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February
O ne month shouldn’t feel like both an eternity and the blink of an eye. On one hand, it feels like only yesterday that I woke up in the hospital. On the other, each day of trying to heal has felt like time has dragged on at a snail’s pace.
I officially moved in with my boss’s brother the same week she temporarily moved in with her ex, who is now possibly her current boyfriend. Kenna and Cadence are staying with Griffin until he’s healed from his knee surgery and goes back to Colorado. He surprised her with a house he purchased here in Minnesota over Christmas, and they’ve decided to live there together while he’s rehabbing his injury.
I could tell Carson had mixed feelings about it. He assured me he loves the idea of Griffin and McKenna working things out, and for Cadence to have her parents raise her together. But I still felt as though he was anxious about the change.
The first few days I lived with Carson were spent resting, and meeting with his dad when I felt up to it. My divorce has been filed, and my order of protection has been granted, but unfortunately Aaron was released on bail until his hearing for my assault. I can’t help but feel like I’m more skittish than ever, constantly looking over my shoulder and jumping at each and every sound.
“Do you need anything before I head to bed?” Carson’s unexpected question startles me, causing me to let out a yelp.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, holding up his hands.
“No, it’s okay. I was just so lost in my book, I didn’t hear you,” I try to reassure him, shaking my head as I take a deep breath.
I’d curled up on the couch in the living room after I saw Carson had started a fire. He’s been doing that almost every night he’s been home since I moved in. It’s almost weird how quickly we’ve fallen into a routine—it shouldn’t be this easy to find comfortable companionship with someone I’ve only known for about six months.
It’s only when I look up from my book that I notice he’s staring at me with that same look of worry he’s had since he answered his front door on New Year’s Day.
“I’m okay, Carson. Thank you for asking though.”
“I’m curious,” he pauses before asking, “What would your perfect day look like?”
I pause to think about my answer. “That depends on the mood I’m in.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. If you’re having a down day, what would be the perfect day to make you feel better?” he questions, and it catches me off guard.
“When I’m feeling down, or having an off day, I like to double down and have a lazy day. Sometimes my favorite days are ones where I don’t leave my sweats, I can hear the sound of the rain hitting the windows, and I snuggle up with a good book.”
“Tell me, Austin, what do you consider a good book?”
I’m not sure why he insists on calling me Austin. I’ve told him multiple times now I’m from Dallas.
“I’m admittedly a sucker for the classics. But I have a list of books I’d like to read that’s a mile long.”
He taps his pointer finger to the side of his temple and says, “Storing that tidbit away for a rainy day. Pun intended.” We both chuckle at that. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? A blanket? Or a glass of water?”
I set my book down and reach for my water bottle with one hand while holding up a piece of the blanket draped over my legs with the other.
“Right,” he claps his hands together in front of him before nodding toward the steps. “I guess I’ll just head to bed then. Goodnight, Austin.”
My lips turn up into a smile at his caretaking antics. He’s gone out of his way each day to ensure I’m comfortable. Even when he’s on the road and I’m staying at Griffin’s house with McKenna and Cadence, he’s texting or calling me to see how I’m doing.
“I’ll actually head up with you.”
“Okay, I’ll turn off the fireplace and double-check the alarm is set,” he says.
I’m not sure if he tells me that he set the alarm each night for his reassurance or my own, but I appreciate it either way.
While he’s doing that, I fill up my water bottle and get one for Carson.
“Here,” I say as I hand him his.
He takes it and flashes that bedazzling smile of his at me. “Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s a water bottle, Golden Boy. Don’t look too much into it,” I tease. When his smile becomes too much to look at, I cast my eyes to my feet and clear my throat. “Besides, it’s the least I can do for letting me stay here rent-free. I’m going to figure out a way to repay you.”
Carson gently lifts my chin with his fingers, and I reluctantly meet his gaze once again. His voice is calm and reassuring as he says, “Dakota, I respect the hell out of you, so I don’t mean any disrespect when I say this, but your money is no good here. The only repayment I’ll accept is the assurance that you’re safe and healing.” His sincerity bleeds through with each word he says. I nod my head in acceptance, unable to speak past the lump forming in my throat.
We don’t say another word as I reluctantly step away from his grasp. I instantly miss the warmth of his touch as we head upstairs together to get ready for bed. At the top of the steps, we both turn right down the hallway that leads to our respective bedrooms. Mine happens to be across the hallway from his bedroom, with Cadence and Kenna’s being on the opposite end of the upstairs.
