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Then I thought maybe I would just leave. Would that hurt him more? If I just up and left? But he must not be hurting at all. He couldn’t be. He left me. He came home, and he left me again. Exhaustion and defeat paralyzed me and froze me in the bed when the bedroom door opened wide again. He shut it, then opened it just a bit. I hate closed doors. How has he already figured that out?
The blanket of his body was all I needed to fall asleep, and sleep hard, last night.
He always gets up first. Always, I chuckle to myself. I say that like we’ve been at this for years. In fact, we’ve woken together less than a handful of times now. I don’t know what is in store for me out there. No idea if this is a beginning or an end or a….who the fuck knows?
He’s in the kitchen, dressed for work. That sends another wave of anger through me. Don’t we need to talk? Doesn’t he have things to explain?
When he turns to face me, I grow slightly less pissed off because he looks like hell. It reminds me these past few days have not been a vacation for him, either. Still, Davis George looking like hell, is the most beautiful sight I have ever woken to.
“What did you do to your hair?”
He shrugs and runs his hand through the choppy layers tousled across his head. It’s still long-ish, still Davey’s sun-kissed golden, but it’s not shoulder-length anymore. No more ponytail. No more man-bun. Just thick layers of his golden waves, the darker brown underneath showing more now. His stubbly beard is thicker this morning. And even with dark circles under those tired hazel eyes, he’s damn gorgeous. Maybe even more so because of all that. Because he looks so raw and real.
“I cut it.”
I smirk at him. Stupid questions deserve stupid answers. He cut it. Don’t women do that all the time after a breakup? Something to signal a new beginning. Or is it a farewell to the old? Am I the beginning or the old?
I step into the kitchen and take his coffee mug away from him. I take a sip and set it down on the counter. I almost spit it back out. That hint of sweetness. Enough to ruin it, but so little that I wonder why he even bothers. But he does. And I know this about him. I love this about him. Dammit. I love every tiny detail about him that I know, and those that maybe nobody else does.
“You know, if you wanted to cut your hair, I have a guy here. He’s pretty good. You didn’t have to go all the way to St. Paul.”
His eyes twinkle, and I reach up and clutch a large chunk of it in my fingers. There’s still plenty there to grab hold of.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I tug it a bit and look into his eyes. “TBD.”
He smiles again. That sweet Davey smile and it fills his eyes and me with warmth.
“I missed you,” it sounds more pitiful than I wish it did. I close my eyes and let my forehead fall to his. My fingers still clinging to his hair.
“I missed you, too,” he whispers. I feel his hand reach around my waist and hold me to him.
“Then why the fuck are you going to work?”
He snickers slightly. “I won’t be there all day. I just need to… I need to be around the ice. I take it you aren’t going to work today?”
I shake my head. “They don’t need me there. They kind of don’t need me at all anymore.” I step away from him and pour my own coffee. “I guess you aren’t the only one who needs to figure out what is next.”
He eyes me with an expression I can’t read. That isn’t the answer he was expecting. He looks a little….scared?…of what that might mean. Good. I want him to be a little scared of losing me. There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he will, but I’m okay with him thinking that for a brief minute or twenty, especially given what he put me through the past few days, and because I still don’t know where we stand, what conclusions he might have come to while standing at Luke’s grave.
Chapter thirty
“Are you home?” Carter’s voice is frantic and he’s out of breath.
“I just walked in, Carter—”
“Grab my keys and meet me downstairs. I’m on my way.”
“What?”
“My keys!” he screams. “They are on the hook by the door.”
“Carter,” I say slowly in an attempt to calm him and grasp what the hell is going on.
“I’ll meet you in the garage in about five minutes. I need towels, lots of them.”
“What?”
