Page 85 of Catcher's Lock
But I’m old enough now to know my fucked-up shit is all my own, so I shake my head.
“I think Zombie ate the note you left.” It’s all I can offer, but he takes it with a grateful grin.
“You know, getting off is supposed to make you drowsy and dopey, not put those lines on your face.” Closing the distance between us, he reaches up to trace a finger between my brows. “Don’t go getting all serious on me again.”
A flash of frustration heats my chest, but I squash it down because it’s nothisweakness I’m angry with.
He’s right here. Let yourself enjoy it for five fucking minutes.
“You’re the one who didn’t sleep. How come you’re not drowsy?” I ask.
“I’m leaning into the ‘dopey’ part.” He bites his bottom lip, and when the movement snags my gaze, he waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. “I also have the refractory period of a twelve-year-old, so we can go again, if it’ll keep you out of your head for a little while longer.”
How about forever?
“You’re shameless,” I say, catching his wandering hand before it snakes into my pants. He is. Brash and beautiful in the hazy morning light. I almost believe I can keep him. “But I need toget to the tent. I have actual work to do today.”
He dims in front of me, and I want to snatch the words back, but I don’t know how to make them less true.
This, too, is necessary.
“You need to eat first. Vodka doesn’t count as breakfast. Trust me, I’ve tried.” His self-deprecating smile is back.
“Circus omelets?”
He laughs, a gorgeous sound that scatters the last of the lingering tension. Gem’s “omelets” are hardly worthy of the name—halfway between a scramble and a frittata—but the first time he made me one, he insisted the abomination was a real thing. Since Hals always played along, and because I loved watching Gem crash around the tiny Airstream kitchen, snatching mouthfuls of grated cheese and crunching dropped eggshells beneath his bare feet, I never argued with the concept. Besides, the taste made up for the presentation.
My kitchen is predictably trashed when I emerge from the bedroom, showered and dressed in work jeans and a worn flannel. But it’s Gem standing at my stove, his lower back dimples winking at me above a pair of sinfully tight black boxer briefs, that renders me breathless.
Something pleased and possessive sinks tendriled roots into the spreading warmth behind my ribcage, whispering words likehomeandmine.
“You’re out of half-n-half, so it’s a little dry,” he informs me. “I figured you’d rather have the last of it in your coffee.” Jutting his chin toward the counter, he carries two plates to the table while I try to hide my smile.
I’ve never cared about the state of my coffee, preferring matés for my daily caffeine boost. He’s the one who likes his to taste like melted ice cream. Sure enough, one of the waiting mugs is the barely past black color of dark chocolate, while the other ispractically unrecognizable as the classic morning beverage.
I bring him his caffeinated dessert and take a seat in front of my plate, enjoying the way my knee brushes his bare thigh as I sit. Steam wafts from the messy wedge of golden eggs and melted cheese, carrying the scent of sautéed garlic and onions and making my mouth water.
How many times have I sat like this, stealing glances at the clean line of his clavicles and the shadow of his dark lashes, jealous of each bite that makes its way between his lips? He catches me staring, and the corner of his mouth tips up in a knowing smirk. What a marvel it is to meet his gaze—to bare my own slow smile in return.
Zombie jumps lightly onto the table, nosing at Gem’s half-empty plate. Scowling, Gem flicks the impudent beast’s ear.
“No eggs for you, you little shithead,” he says. “You already got me in enough trouble this morning.”
“Don’t blame the cat for your bad decisions. Who leaves a paper note these days?” I mean for it to come out teasing, but some of my residual fear leaks into the words, masked as irritation. His fingers tighten around his fork, curling it into his palm.
“The same idiot who goes surfing alone at dawn and picks fights he can’t win with closeted rednecks, I guess.” He cuts his eyes away, bitterness seeping through the forced lightness in his tone.
Shit.
I know I’m the only person in his life who never tore him down—who made him my hero even while he broke my heart again and again. Why am I fucking it up now that I have a chance at everything I always wanted? There’s no reason to make him feel shittier about himself when he’s trying to piecethings back together.
But Iam—scared—angry, and I can’t pretend his recklessness doesn’t make me want to handcuff him to me and keep him safe and close at my side.
“Gem,” I start, unsure of how to voice the whirlpool of worry and need churning in my gut.
“I don’t blame you,” he cuts me off, running a hand over his fuzzy scalp. “For not trusting me. I don’t trust me either. I’m probably—definitely—gonna fuck it up again. I don’t want to, but I’m scared that I will, and I know it’s not fair to ask you to keep giving me chances, but I’m asking for them anyway.”
My heart aches at the hopeless plea in his eyes.