Page 53 of A Little Crush (The Little Things #6)

JAXON

H alf-asleep, I roll toward Rory’s side of the bed but find the sheets cold.

Shit. I pry one lid open, confirming what I already know.

She isn’t here. Why isn’t she here? The sheets pool at my waist as I sit up, scanning my bedroom.

It’s empty. The bathroom light’s off, too, so she didn’t slip away to use it.

Unease coats my insides, and I plant my feet on the cold wood floor.

After slipping on a pair of boxers, I head toward the hallway.

It matches the pitch black bathroom, proving how early it must be, though I didn’t think to check the time before beginning my search.

When I notice Rory’s purse on the kitchen counter, my muscles loosen, and I turn into the family room, finding Rory curled up on one of the chairs closest to the fireplace with Hades sitting at her feet with his head in her lap.

When she feels my presence, she looks up and smiles, though I don’t miss the way she keeps running her fingers through Hades’ fur. “Morning.”

She’s here. She didn’t leave. She didn’t run.

“What time is it?” I rasp. My voice is still rusty from sleep .

“Just after five.”

I rub at the corner of my eye. “Why are you up so early?”

“I’m always up this early.”

“Always?” With a yawn, I drop my hand to my side. “Rore, it’s still dark outside.”

“I know.” She peeks out one of the large windows as it showcases the lack of sunlight. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“No worries,” I reply. “I’m sorry I didn’t wear you out enough last night to sleep in for once.”

A quiet laugh escapes her. “You wore me out plenty.” Shifting on the chair, she flinches. “Trust me.”

Grimacing, I stride a little closer but stop myself from reaching out and touching her completely. “You sore?”

“I’m okay.”

“Liar,” I argue. “Let me get you some painkillers, or?—”

“I’m okay,” she repeats. “Seriously.”

She isn’t, though I can’t put my finger on what’s bothering her. Not quite. Something tells me it has little to do with her broken hymen, though. “You should come back to bed with me.”

She shakes her head. “Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just…getting to be that time again. You know?”

I frown.

“5:34 a.m.” She sobers. “I almost thought I’d sleep through it this time, but…” Her shoulder raises a few inches. “Try telling my brain that, right? I’m awake now, and my OCD is rearing its ugly head, so here I am, trying not to spiral. I wish there was a way to just…ignore it.”

Ignore it. The time. I want to ask why she’s so obsessed with that particular number.

5:34 a.m. Why it matters. Why she can’t sleep.

Then, it hits me. Archer’s death. It happened before dawn.

He was on his way to the airport for an early flight.

It must be the reason that particular time is significant.

And I hate that I didn’t know. That I didn’t notice Rory’s odd sleep schedule.

We’ve shared a hotel room several times. I should’ve noticed. Shouldn’t I?

“That’s when your parents got the call, isn’t it.” It isn’t a question. It’s a fact.

“That’s when I looked at the clock after they woke me up to tell me to get dressed so we could go to the hospital,” she clarifies.

“5:34 a.m.” Her sigh is heavy and forced.

“When I close my eyes, I can still see the bright green numbers. Haven’t slept past that time since.

It’s like my internal clock knows, you know?

” She shrugs again, choosing to stare out the dark window. “Well, my internal clock and my OCD.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I know it’s not real, but my brain keeps telling me that if I sleep past it, if I’m not awake and alert and waiting for 5:34 a.m., it’ll trigger another horrible phone call or something, and even though I know it's not true,” she repeats, as if she’s already caught in the loop, “my body still decides that having a panic attack is the best way to handle it.”

“So, what do you do?”

With a shuddered breath, she glances at the clock on the microwave, her fingers digging deeper into Hades’ scruff along his back.

“I sit and stare at the clock, trying not to hyperventilate as I relive the longest sixty seconds of my life,”—she gulps—“praying the phone won’t ring like it did that night. ”

Understanding washes over me as I stand here, helpless. She fights this every morning? Every. Fucking. Morning. And I had no idea?

I move closer to the unlit fireplace, so I can reacquaint myself with the girl I held the night her brother died.

Because let’s be honest. I haven’t seen her as the Squeaks I once knew since she reappeared for Maverick’s wedding.

Sometimes, I forget they’re one and the same.

That the little girl who followed me around is the woman I slept with tonight.

Like right now, when I’m caught between feeling helpless and determined to take away her pain and discomfort like I’ve done a hundred times before.

And I have. I have taken her pain and discomfort a hundred times before.

So, what’s stopping me from doing it again?

Careful not to step on Hades, I hook one arm beneath her knees and the other around her upper back, pick her up, twist around, and plop back onto the chair with Rory cradled in my lap.

