Sustained(34)

She blinks up at me slowly. “Pretty please?”

And the fissure has now become the Grand fucking Canyon. Damn it.

I clear my throat and softly sing the One Direction lyrics that have been buzzing in my head for days like overcaffeinated insects.

“Everyone else in the room can see it . . .”

My voice is too deep and haltingly awful.

The boys groan in tortured unison. Riley perks up from the recliner and turns my way, suddenly interested. Chelsea covers her mouth and I just know she’s giggling under that hand. But Rosaleen . . . her baby-blue gaze warms me down to the marrow of my bones. Because it’s thankful and adoring and brimming with hero worship.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours, she’s smiling.

So I continue. “Everyone else but you . . .”

I finish the goddamn chorus. Rosaleen applauds softly and Riley sighs dreamily. “Best song ever.”

Chelsea gives up trying to hold it in and giggles out loud.

I glance over my shoulder at her. “I hate myself right now.”

• • •

Early Thursday morning, a little over two days after the plague began, Chelsea is back on her feet. She’s just out of the shower—her hair is still wet and smells fucking incredible. That clean shampoo scent with a touch of vanilla body wash makes me want to lick her from head to toe and every inch in between. And that’s not even a little exaggeration.

She’s wrapped in an adorably big pink fluffy robe, cinched at the waist.

We walk down the stairs and stand in front of the door.

“You sure you’re feeling better?” I ask.

“Yes. I can take it from here.” She nods, her eyes soft with gratitude.

I’m heading out early—I have to stop at home and shower, then be in court in three hours. The kids are better. Still not out of bed or back to school, but they’re not puking their body weight into a wastebasket every two hours, either. So . . . progress.

Chelsea rests her hand on my arm, and maybe I’m just really fucking tired, but my skin seems to tingle beneath her touch. I can’t imagine how good it will feel on bare skin . . . wrapped around my cock. I’m absolutely going to have to jerk off before I see her again.

“Thank you, Jake. Again.” She shakes her head, looking frustrated. “I’ll never be able to repay you.”

I can think of a few ways.

I wink. “Actions do speak louder than words. And are so much more fun.”

“You’re right.” She squeezes my arm softly. “Which is why I’m going to make you the best dinner you’ve ever eaten—to show you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for us. Friday night. Will you come?”

Oh boy, will I come. She has no idea.

But I pretend to think it over. “No tofu, right?”

Chelsea grins. “No tofu.”

I lean in, closer to her ear, making gooseflesh rise on the exposed skin along her collarbone. “What were you thinking for dessert?”

Her voice turns sultry as she plays along—and plays well. “What do you like, Jake?”

“I’ll eat anything with whipped cream on top.”

She blushes, and a laugh bubbles from her lips. “I’ll be sure to stock up.”

I push her damp hair back behind her ear. “Good. And I’ll bring a movie to keep the kids occupied. Riley mentioned they never saw Goonies, which is just straight-up criminal.”

“That’ll be perfect.”

I gaze into Chelsea’s ice-blue eyes. “I really think it will be.”





11


I get out of my car in front of Chelsea’s house on Friday night. And not to sound like a total douche, but there’s a spring in my step. A lightness in my mood. I’m excited. Looking forward to this evening with Chelsea—and, yes, with the kids too. Sure, they’re half a dozen little cockblockers, but they’re funny. Smart. In general, pretty awesome.

The fact that there’s a really good chance I’m going to finally get laid doesn’t hurt, either.

I knock on the door, holding a bouquet of white roses and the movie in one hand.

The door opens, and in front of me stands a tall, tan, lanky guy with strategically tousled dirty-blond hair, a white T-shirt, saggy jeans, and a shark-tooth necklace.

He lifts his chin in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Who the fuck is he, and why is he answering the door? “Where’s Chelsea?”

He steps back, opening the door wider, turning his head. “Babe! There’s a guy here.” His brown eyes turn my way. “A big fuckin’ guy. What do you bench, two fifty?”

“Something like that.”

I step past him, lowering the flowers to my side, feeling like an asshole for having them.