Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“My immediate plan is to go to bed, jack off, and then sleep.”

“I’m thrilled to know that.”

“You asked,” I point out.

“I meant with Mariah.”

Of course, he meant with Mariah. I just don’t want to answer that.

How do I tell him on the heels of telling him I can’t have kids that watching her with Betsy today made me wonder what she would look like holding our baby? I wanted to know what if felt like to be Eric and standing at lunch with my wife and child?

That I never wanted to know what that would feel like until I met Mariah.

There’s an emptiness in my soul, a hollowness I haven’t felt since Britt left me shortly after the accident. When she told me she loved me but couldn’t imagine not being a mother and packed her bags and left for LA.

That hurt. That felt like an ice pick straight in the gut and I didn’t even necessarily want to have kids with her. It was a talking point only. A possibility after two years together. But imaging those words coming out of Mariah’s mouth seems to hold a whole hell of a lot more potential to inflict a pain I couldn’t absorb.

I also couldn’t live knowing she’d never know the sound of a baby’s heartbeat from inside her womb. Or what it was like to buy maternity clothes. Or the feeling of being sick in the mornings from incubating a life inside her because of me.

Sure, there are sperm donors and all kinds of other ways to be a parent and that’s all fine. But I couldn’t give that to her and that kills me. It feels like I’d be lacing my problems onto her and I wouldn’t do that to anyone.

“I need to go to bed,” I mutter, squeezing my temple. “Can you let yourself out?”

“Yeah.”

Shuffling to the doorway, I partially lambaste myself for drinking so much and partially rip my own ass for not going back in the kitchen and finishing off the bottle.

“Lance?” Peck calls out behind me.

“Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry.”

I head off down the hall. “Me too, Peck. Me too.”

Twenty-One

Mariah

“What did you make today?” Tish breezes in the doorway, catching me before I head to the lounge for my lunch. She peers over the tin of desserts. “Lemon and red velvet?”

“It was a long weekend.” I type away at the keyboard to avoid her gaze. “Help yourself.”

I almost called in sick today. The anxiety of seeing Lance almost got to me. I was up all night, until a quarter to four, thinking about this mess.

If I only think about the good parts, a smile graces my lips that I can’t wipe off. If I think about reality, it fades pretty quickly.

“What’s that all about?” Tish asks, pointing my way.

“What’s what?”

“That snarl.”

“It’s not a snarl,” I laugh, giving up the typing ruse and turning to face her. “You’re a pain in my butt.”

“Mhmm,” she says, biting into a lemon bar. “These are good.”

“Thanks.”

She finishes off the piece before dusting her hands over the trash. “Now spill it, sister.”

“I have nothing to spill.”

Her hand settles on her popped-out hip. She gives me her no-nonsense look.

Looking out the door, I don’t see Lance. I’m typically downstairs and back up in about 4 minutes from now and he’s waiting for me. Whether he will come up today or not, I don’t know. But I don’t see him.

“Tish, let me ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“When you were dating around, would you ever have messed around with a man who you knew wasn’t what you wanted?”

“I’m going to need more to go on.”

Sighing, I look out the door again. “Let’s say you wanted to settle down, have a quiet little life somewhere. Raise a family. That kind of thing. And then you met a guy who just … makes you laugh and smile, makes you feel confident in yourself. I don’t know how to explain it. But what if you knew that guy was never going to be the guy in the little house with the little kids.”

“I’d say he was a waste of time then.”

My heart drops. “Exactly.”

“Unless,” she says, pulling her shirt snug over her chest, “he looked like him.”

“Who?”

“Hey, ladies,” Lance calls, stepping inside my office. “Do I not get my two, three minutes of privacy in here before you come in?”

“Yeah, Mariah. Step outside so Lance and I can have our private time,” she coos, ending it with a laugh. “Looking sharp today, Mr. Gibson.” She steps around him, mouthing something I can’t even begin to make out as she leaves the library.

My palms sweat as I take him in. Dark pants and a crisp white shirt with a green tie the same color as his eyes hanging down the center. The tie is loose, like he’s been working it all day.