… and wait …
… and wait.
I fight the threat of sleep, but it’s a battle I know won’t be won unless Sutter gets his fine ass in here in the next two minutes.
But he doesn’t come.
And sleep is the victor.
I come to in a pitch-black abyss. The unfamiliar covers around my body mixed with the warmth of another body beside me throw me off, and in my half-asleep stupor, I pull in a wheezy, startled breath and sit straight up.
“Melrose …” Sutter’s groggy voice is followed by the reach of his arm, and before I realize what’s going on, he’s pulling me against his smooth, bare chest, cradling me in his heat.
Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s being so endearing because he, too, is half asleep?
“Sutter,” I begin to say, but he shushes me and gives me a tight squeeze.
“Go back to sleep.”
I don’t know when he finally came to bed, but the alarm clock across the room reads four o’clock in the morning. The weight of Murphy on my feet is an added surprise.
I can’t believe he let him sleep in bed with us.
Here I thought he hated dogs and generally most things with beating hearts and the ability to feel.
Lying in the dark, in Sutter’s arms, I begin to come to with each gentle rise and fall of his chest, trying to wrap my head around how unnatural this should feel … and why it doesn’t.
I watch him until the sun comes up—and I quite enjoy it because it’s not something I get to do all that often. He’d give me all kind of shit if he caught me ogling him so shamelessly. He’s ridiculously, unfairly handsome with his chiseled cheekbones, full lips, and the kind of naturally proportional nose that would make an A-lister jealous. I’d run my fingers through his soft, sandy hair and brush the strands away from his forehead if I knew it wouldn’t wake him.
But it hits me after a while, that I’m wasting my time indulging in the idea that we would ever be right for one another.
Not on this planet. Not in this lifetime.
We butt heads about everything.
We’re both too opinionated for our own good.
We can’t have a civil conversation to save our lives ninety-nine percent of the time.
I creep out of bed and scoop my dog under my arm, slow and careful so as not to wake Sutter, and then I head downstairs to make breakfast.
It’s weird, this tit-for-tat kindness thing we have going on, but I can’t let myself read into it. He told me himself, he screws things up. He’s an asshole. I have no business getting attached.
But it’s the strangest thing … the more time I spend with Sutter, the less I think about Nick. The less I look forward to his phone calls and text messages and seeing him again—at least not in the giddy, schoolgirl crush kind of way.
Trekking downstairs, I let my dog outside and rummage through the cupboards until I find a box of Hungry Jack blueberry pancake mix. When I turn to locate a mixing bowl from a shelf beneath the counter, I spot Tucker standing at the threshold between the living room and kitchen.
“Good morning,” he signs, all smiles.
“Good morning,” I sign back. “Hungry?”
He nods.
I point to the pancake box, and he nods faster before taking a seat at the table.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me as I cook for him, as if I’m some famous chef in a five star restaurant and every move I make is fascinating and awe-inspiring.
It makes me think he’s not used to this, and my chest burns at the thought of him never knowing what it’s like to have someone make you breakfast. Obviously, I don’t know what his home life is like, but based on what little information I have about their father, I don’t imagine he’s the type to wake at the crack of dawn on the weekends and scramble some eggs or break out the waffle iron for his kid.
I plate a short stack of blueberry pancakes a moment later and bring them to a wide-eyed, grinning Tucker Alcott.
A second later, I turn back to the stove to start a fresh batch, and I find Sutter standing in the kitchen entry, studying me in a way that he never has before.
And the craziest thing happens—my heart skips a beat.
MY BED IS COLD in the morning. The side Melrose occupied is empty, light, covers smoothed and tucked under the pillow I gave her.
I drag myself up, run my fingers through my hair, and trudge to the bathroom—also unoccupied.
The scent of pancakes and syrup wafts up the stairs, and I get myself cleaned up before heading down to see what Tucker’s roped her into doing this time.
“Look who it is,” Melrose says when she sees me. She’s standing over the stove, flipping what appears to be blueberry pancakes.