Page 49 of Buckin' Around

“No. Your mental and emotional wellbeing cup. My thera?—”

“You have a therapist?”

He turns to the stove, giving me his back.

“You saw how my parents are. I’m surprised you didn’t need one after a single visit.”

He’s joking, but his tone carries no amusement. When he turns back, neither of us are smiling. Me, because I don’t know any of these people well enough. And him, well, he looks... sad.

“Tell me about this cup of mine,” I prompt, hoping that will take away the solemn expression on his face.

He leans on the counter, reaching for a drawer and pulling out ketchup.

Who puts ketchup in a drawer?

Spencer Lockwood, apparently.

“Your cup is like a measure of your mental and emotional capacity at any one time. If it’s full, you have lots to give. Lots of mental space. Lots of care and compassion, equity for others, you know. When it’s empty, because you’ve been, oh, I don’t know... taking care of a baby all by yourself for days without a break, it’s empty and you have nothing left to give. You get it?”

Huh, that’s oddly very logical.

“I get it. So, how do I refill this cup of mine?”

“Let other people take care of you for a change.” He slides a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. “And take time for yourself and do things that bring you joy.”

Something has hijacked my body. I sit tensed, fork in hand, gut sinking as my heart picks up its pace. I don’t know if I can let go like that. I’ve never...

My gaze alternates between the plate of food that has my stupid mouth watering at max speed and Spencer, who is now shoveling eggs into his face as he smiles around each bite.

Okay, is it just me, or did something fundamental shift with this man over the weekend...

I fidget in my seat before looking down at the food. But when my stomach growls loud enough to raise one of Spencer’s eyebrows, I sigh and pluck up the fork. As the bacon hits my tongue, I can’t help the moan that tumbles from my lips.

Spencer’s amusement drains instantly, his gaze turning heated as he swallows his last mouthful, eyes pinned on me. I pretend the heat on my face doesn’t exist.

Like it shouldn’t.

Spencer’s watching TV with Ivy on his chest when I get home from class, his head tilted to one side as some ball game plays on mute. He doesn’t glance my way as I move toward the sofa and drop my bag onto the floor behind it.

Ivy is out cold. Her little pink onesie is covered in strawberries. My favorite outfit of hers. I had her in a blue one with clouds when I dropped her with Mrs. Henderson so I could make my afternoon class. Spencer collected her after cutting out early from work.

Not that he told me. Mrs. Henderson rang to tell me, saying he hadn’t wanted to bother me.

Confused is what I feel around this man most of the time, these days.

I peel off my jacket and hang it over the back of the sofa at one end.

Spencer’s huge hand resting on Ivy’s back dwarfs her. She looks so tiny, lying on his big frame. The muscles in his forearm flex as she wriggles in her sleep, keeping her hugged to his chest.

I wander to the pantry and grab some chips before making a beeline to the sofa to join them.

Flopping on the sofa, I ask, “How is it that you aren’t at work, anyho?—”

Oh shite. Riley, you eejit . . .

The man is sound asleep. Ivy wriggles, her little blue eyes popping open as her mouth does the same, and the pacifier falls onto her daddy’s lap.

Oh fuck . . .