Page 59 of Cockpit
“But I didn’t—”
“A fight is a fight, Luke. And staying up is a privilege, and privileges aren’t given when you use your fists to solve a problem.”
Luke huffs loudly and looks to me. “Are you going to the Harvest Festival?” he asks me, his eyebrows raised and hope in his voice that makes me say yes just so I don’t let him down again.
“Yes. Doesn’t everyone go?”
“See you there,” he says and then squeals as Grayson moves swiftly to pick him up and throw him over his shoulder.
“Let’s go, monster. Tell Miss Sidney good night,” Grayson says and already has a foot on the first step of the stairs.
“Good.” Luke giggles as Grayson tickles his ribs. “Night.” Another bout of laughter floats down the stairs.
I sit there and stare at where they just were, my mind frozen on how damn sexy the sight of Grayson carrying Luke off to bed is.
They must have spiked my bottle of water.
That can be the only reason those foreign thoughts are filling my head. Kids are not cute. Dads are not sexy. Up is not down. So why am I still sitting here, slowly swiping dozens of Minecraft figures into a big tub while the sounds of Grayson putting Luke to bed upstairs fill the space around me?
Why am I still here? Is it because my place is so quiet and here I was able to listen to Luke talk nonstop? Or is it because now that I’ve seen Grayson, I feel the need to prove to him I’m not who he thinks I am . . . even when I’m still struggling with proving that to myself.
The problem is now that we’re going to be alone, I have no clue what it is I need to say.
Goddammit.
I stand on the bottom step and watch her. Watch the woman who showed up looking nothing like the Sidney I know and exactly like the one I would want to know. She’s wearing blue jeans and a yellow tank top. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail. She looks like she belongs in our neighborhood—in this house—drinking beer from a bottle instead of wine from crystal in the palace she comes from.
Even worse, I want her.
I’ve sat here all night long, begging myself to hate her, when all I can think about is how much I fucking want her.
Doesn’t that make me the asshole?
This is on her. Every single fucking part of it.
She staged the kiss. She planted the picture. She’s here to sweet talk me into doing the damn photo shoot for her. She’s here to ease her own goddamn guilt because her manipulations hurt my son.
She. She. She. She. Can’t say it surprises me.
Well, screw that.
Isn’t that the problem, though? That’s what I want.
Christ. I’m doing nothing but running myself in circles. I rake a hand through my hair and remind myself I’ve walked down this road before. I paid the price. Luke is still paying the price for it.
Still, what I can’t quite wrap my mind around is why she didn’t bail? She really sounded like she cared about Creepers and Villagers and Steve Blocks when I thought she’d be out the goddamn door the minute I told her Luke didn’t know the picture in the paper was of her.
I study her as she cleans up the figures and hate that she looks like she belongs here. In my house. At my table. The normalcy of the moment. It’s a blatant slap in the face of what exactly I’m missing in my life . . . what I’m making Luke miss out on, and it erodes the desire eating away at me.
When I clear my throat, she drops the last handful into the bucket and turns my way—lips parted, cheeks pink, eyes surprised.
“You can stop pretending you like him now. Your guilt can be absolved. You can go.”
“But I do like him.” She rises from her seat and takes a few steps toward me.
“Cut the act, Princess.”
“What’s your problem, Malone? I came here because I heard about Luke and I felt bad that something I did hurt him.”
