Page 83 of Surrender to Me
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“The stew. The cocoa.” He lifts the cup. “This.”
“Stryker. I appreciate everything you’re doing. Saving me.” Even though I insisted I didn’t want you to. “Taking care of the fire. Being sure we have power.” The sex. I can’t ever say that though. “I’m not doing anything close to as much as you are.”
“It’s not a contest. I’m happy to take care of everything.”
“And I can’t let you. I’m not wired that way either.”
He waits. It’s an invitation. A silent entreaty to share something, anything with him.
And after what he’s said, how can I refuse?
But what can I say without planting seeds that he will have no choice but to dig up? “I lost my mom when I was young. She evidently had some sort of preexisting heart condition that we knew nothing about.” That could be the truth.
“That has to be hard.”
“Thank you.” I try for a smile. But I miss her every single day. And I wonder what might have been if she hadn’t succumbed to the stress. “Dad was a pharmaceutical salesperson.” I shrug. “He worked long hours, flew to conferences, repped multiple states. He worked hard.” At least there’s no lie there. But I want to close this story, quick. “So I grew up fast. I was cooking meals for us by the time I was seven. Learned how to use an app to order groceries. Got myself to school.” I don’t mention the stretches of days he’d leave me by myself.
“That’s tough.”
“Like you, I’m resilient.”
He toasts me with his beverage. “To letting others do things for us.”
“Easier said than done, Stryker.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
And maybe because I feel a small sense of guilt, I tell him about my design work, picky clients, and I describe campaigns I’ve worked on that I’m proud of.
“I’d love to see some of your work.”
Since there’s no way to link Allie Johnson with my real identity, there can’t be any harm in showing him.
The storm continues to rage outside with the snow piling higher.
Stryker heads out to shovel again while I add the final ingredients to the stew.
Once he’d back and dried off, we eat in the living room, near the fire.
“This is better than anything I’ve had in ages.” His voice is as sincere as it is appreciative. “You really are talented.”
The compliment glows in me, warming me more than the food. We clean up together, and our shoulders accidentally brush.
We both stop, and we exchange a glance that feels like a promise.
God.
I need to stop. I can’t afford to let my guard down like this.
The afternoon blurs into comfortable quiet as the wind rages on.
Hours slipping by in easy conversation and stolen touches.
By late afternoon, the cabin’s a cocoon of warmth, and the stories we’ve shared have sealed us from the outside world.
Because neither of us are hungry enough for a meal, we put together a small charcuterie board that we can snack on throughout the evening.