I pause in front of my door and take a deep breath. Keeping my back to Carson, I say the words that Carson has said to me each night, “Sweet dreams, sleep tight, I hope you dream of me tonight.”
He chuckles softly before murmuring, “As long as they’re filled with thoughts of you, they will be as sweet as ever.”
“You’re such a stupid fucking bitch. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? It wasn’t enough to get caught up in your trashy little fantasies? No, it wasn’t enough for my wife. Instead, you needed to go whore yourself out to my boss’s fucking son! Well, now you’re going to pay for making me look like a goddamn fool,” Aaron says as the back of his hand strikes the left side of my face.
The force of the blow causes me to fall to my knees. I’ve barely touched the ground before his dress shoe connects with my ribs once, twice, three times. Pain slices through me with such vigor I forget how to breathe.
“Get the fuck up and properly accept your punishment.”
Grasping on to what little strength I have, I try to get my feet under me. My attempt is feeble, and that only seems to spur his anger further.
“I. Said. Get up. You fucking bitch,” he spits out, wrapping his fist in my hair and lifting me from the floor. My scalp throbs when he releases my hair, but the throbbing is quickly replaced by a shooting pain down my spine as Aaron punches my back before catching me around the throat to prevent my fall back to the ground. His grip around my throat tightens, and it’s at this moment that I know he’s going to kill me.
Fight. I need to fight back.
Black dots begin to cloud my vision, but I push past it as I reach down and grab my stiletto pump off my right foot. Aaron doesn’t see it coming as I drive the sharp heel behind me. As soon as it makes contact with his head, I don’t hesitate. Without sparing a glance back, I grab my purse from the ground and use every bit of strength I have remaining to get myself the fuck out of this house. Once I make it inside my car without him following, I realize the contact must have done some damage or temporarily stunned him.
“Austin. Hey, hey, shhh, you’re okay,” Carson whispers as he wraps me in his arms. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”
I open my eyes and use Carson as my focal point to gain my bearings. I’m safe. I’m at Carson’s—he’s right here, and Aaron isn’t.
Carson’s bare chest. Carson’s ocean eyes. Carson’s clean-shaven jaw. The sound of my pulse thundering in my ears. The sound of Carson’s quick breaths. The soft pattering of rain from my noise machine. The feel of the soft sheets beneath my legs. The warmth of Carson’s arms wrapped around me. The hardness of his muscular body pressed against mine.
I take a deep, calming breath as the fear from the flashback slowly recedes.
The same week I moved into Carson’s house, I began seeing a therapist twice a week. Tasha has already taught me so much, but the 3-3-3 rule—three things I can see, hear, and touch—has been an absolute life saver on nights where I relive it all over again.
“I’m right here,” Carson reassures me again as he rubs his palm up and down my back.
I try to speak, but my throat feels raw from what I can only assume were screams in my sleep. Clearing my throat, I start to apologize, “I’m sor—” but Carson stops me.
“Please don’t apologize for something you have no reason to apologize for. You were having a nightmare. I’m just glad I was here.”
If only it were a nightmare—a mere figment of my imagination, fear conjured up by my subconscious—instead of a flashback from a very real moment I couldn’t wake up from. Instead of saying that to Carson, I move to sit up against the headboard.
“When I’ve had nightmares, it’s helped me to watch TV. Do you want to watch something together?”
I only hesitate a moment before nodding in agreement.
In an attempt to make me feel better, Carson smiles as he jokes, “We can Netflix and chill, but like, truly just chill. Though, I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to use my smooth chest as a pillow. It’s pillowy soft. I get it waxed, and my mom got me this new lotion for Christmas that makes it feel like butter.”
Shaking my head, a small laugh slips out. I know his humor is his attempt at making me feel better, and I appreciate it now more than ever.
The TV above my dresser lights up before I hear the trademark ta-dum as the Netflix logo appears on the screen.
“Let’s see, we’ve both probably watched far too much Cocomelon this week, so that’s out,” he says, waving the remote in the air as he scrolls through our options. I chuckle again at his theatrics. “Oh, I feel like this is something you’d like. We could try to watch an episode, it looks like each one is about an hour long. That should help take your mind off your bad dream.”
His attempts to ease my mind are endearing. But when I look at the screen and see Bridgerton queued up, I laugh so hard that a very unattractive snort slips out. My cheeks flush as I cover my nose in disbelief that I just snorted in front of one of the most attractive men I’ve ever laid eyes on. “You can’t be serious,” I tell Carson.
He furrows his brow in confusion. “What’s wrong with this? I thought you’d love something set in nineteenth-century London.”
“I would. I mean, I do—the Regency era is one of my favorites.”
