Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  My eyes open, but it takes a few blinks to focus. I shield my eyes from the early morning sun streaming through the window I’m facing. I’m also facing a delicious man who thoroughly ravished me last night. We’re curled on our sides facing each other, feet touching and hands tangled together. As I gently untangle myself, his face softens into a faint smile.

  I wonder if he’s dreaming of me?

  I slip out of bed, stretching like a satisfied cat. With each move, I feel all those tiny stabilizing muscles that always seemed more theoretical than real. I never realized they actually existed. Clearly, my workouts have been woefully incomplete.

  I step into the master bathroom, wondering whether I should flush now or when I hear him stir. I wash my hands and peek outside. No movement. I close the door and flush, hoping he will sleep—he worked hard last night. I check my reflection, moving the collar to check a couple of places where Clint left marks. This shirt is way too big for me, so the collar is wider than mine are. Props to Mr. Crawford—or should I say Dr. Crawford?—for careful placement.

  I didn’t see that whole episode coming. I’ve never done anything like that before—never had so much fun or been so playful—during sex. I’m not quite sure what came over me with the whole naughty nurse thing, or the sex kitten persona in general, but it was certainly well-received.

  The top drawer has a wide-toothed comb, so I used that to deal with the tangled mess on my head. Clint certainly enjoyed having his hands in there. I pull it into a quick braid, tucking the end up underneath since I don’t have anything to hold the ends. I splash my face with some cool water—I removed my makeup and changed into casual clothes before we left my house last night, so I don’t have streaks of eye makeup smeared across my face.

  I enjoy the aches as I stretch my hands overhead. I’m sore, but it was worth it. God, it was worth it. I lean against the bathroom doorway, watching Clint sleep. I lose track of time, admiring his body with a goofy smile on my face. Even his bare feet are sexy. I shake my head and roll my eyes at my hopeless self.

  I sneak out of the bedroom and make my way to the living room to find my bag. A quick swipe of toner and some moisturizer later, and my face feels much fresher. Next up, teeth. I end with my vitamins and some over-the-counter pain relief.

  Might as well see what I can make for breakfast, wake him with the smell of food cooking. Hopefully bacon will be part of that.

  I check the fridge, and sure enough, there is plenty of thick-cut bacon wrapped in butcher paper. No sense in splattering bacon grease on tender body parts covered in thin cotton when you can bake it! A few cabinets and one bread warming drawer later, I have everything I need to start the bacon.

  Now to make coffee. I find that pretty quickly and get it started, then go on a hunt for coffee mugs. I open cabinets near the coffee pot, and I see something taped to the inside of one.

  A recipe.

  I look closer, and the handwriting is elegant. Delicately beautiful. Perfect.

  Amelia’s homemade biscuit recipe. The one she made regularly for her boys. For Clint. Her high school sweetheart. Her husband. Her one and only.

  Until last night, she was his one and only.

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. What am I doing? His words from group, his grief, the complete anguish on his face, his tears—they all swirl in my mind.

  This perfect woman was his one true love. How could there possibly be any room in his heart for me?

  What am I doing?

  It was so much easier when I didn’t have to feel. My heart is rawer, more tender, than any part of my body. I had perfectly good walls around my heart, protecting it from exactly this kind of bullshit. This overload of feelings? It’s exactly why I shut shit down before. I reach deep down inside, searching for a starting point. One piece of me that feels cold. Numb.

  Nothing. Clint has melted every bit of them.

  Am I going to have to open the freezer and stare at ice cubes so I can ice my heart in again?

  I lean over the counter, gasping for breath after this figurative gut punch. As soon as I can breathe again, I’m going to gather my bags, call a car, and get the hell out of here. Excise myself from his life. Quit group.

  Except, that won’t work. Because—dammit—he knows where I live. Where my office is. That I’ll be at our sons’ graduation.

  Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out.

  I regain enough control to lift up on my elbows, head still hanging.

  What am I doing?

  Chapter 11

  Clint

  I wake, gloriously sore and satisfied—but alone. I had plans for this morning wood that won’t happen, unfortunately. My hands reach over to the other side of the well-rumpled bed. Relief washes over me—she left her warmth. She hasn’t been out of bed long.

  The bathroom is open, light off, so I handle my business and wash my hands. I grab a pair of my new silk boxers and a soft t-shirt before heading to find my girl.

  She’s leaned over the kitchen counter, ass stuck out, and my dick gets ideas again. I walk up behind her quietly, hoping she’ll stay in this position as I wind my arms around her.

  Except she’s tense. Like, made of stone.

  We just got all those walls torn down, and I will not stand by while they go back up.

  “Talk to me, darlin’.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “What do you mean, darlin’? Right now, your body is driving me out of my mind. I had plans for when we woke up in each other’s arms, but I had to come play hide and seek instead. I found you, by the way.” I nudge her a little until she turns around. She tries to lean back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest.

