Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,285

front of the little screen and watched Jack grab something from the crib and cradle the weepy Cooper against his chest.

“You want to rock a little bit? OK, OK.” He disappeared from view. A few seconds later, the fussing stopped. And the singing began.

It was soft at first, and I leaned toward the monitor to hear it better. At first, I didn’t recognize the song—something about a whippoorwill—but after another line or two, I clapped a hand over my mouth, my heart pounding. It was the Hank Williams song that we’d heard in the truck yesterday on the way to the market. He’d sung along then, too. He had a nice voice—deep and melodic with just the right amount of grit.

Goosebumps blanketed my arms. I put a hand over my heart, surprised my chest was still flesh and bone since I felt as if I were melting. I’d never heard anything so sweet.

A lump formed in my throat.

Give me a chance to make you happy, Jack.

Let me try.

Jack

I rose to my feet, careful not to jostle my sleeping nephew. Cursing the wood floor that creaked beneath my feet, I tried to avoid the spots I knew made noise as I made my way to the crib. After laying him down on his back, I kissed my fingertips, touched his forehead and quietly slipped out of the room.

I found Margot sitting on a kitchen chair, one hand over her heart. When she saw me, she clapped the other one over it. Looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

“Fuck. I forgot to turn off the monitor, didn’t I?”

“I can’t talk, I’m a puddle.”

Groaning, I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. All I wanted to do was get my hands on her (and various other body parts) but it didn’t feel right in Pete and Georgia’s house, so I needed to find something to occupy them.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. Your secret sweetness is still safe with me.”

I eyeballed her as I uncapped the bottle and took a drink. “It better be. Want a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

“Glass of wine?”

She hesitated. “I hate to drink Pete and Georgia’s wine.”

“Why? They got free babysitters tonight.” I pulled a bottle down from the rack above the fridge and showed it to her. “This OK?”

“Looks great. Thank you.”

I uncorked the bottle and poured her a glass. “You hungry? I was going to order pizza.”

“Pizza sounds perfect.” She smiled, and it was perfect. Her hair in that long blond braid was perfect. The way she held her wineglass was perfect. The way she’d kissed my shoulder last night and told me I was the bravest person she knew was perfect. Pizza was fucking dough and sauce and cheese. It didn’t even taste as good as she did.

I’d lain awake the entire night thinking about her. About us. I thought I’d feel good that I hadn’t given into the urge to stay with her again, that I’d been strong enough to resist that temptation, but instead I just felt miserable. Restless. Lonely. In the past I’d found a kind of solace in those feelings, but not last night.

Last night, I’d just missed her.

I thought about the days we’d spent together, the way she made me laugh, the way she listened to me. I wondered when I’d see her again, what she’d be wearing, what we’d do. There were places I wanted to take her, things I wanted to show her, songs I wanted her to hear, foods I wanted her to taste. There were curves on her body I wanted to kiss, filthy words I wanted to whisper to her, things I wanted to do to her. But I wanted to listen to her, too. Wanted to know about her dreams, her hopes, her memories. And I didn’t have a lot of time—a week, that was it.

I made up my mind not to waste any more of it.

Because when she left, that would be it. I’d sleep alone again every single night for the rest of my life. I’d suffer for my sins. The loneliness would be all the worse for having had these days and nights with her, so in a way, she would become part of my punishment.

A friend in the Army once lent me a copy of The Prophet by Khalil Gibran, and it resonated with me so much, I’d bought my own copy when I came home. I thought about this one particular line a lot: The deeper that sorrow carves into