Carson cuts in, “It’s the Reputation era. Not a personal fav of mine yet, just because she hasn’t released the Taylor’s version. I’m more of a Speak Now kind of guy, if I’m being honest.”
Is he seriously talking about Taylor Swift right now? In the few weeks we’ve lived together, I’ve learned Carson is a diehard Swiftie.
“What? I wasn’t talking about Taylor Swift’s eras, I was talking about the Regency era, which is when Bridgerton takes place—in nineteenth-century London.” I turn onto my side to look at him. “Do you know what this show is about?”
A cocky smirk spreads across his face. “Of course I do. It’s just like Pride and Prejudice . A simple caress of a hand will make viewers melt.” He proceeds to dramatically fan himself with his hand.
Oh, I can’t wait to see his reaction.
“You know what? You’re right, I think the first episode would take my mind off of my nightmare.” My smile is devious and probably makes me look unhinged, but Carson just shrugs and presses play.
As the opening scene plays and the narrator begins to speak, I quickly realize watching this with Carson will be interesting, to say the least. I haven’t watched the show yet, but I’ve heard enough about it and read the series it’s based on.
“Oh, I love an English accent. I used to have my Siri settings be a British accent,” he informs me.
I side-eye him on his next line of commentary. “I can already tell Eloise is going to be my favorite. She’s feisty.”
Not a minute later, Carson straight up gasps at the scene unfolding in front of us where Anthony Bridgerton is in the throes of passion.
“What is he doing? Are they fucking? Against a tree?” He pauses the show, and the screen freezes on Lord Bridgerton’s bare ass as he fucks his mistress against a tree. Carson looks over at me, and I must be doing a terrible job of hiding my humor because he says, “Oh my god, Austin! You totally knew there would be full-on fucking in this, didn’t you? Have you watched this before?”
My last thread of constraint breaks when I see the perplexed look on his face. I cackle hysterically, so much so that my healing ribs become sore, and I have to hold onto my left side for support.
“Ouch, it hurts,” I say as I continue to laugh through the pinch of pain.
“You swindled me, didn’t you?” he questions but chuckles right along with me.
Once I get a grasp on my dignity, I breathe in through my nose and answer him. “I haven’t watched the show but I have read the books. It’s also rated TV-MA for a reason.”
“I thought you read the classics. I didn’t realize you dabbled in smut like my sister.”
His comment immediately puts me on edge as I wait for his ridicule to follow.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, he asks, “What are your favorite romance tropes?”
“How do you know what a trope is?”
“My sister talks about the books she reads, and over the past few months we’ve lived together, she’s talked to me about them a lot .”
“I’ve been meaning to ask her what she’s reading, but I didn’t want to be awkward. Sometimes people think reading romance is taboo, which I experienced firsthand with Aaron.”
Carson’s jaw tenses at the mention of my soon-to-be ex-husband. In hopes of distracting him, I answer his question. “I’m a mood reader, so I like a little bit of everything.”
“Wait, you can read moods? Do you read auras, or how do you do it?”
At first I’m puzzled by his question. Auras? What the heck? And then it clicks. “Oh my gosh, I can’t read moods, Golden Boy. I’m a mood reader, meaning what I read depends on the mood I’m in.” I start to laugh again, and he just stares at me.
“You have the most beautiful laugh,” Carson blurts, his cheeks staining the slightest shade of red in the darkened room.
I become bashful at his compliment. “Thank you,” I say as I stare down at the bedding covering me. Clearing my throat, I continue, “My favorite tropes are small-town romance, friends-to-lovers, forbidden love, and, if I’m feeling up for it, a mafia romance.”
“What about hockey romances?” he asks and wiggles his brows.
“I have yet to read a hockey romance. Mostly because I don’t know much about the sport. But I’ve read more football romances than I care to admit. Oh, and bonus points if it’s a brother’s best friend football romance. Have you ever seen a man wearing football pants?” I’m only teasing, but I’m curious to see how he reacts. When I was with Aaron, I would never dare to joke about the idea of another man.
Carson scoffs. “Very funny, Austin. I know your love for football runs deep. And the football pants are indeed appealing. But have you ever seen a hockey player’s bubble butt and tree trunk thighs in a pair of five-inch inseam shorts?”
When I just stare back at him, he chuckles. “Stick with me, Super Nanny, and you’ll be in for a real treat this summer.”
With that, Carson presses play, and Anthony Bridgerton’s bare ass has nothing on the mental images swimming through my head of Carson Wilder in said athletic shorts.
Lord, have mercy on me.