Page 21 of Loving at 40

And where would that lead? I couldn’t get involved with Archer. For one, he had a gun. He watches porn. He’s a total mystery. Plus, I’m a single mother of young girls, and I don’t need a disappearing act like him. He’s the type of guy I’d fall for pre-Ryan. The unobtainable one. The one-night-stand man. I am too old for those kinds of things. I am better as the only one in my life.

But are you really? You wanted him to kiss you, didn’t you?

I curse my long-paused libido and sigh in frustration.

“What’s that sound for?” Archer asks, but I don’t answer him. Instead, I simply shake my head, which hurts to do, and my brows pinch. Pressing my shoulder, Archer nudges me to lower to the mattress, and when my head rests on the pillow, he swipes his fingers through my hair, brushing it off my face.

“Keep the door open,” I whisper, holding his gaze, wondering why he’s being so sweet. Wondering if I can really trust him.

“Not going anywhere,” he states. “I need you to believe I wouldn’t do a thing to your girls or you, okay?” The hesitation in his eyes, along with the strain of his voice, tells me this is important to him. He needs me to trust him, and I do, to an extent. Anna would string him up by his balls if he did something to us. My shy, quiet friend has another side to her when pressed. I also would never let anything hurt my children, not even a sweet man who plays in the water with Rosie or watches a girlie animation with Talia.

I nod to accept his words, and his hand coasts along the side of my face to my neck, curling around my throat before lowering to my chest. The movement reminds me of our first night when he placed his hand over my racing heart before the whole breast-grab slipup.

“I like this,” he whispers as his gaze falls to his hand spread over my skin. I have no idea what he means, and I don’t have time to ask before he quickly stands and mutters, “Sleep, babe.”

He’s not even out the door before I’m drifting off to empty dreams while the heat of his palm lingers over my heart.

8

[Jenna]

I wake with a start, finding the room pitch-dark and the apartment too quiet. Something warm lines my body from neck to knees, curving along my form. Unable to roll to my back because a brick-wall body holds me in place, I realize I’m still in Archer’s bed. Slowly I attempt to sit, but his arm snakes around my waist, halting me in place once I’m upright.

“Where’re you going, ’Locks?” he mumbles without opening his eyes and hardly moving his lips.

“What time is it?” I glance around the dark space hoping for a bedside clock, which I don’t see. Archer rolls to his back and retrieves his phone from under his pillow.

The screen light illuminates his face. “3:33.”

Holy shit. I slept for almost twelve hours.

“Did you give me a sleeping pill?”

His head whips to the side on his pillow. “Do you think I’d drug you?” The offense in his voice tells me he wouldn’t, but still . . . twelve hours.

“Why am I still in your bed?”

“You were dead asleep.”

Quickly, I reach for the covers, finding myself free of restraints before I’m circled again by the strength of his arm around my waist. “Where’re you going?”

“The girls—”

“Fed. Bathed. Bed.”

“You bathed my girls?” I nearly shriek, and his brows crease hard.

“Babe, Anna did it.”

Of course. Oh my God. My heart races.

Slowly, his arm releases my belly. “You think I’m some kind of sick pedophile?” His voice cracks on the accusation. “You think I’d touch your girls?” His tone rises, anger filling it.

“I—”

“Get out of my bed, Jenna.” There’s no ’Locks. No babe. My name clear as day is said with disdain. “You think I’m some sick fuck, get the fuck out of my bed.”

My heart continues to race, and I swallow hard. I’ve insulted him, and I didn’t mean to. My mind just jumped to the worst-case scenario. It happens. I’m a mother. I have girls. We think all kinds of things we’d never want to consider and can’t help imagining. We protect. We sting. My mama-bear claws are sharp.