Page 26 of Came the Closest
“Hey,” Colton says.
“Didn’t we already say that?”
“No. Well,” he amends, “you did. Then Justin stole the spotlight.”
“You say that like you don’t do the same thing.”
His smile is as comfortable as my favorite oversized pajama t-shirt, soft and familiar and worn to perfection. “You wanted to talk?”
Right. I nod and turn away from him. Impulsively—or maybe reflexively—I reach for the yellow dish rag again, despite the kitchen being spotless. I can’t help it; I clean when I’m nervous or stressed. If there was one thing Stephen said I did right in our marriage, it was always keeping our home tidy.
Large, calloused fingers close around mine and a bearded jaw snags on my hair. “Put the rag down, Cheyenne. You clean when you’re nervous, and if I’m making you nervous, I’m going to leave.”
I inhale sharply, shuddering at his proximity. Stephen always praised me for being such a good wife, for keeping our home clean and ready to entertain at the drop of a hat. But never in our two years of dating or two years of marriage, did he have the decency to recognize that it was one of my unhealthiest habits.
Colton, on the other hand, stands close enough for his arm to press against mine from shoulder to pinkie. His chest isn’t touching my back, but it should be with the way my skin burns. His awareness of my nervous tics makes me want to turn around and bury myself in him, to feel his arms gather me close and his chin on the top of my head. To let his familiarity shore up my strength. Colton might be a drifter by nature, but for more than half my life, he’s been my anchor.
Instead, I step away from him and say the one thing that’ll put necessary distance between us. “I think you should take Milo.”
Even facing away from him, I sense his shoulders tensing. “Cheyenne…”
“No. I mean it.” Bunching the washcloth in my hand for strength, I turn to look at him. The helplessness drooping his shoulders breaks my heart a little. “He needs you, Colton. I know you don’t want to stay here—”
“I can’t stay here.”
“—but what if you didn’t have to?” My heart thrums against my ribcage. “At least, not all the time.”
“Cheyenne, I’m a straight shooter. Don’t talk in circles with me.”
“What if I nannied for you?”
Silence meets my question. The refrigerator hums and the pipes under the sink gurgle, but Colton says nothing. His expression doesn’t shift much, making it impossible to read what he’s thinking. Longing burns steadily in my chest for the days when it was impossible to not know his thoughts, becoming a physical ache I can’t rub away.
“And,” I continue, purposely breaking the silence, “you could live at the lake house for the summer. You and Milo.”
His jaw tightens. I don’t even know if I’m ready to face the lake house without Dad. To avoid the third step because it creaks and only pop half a bag of popcorn so the smoke alarm won’t go off. But for Milo, I will. I haven’t even met the child, and I already know he will keep a piece of my heart long after summer ends.
“Is that all?” Colton asks neutrally. Too neutrally to determine what his answer might be.
I itch to run the washcloth over the donut crumbs on the table. I resist and nod instead. And, because I’m only a woman and my once best friend is objectively good looking, I notice how his light blue t-shirt pulls tautly across his chest when he reaches up to scratch his jaw. His hand settles at the back of his neck, and that sticky warmth returns, pooling low in my belly.
I know what that hand feels like settled heavily into the curve where my waist and hips meet. How oddly soft his beard is when he kisses the tender skin behind my ear. What sound he makes deep in his throat when I run my hands up his muscled torso. Funny how easily you forget what you wrote on your grocery list, but you remember, with startling clarity, something that has no relevance to you anymore.
“Look, Cheyenne,” he starts, and my heart sinks. “I understand where you’re coming from. I really do. But—”
“Don’t say no,” I cut in. I hate the pleading in my voice, but I don’t try to hide it. “Not yet. Take a day or two to think about it, and then give me your answer.”
“Cheyenne, I have to be engaged or married to accept the guardianship.”
Oh.
I say nothing, because I have nothing to say. Colton made it clear since he was late in his teens that he didn’t want marriage or a family like I did. If engagement or marriage is stipulated in his mother’s will, it’s a nail in a proverbial coffin.
Salt burns my eyes, and I look away, the dishcloth turning blurry in my line of vision. Another chance at motherhood, if only temporarily, is being taken from me.
He sighs and rubs the nape of his neck again. “I’m supposed to give Indi an answer tonight, but it’s going to be no. She and Milo are fine staying at Dad’s, but other arrangements will have to be made. She’s eighteen. She doesn’t need to be responsible for a child.”
Just like that, my chance is slipping through my fingers. I mean, yes, the engagement or marriage thing complicates it. But surely there’s a workaround.