Colton (Cerberus MC #14) - Marie James Page 0,27
but I’m not ten, and I know the problem won’t disappear when I leave the room.
“No way,” I argue, pausing for them to start laughing and let me in on the joke. “You’re too young.”
The kid swallows, but it’s clear he’s deferring the conversation to Colton.
“Rick, why don’t you take the trash cans down,” Colton instructs, his eyes never leaving mine.
“The trash doesn’t run until Monday,” Rick argues.
“Now, Rick.”
The kid grumbles under his breath, but he disappears, the front door opening and closing less than a minute later.
“I swear to God, I thought he was your brother.” My throat is thick with emotions I don’t have the time to analyze, and the backs of my eyes burn with unshed tears.
“And that would make you coming out here half-naked okay?”
“I have on your boxers,” I assure him, pulling up the hem of the shirt so he can see I’m telling the truth.
His eyes flare, a sharp intake of breath whistling from his nose. He pushes away from the doorframe, inching closer, and it forces me to take a step back.
“I feel like a pervert,” I admit.
“He’s seen more on Netflix,” Colton whispers, his eyes still on my legs. I drop the shirt, letting the fabric kiss the tops of my thighs. “He’s not some protected baby.”
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, blinking with shame when his eyes meet mine.
“He’s a lucky boy,” he continues as he draws closer.
My butt is now against the counter, and even though he’s still several feet away, I feel like a caged animal.
“I would’ve given a year’s worth of allowance at his age to walk into the kitchen and find you grinning at me.”
My fingers tangle in the fabric of the shirt, nervousness winning out over anything else. Is this where he throws me out? Tells me he never wants to see me again because I was creeping on his teenage son.
“He looks older,” I justify. “He has a beard.”
“He has stubble because he hasn’t shaved in a month.” Colton lifts his hand to his own chin. “He hit puberty earlier than most. He had a mustache at thirteen.”
“His name is Rick?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.
“Yes.”
“Mother?” I look around the kitchen, noticing the lived-in feel of the space. The curtains have lemons on them, and there’s a spoon rest on the stove for shit’s sake. Tears threaten to fall. “Does she live here? Are you still with her?”
This isn’t a bachelor pad. Men don’t have seat cushions on dining room chairs, do they?
“I’m not a home-wrecker,” I whisper, the very first tear falling from my eye.
No wonder he stopped the flirting that very first day.
God, dinner last night? I let myself believe it was a damn date.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me?
Me?
What about him?
I stand to my full height, my false bravery betrayed by the fingers still twisting in the shirt.
Oh God, his shirt.
“I’m not married,” he says, his body now mere inches from mine. “Only Rick and I live here.”
“Where’s his mother?”
He shrugs but doesn’t offer up any more information.
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen.” My brow scrunches together, and he must see that I’m trying to do the math in my head. “Conceived at eighteen, born at nineteen. We were twenty when she decided she no longer wanted to be a mother or a wife.”
This is the divorce he mentioned. My heart cracks for him as a man, but splits wide open for their son to not have a mother.
“How did I not know you were a single dad?”
He licks his lips, and it leaves me distracted.
“You are single, right?”
“Can you put the shirt down, Sophia? It’s a little distracting.”
I gasp when I look down to not only find my fingers tangled in the shirt but also that they’re only about an inch or so away from his crotch.
“Shit,” I hiss and release the shirt.
His chuckle washes over me, but I nearly stop breathing when I look up and see the heat burning in his eyes.
Chapter 11
Colton
Did she even realize her fingers brushed the front of my jeans?
I didn’t miss it. The split-second touch has my blood singing in my veins, but she looks like she’s about to cry.
I want to wipe away the single tear that’s rolling down her cheek but that would be a mistake.
Bringing her here was a mistake.
Having her in my home is a mistake because I’m seconds away from scooping her up and carrying her back to my bedroom.
“You didn’t tell me about him,” she whispers, her head hanging down,