the same.
“Swallows,” I whispered. “We, um, we had a lot of barn swallows in our area, and my mom loved to make nesting boxes for them.”
More words crowded the back of my mouth. About how she’d used to watch them from the deck off the back of our house. How my dad had made as many of those boxes as she wanted because it made her feel better knowing they had a safe place to land, no matter how far they’d fly. About how I could look back on that now and see the heartbreaking irony that had escaped me as a rebellious teen who wanted nothing more than to fly past that horizon myself. About how she’d let me.
My throat felt raw, and the sudden intimacy of the moment made it hard to breathe.
Barrett folded the towel, placing it on the counter with precise movements. Then he stilled before slowly turning his face toward me.
“Why you’d tell me?” he asked.
Something cinched tight around my lungs, a quick, hot rush of panic only making it worse. I couldn’t breathe through it. There were no more words wanting to be said, only a driving urge, the crack of the proverbial whip in the back of my mind spurring me into flight.
