Meet Me Halfway(58)

An hour later, I was curled up on the couch. The still-unfinished baby blanket was sitting in my lap, and I had a crochet hook clenched in my fist, but I wasn’t focused on a bit of it. My eyes were too busy watching back muscles flex and shift underneath a white shirt while Garrett moved about my kitchen, cleaning up dinner.

After we’d all annihilated our meals, he’d pushed back from the table, grabbing each of our plates and all but told me to get lost. I’d argued, demanding he was my guest, and I could clean my own dishes, but he’d turned that intense, unblinking gaze on me until I relented.

“Go relax, Maddie. I mean it. No homework. No cleaning. Go put on your PJs and curl up. I got you.”

So here I was, curled up on the couch, “relaxing,” while a man took care of the cleaning. It reminded me of my parents. For as long as I could remember, my dad had always said if my mom cooked, he’d clean. Watching Garrett do the same felt domestic. But more than that, it felt normal and right. And that scared the hell out of me.

I wasn’t sure how long I stared at his working form, but he eventually turned to look at me, a towel slung over his shoulder. “How long do you think you’ll be working on that?”

I frowned at the untouched project in my lap. “I’m not sure. Probably up until Jamie goes to bed since you didn’t give me much of a choice.” I raised an eyebrow pointedly. “Then I’ll have to study. I have a test this week.”

He nodded, folding the towel into a rectangle any perfectionist would appreciate, and rested it over the stove handle. I scooted over to make more room on the couch, but he didn’t come toward me. He went to the door and shoved his feet into his untied boots.

“Wait…you’re leaving?” Why was there a hitch in my voice? The man had no reason to stay, I was lucky he’d stayed as long as he did and helped clean up.

“I’m just going to grab something. I’ll be right back.” And with that, he dashed out the door, his departure pushing a gust of cold air through the living room and making me shudder.

Jamie’s door instantly opened. “Did Garrett leave?” He tried to ask it nonchalantly, but I could hear the mild disappointment in his tone.

“No, he said he had to go get something. You finish cleaning up your room?”

He stared at me, sighed, and walked back in his room without a word. I was still chuckling when Garrett barged back through the front door carrying a grocery bag and setting my furry security alarm off.

Giving Rugpants a small scoot with his foot, he ambled toward me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was nervous.

“Please tell me that’s dessert.”

He froze, looking down at the bag in his hand. “I can go get dessert if you’d like.”

“No, thanks, I’m much more interested in what you have.” I smiled at him, and a blush dusted his cheeks, which only made me smile wider. “Come on, show me.”

I patted the cushion next to me, and he fell onto it hard enough to make me bounce. He scratched his chin, his nails scraping against the stubble. “It’s not perfect.”

“All right.”

“My second one is turning out better.”

I shoved his shoulder, which rocked me back rather than moved him. “Oh my God, Garrett, just show me.”

Darting one more glance my way, he untied the plastic handles and reached in, pulling out a blue bundle and handing it to me.

“Is this…a baby blanket?” I laid it out flat in my lap over my own. Although it wasn’t a perfect shape from several stitch miscounts in the middle rows, it was definitely a blanket.

He rubbed the back of his neck, “I told you it was bad.”

I gripped the blanket to my chest, eyes wide. “You made this?”

He nodded, pulling out a second, partially finished one in the same color. “This one is turning out better. It’s way harder than you made it look.”

I squeezed the first one tighter, pushing it against the chaotic beating in my ribcage, trying to settle the rogue organ. “What made you decide to learn to crochet?”

He nudged my knee with his own, a half grin peeking out. “The organization is important to you, and you seemed upset to be donating less than your usual amount. I thought I’d help.”

“How are you single?” The question burst out of me with such force, I was surprised I didn’t scream it. But even so, I couldn’t have stopped the impulse to ask if I’d tried. It didn’t make any sense for this man to be single. None.

He didn’t answer at first, scooting back to lean against the cushions and pulling the attached skein and hook out of the bag. He wrapped the yarn tail around his fingers and pulled up a loop, beginning a slow, slightly unsteady, row of single crochet.

Watching the way his fingers worked the hook in and out of the stitches was pornographic, and I had to do a self-check to make sure I wasn’t drooling.

“I was engaged.”

The desire to stare at him and see the subtle changes in his face was almost debilitating, but I knew how difficult it was to discuss the past while someone studied you.

Forcing myself to pick up my own project, I said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” His voice was gruff and firm, but he continued working on that squishy blanket with intense focus. “We’d only been together half a year when I proposed. I’d fallen quick and hard and was about to deploy. My desire to have someone miss me deluded me into thinking she could fill that role.”