  I wave good morning to her pretty little nipples peeking through my undershirt, probably still tender from last night.

  A chuckle escapes her despite her best efforts to stifle it. Her halfhearted attempt at distance failing, I reach for her hips and give the slightest pressure with my fingers. She steps into my arms, hers still crossed over her arms.

  I’ll give her that for now, but I want her to know she doesn’t need to protect herself from me. I’ll be that wall around her, protecting her from whatever would hurt her. Buffering these storms of emotions, helping her weather them.

  “What’s really going on, darlin’? You want your amateur therapist or the man who loves you?”

  “I don’t understand. I mean, you have this perfect woman. Your first. Your everything. She’s gorgeous. Tall. Elegant. Raised two good men alongside you.”

  I let her get it all out, waiting till we hit something that tells me what to address.

  She points to the open cabinet. “Even her handwriting is perfect,” she sniffs.

  Oh, God. I can see how that smacked her in the face after the cozy little bubble we existed in last night. Amelia is everywhere she looks here. Maybe we need to be at her place—no exes ever lived there. Maybe we need a new place with all new memories.

  Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

  “Can we do two things real quick, darlin’? I need coffee something awful if I’m gonna pour out my guts like I need to. And then can we move to the couch? I still want to hold you, but I think I need to sit for this one.” She nods, and I’m pretty sure she wiped her nose on my shirt as she did. I chuckle and kiss the top of her head. My little hot mess.

  We pour and fix our coffee. I take her hand and lead her to the couch, settling her across my lap. Her gorgeous ass is on the couch beside my leg, with her legs draped across mine. It removes the sexual aspect—as much as I hate it, this is what she needs. She doesn’t entirely rust the heat between us, no matter how much she craves it.

  “Amelia was perfect, darlin’. You got that part right. And we were each other’s firsts. If she were still here, we wouldn’t be together. Same as if Philip were here.”

  She’s trying to withdraw, so I hurry to add the next part. “But when they died, they took pieces of us. Broke us in ways that will never heal the same
. The Clint I am today? The Amelia I first met isn’t perfect for her. She’s too delicate. Too perfect. I spent a lot of time focused on how fragile she was. How fragile happiness is. How fragile life is.”

  Her eyes have risen to mine now, hope starting to shine from them.

  “Darlin’, the Clint I am now? He needs his perfect match. The love of this life. A redheaded spitfire who’s so much stronger than she realizes. The woman who can play with me in bed and lighten the mood, just so I don’t freak out at importance of the moment we’re facing. I’d just told you how I reacted the last time I considered having sex. Before things had a chance to go south, you reminded me how much fun flirting can be. You showed me a whole new part of sex and foreplay I’ve never explored.”

  She looks down, blushing, but I see the beginnings of a smile.

  “And that was incredible, darlin’. But it was only the appetizer for what happened next. That wasn’t just sex, darlin’. That was making love. That was forging a connection, a bond. That was everything, darlin’. Everything.”

  I touch her chin, encouraging her to look at me. “That was the reason I wanted to move slowly. We could have had sex before last night—neither one of us were virgins. We knew what we were missing. I don’t know about you, but I am a really big fan of sex, darlin’. But I wanted time to build up a relationship capable of that kind of combustion when we finally came together. So it was more than just sex. So we didn’t just commit because we had sex. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I do. And you’re right about who we are now. I’m not the same person I was when I met Jason or Philip. They changed me.”

  “Exactly. And darlin’?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was committed to you before we made that leap last night. Committed to us.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  We sit in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence now. We sip on our coffee until something catches my attention. “Is that bacon I smell?”

  “It sure is.”

  “How am I smelling bacon if it’s not cooking?”

  “Because it’s baking.”

  I understand what she said, but I want to make her smile. “Of course, it’s bacon.”

  I get my smile. “No, I’m baking the bacon.” She hits the consonants extra hard. “In the oven. Baking.” She lets out a little giggle.

  I squeeze her tight, willing her to understand what we are together. “How much longer?”

  “I need to check it,” she answers apologetically. She doesn’t want to get out of my lap. I’ll take that as a win.

  I follow her into the kitchen. “I’ve got some English muffins in the freezer and some fresh fruit in the fridge. How’s that sound with the bacon?”

  She hums her approval, focused on the bacon, so I pop a couple of English muffins in the toaster. I collect plates, utensils, and napkins, setting the table quickly. Butter, jelly, and cream cheese are on the table by the time the English muffins are toasted.

  Roxie has the bacon on the table and grabs the fruit from the fridge. “Need me to heat up your coffee?” she asks, reaching for the cup I hold out to her.

