No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

At least I wiped them off beforehand so they no longer smelled like radioactive gas station nacho cheese.

But with Eli hovering around, I haven’t had a chance to tell Alaska about The Menagerie and the vault yet.

There was a certain sweetness to last night.

I got to see Alaska and Eli as they prepped for bed, laughing while Alaska ordered Eli into his pajamas and then raced to see who could brush their teeth the fastest.

Eli’s such a thin twig of a boy next to his massive mountain of a father, but you can see Alaska in his face.

In the way he laughs.

In the way he grins, and in the way that grin reaches his eyes, lighting them up like autumn dusk.

Considering what they’ve been through, it says everything about what Alaska’s done to protect his son that Eli can smile so happily and easily.

He’d fallen asleep fast while Alaska sat at his bedside and watched him with a tender warmth that made me feel like an intruder witnessing something private and sweet that was never meant to be seen by any casual observer.

I hovered in the doorway, caught by the scene they made in the soft lamplight. Eli struggling to keep his eyes open, mumbling something about a heron he’d seen on a pond in the woods but hadn’t managed to photograph, hoping it would be back tomorrow.

Alaska looked down at him with half-lidded eyes and attentiveness.

Eli grasped Alaska’s wrist as he slipped away, and Alaska turned his hand to catch those small fingers in a protective, gentle squeeze, as if saying It’s okay. Rest, my son. I’ll guard you while you sleep.

Why yes, my heart was shredded freaking ribbon.

So I’d excused myself and slipped off to bed without saying good night, trying not to tear up from the adorable scene.

Alaska’s made a life that’s kinda beautiful with his son.

Meanwhile, I’m a girlish time bomb, tossed into their life and tick-tick-ticking, threatening to blow all their beauty and love and sweetness to smithereens.

Still, I can’t help clinging to the sheets for a little while longer, trying to swat away my worries.

Every time I’ve gotten close to him there’s the same warm scent. Like the minty warmth you’d get from burying your face in a freshly washed husky’s ruff.

That’s Alaska’s smell, and his bed oozes it like rich cologne.

I don’t care if it’s a little crazy.

I bury my face in the pillow and inhale him, trying not to dwell on the fact that this is every kind of wrong.

I shouldn’t want anything to do with him, knowing what a menace I am to his world.

I shouldn’t give in to the fluttery feelings winding through my chest, then tightening as they sink lower in my belly in hotter, angrier waves.

I shouldn’t be drunk on his animalistic man-smell.

Really, I shouldn’t anything.

But a lady can indulge. And right now, this lady bathes in the fantasy where I’m this harmless thing along for the ride, imagining all the ways he’d look pressing me into this mattress.

No harm, no foul.

I also need to pretend the world’s still normal and I’m not responsible for a dragon’s hoard in gold, which means getting up and going to work.

It’s just before dawn, the sky through the window a shade of melted pink with a shimmer of gold-spritzed blue on the horizon.

I should probably wait for Alaska to wake up so I can talk to him about the plan, the vault, and letting Ember and Doc in on things.

But I can leave him a note, right?

God.

Why am I running so hard from a man who isn’t even chasing me?

I wrinkle my nose in self-disgust. I’ll just—I’ll make coffee and breakfast then.

It’s the least I can do to thank him for his help, and if I run into him this morning, we’ll talk. If not, well...

I guess I’m living here now—I made a promise—so we’ll see each other tonight.

That Gavin guy wouldn’t dare make another run on the gold after last night, if Langley even lets him out of the drunk tank today.

So I slip out of bed and steal a shower before getting dressed and heading into the kitchen to poke around. There’s a lot of flour lying around in the cupboard, eggs, nuts, chocolate chips, a few bananas.

Pancakes it is.

Once I’ve got the water boiling for a French pressed coffee brew, I make short work of whipping up batter and doling out large dollops in a skillet. About halfway through, I catch the sound of movement from down the hall, the door to Eli’s room opening and heavy feet scuffing the floor.

Since the couch is bare, Alaska must’ve slept there last night, lolled out on the floor in his sleeping bag.

Looks like we’re talking this morning after all.

I listen to the sounds of him in the shower—but I’m still not ready for the moment he comes padding out of the hall in nothing but a thin towel.