She’s wearing my clothes. A pair of boxers and a T-shirt she must’ve stolen from my room when she snuck out of bed this morning.

The realization soothes my fucking soul and eases the irrational guilt hanging over me from not knowing about this particular compulsion until this morning.

“Let me sit with you,” I murmur. This time, her sigh is less forced and more content as she rests her head against the crook of my neck.

“Mmm,” she hums. “You smell good.”

I kiss the top of her head and breathe in deep, appreciating the scent of my cologne clinging to her hair. It might not be as addictive as her natural scent, but the idea of marking her, even in as subtle of a way as my cologne, makes me want to puff out my chest and pound my fists against it.

Mine.

The word feels foreign, yet so fucking natural, I’m not sure how to wrap my head around it. So, I don’t. Instead, I focus on the woman in my lap, anxious to help or at least slow down the chaotic loop her mind is stuck in.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“Exhausted,” she admits.

“Close your eyes.”

“Jax.”

“You don’t need to go to sleep,” I argue.

“You only need to close your eyes.” She stays quiet as I slowly run my hands up and down her spine, her body relaxing more and more with every passing minute.

I want to tell her nothing bad will happen.

That she’s safe, and I’ve got her, and her family’s fine, too.

But I know it’ll only feed her compulsion, making it stronger and more stubborn until she feels like she has no choice but to wake up earlier and earlier in preparation for the time she dreads until sleep is nothing but a luxury.

I’m not sure how much time ticks by when Rory’s breathing becomes faster instead of slower. It’s as if she can feel the minutes bringing her closer to 5:34 a.m., despite refusing to give in and check the official time.

“Do you remember when I told you I wanted to coach instead of going pro?” I say in hopes of distracting her.

She nods against me, but her breathing is stilted. Forced. “You were so nervous.”

“I was,” I mutter, lost in the memory. “I was freaking out, Rore.”

“I remember.” Her words are so quiet I’m surprised I hear her. I can’t decide if it’s because she’s reliving the moment, or if it’s because she’s too distracted by the time ticking on her internal clock—and the literal one glowing from the microwave in the kitchen—to focus on our conversation.

“Did you know you were the first person I told?” I prod.

“I was?”

“Yeah.”

She lifts her head to peek up at me. “Why?”

I hesitate, wondering the same thing. I never thought about it before. Not until recently. “I’m not sure. I guess you felt…safe.”

“Safe?”

“I don’t know. I guess I knew that…if there was anyone who could accept me and my decisions no matter how illogical they seemed, it was you.”

“You’re many things, Jaxon Thorne,” she whispers. What little light is in the room makes her round, doe-shaped eyes practically glow. “Illogical isn’t one of them.”

“Turning your back on something you worked years for felt illogical at the time.”

“Maybe,” she concedes. “If you’d actually done that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pivoting isn’t the same thing as quitting, Jax. You followed your gut and took the road less traveled, and look where it got you.”

“Yeah.” My attention dips to her mouth. Look where it got me. With a girl who’s ten years younger than me sitting on my lap. Am I crazy for wanting her here? For feeling the way I do? “Do you remember what you told me that night?” I ask.

“You mean, after you admitted you were terrified to tell your dad you weren’t going to the NHL like you’d both planned for your entire life?”

My eyes thin in a mock glare. “I’m not sure I used the word terrified, but…”

A smirk tugs at the edge of her mouth. “I told you that you were meant for more than following in your dad’s footsteps and being a silly hockey player.”

“Which is when I told you that if any of our family members heard you call them a silly hockey player, you’d be thrown in time out,” I remind her.

“Which is when I told you they could put me in time out for however long they wanted as long as you were happy with your decision, and I stand by it. The question is, are you happy?”

Am I happy? The question catches me off guard.

I’m divorced. I’m a single father. I’m failing at my job, or at least it feels that way.

And I’m secretly hooking up with my nanny, who’s also my boss’s daughter.

By all counts, it seems like my life has imploded.

But am I happy? Would I want to be anywhere else?

With anyone else? The answer leaves my chest tight and my head feeling like it’s floating in the clouds.

“Yeah, Beautiful. I think I am.”

My fingers dip beneath the stolen T-shirt and glide across her bare skin as I memorize the feel of her, every dip, every inch, before pushing her hair behind her ear.

She leans into my touch, and I swear the organ in my chest skips a beat.

I check the time on the microwave. “Would you look at that. You made it. It’s 5:42 in the morning and no panic attack. ”

“No panic attack,” she confirms. With a deep breath, she lifts her chin and waits for me to kiss her. After I do, she whispers, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Rore.”

And fuck, do I mean it.