  I remember I have a few boiled eggs in the fridge, so I grab them and split them between our plates as she fixes out coffee.

  As we sit down together, I take her hand. “This. I want more of this.”

  She’s a little confused. “This?”

  “Yeah, this. The everyday stuff. The domestic dance in the kitchen, passing each other as we move back and forth. Knowing how we take our morning coffee. Or tea. Knowing you want some ginger tea after a heavy meal. This.”

  She smiles. “I want more of this, too.” She smiles and shakes her head ruefully. “If anyone saw all my meltdowns around you and heard your responses, they would never believe I’m the therapist. Or that you’re fairly new to therapy and dealing with grief, while I’ve been in and out of therapy for twenty years—practicing for several more than that.”

  “You know how they say doctors are the worst patients?” My tone is light and teasing.

  “Yeah.” She shoots me a look of mock aggravation.

  I’ve been thinking about this, knowing she’d eventually bring this up. “You know what I think? I think you’re always on guard. Always strong. Always the dispassionate observer who can help your clients navigate their problems. You raised a son almost completely on your own—a son who is a good man—and you’ve been carrying the weight of heavy secrets for a lot of years. You managed that by building those walls to protect yourself. To keep everyone out. But they trapped you in there by yourself, as well. Even though you let Alex in, you never let him see anything except the company areas.”

  “The company areas?”

  “Like the rooms in the house that are super clean and set up fancy for company to see. Like when people used to welcome guests in their parlor, but no one could see the family areas where they did laundry. Or they could see the dining room with the nice china, but not the kitchen with the dirty pots and pans. You let Alex see the parts of you that were strong and put-together. Approved for company. You never let him see you struggle. And that’s how a mom should be when the dad dies and the son is just ten. But when he’s pushing thirty? It’s different now.”

  “He sees through the company area act more now, anyway.”

  “He does. My boys are the same way. But that’s not a bad thing. We raised some good men. Wise. Sometimes they have exactly the answer we need.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But those walls, Roxie? You don’t need them now. You made it through that time by yourself, with a young son. When those emotions were swirling and threatened to drown you. Moving and starting over with your business in a new city. It was too much to deal with all at once. But now Alex is standing on his own feet. Your practice is established. And you’re working your way through all those emotions where it’s safe.”

  Tears glisten on her lashes as she takes in what I’m saying.

  “Roxie, I want to be one of those places where it’s safe to let down your guard. To trust that someone else will stand watch for a while and let you be vulnerable. I’d like to be that person for you. Can you trust me to do that, darlin’?”

  She leans forward, melting against my chest. I catch a muffled sound of agreement, and I could walk on water right now.

  I’m pretty sure she wipes snot on my shirt again.

  I can’t bring myself to give a damn about it.

  We finish our breakfast in relative quiet before returning to the couch. I fix myself another cup of coffee, knowing one cup in the morning is Roxie’s limit.

  “Darlin’, I want to talk about something.” She scoots close to me, needing the contact for emotional conversation. Almost like she’s leaning on me for that. I smile at that thought. “Remember I said sometimes our kids have exactly the answers we need?”

  “I do.”

  Her response makes me happy. “Well, I talked to my boys about something yesterday. I realized something when we were all together, so I ran it past them. Kat, too. They all approved, so I asked Alex his thoughts.”

  She looks confused. “What did you ask them?”

  “Well, I wanted to know if Alex had any objections to my asking you to marry me.”

  I can feel her heart racing. See her pulse jumping in her throat. “And?”

  “And he said he didn’t object to my asking you. But that the decision was entirely up to you, and he’d back your right to—I want to get this quote exactly right—to answer it any way she damn well pleases.”

  She smiles, and it’s like I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face because of it. “Yes, Clint Crawford, I will marry you.”

  I pull her closer and kiss her gently. Sweet. Full of promises. I pull back and lean my forehead on hers.

  “I don’t have a ring for you, Roxie. There’s no sister or best girlfriend to help me surprise you, so I didn’t know how to make sure it was the right size or style. But I do h
ave the money set aside for a ring. I thought maybe we could shop for a ring together.”

  “I really like the idea of picking it out together. Being a team.”

  “We can go today, but the only places that are open nearby or in Louisville are the big chains. They’re a good place to start, unless you want something vintage or unique.”

  “How do you have this info on the tip of your tongue?”

  “It wasn’t so long ago I was shopping with Grant and Bryant for Kat’s ring.”

  She smiles. “Maybe we pick one place that’s fairly close and open today. We start with the size and let me see what’s out there. One of the chains is probably the best place to start. But if we’re there for an hour, and I can tell it’s not going to happen, we’ll call it a day. Go shopping somewhere else with my ring size and a better idea of what I want.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “One more thing for us to consider. I’d rather not elope, which means planning a wedding. We don’t have to set a date, but do we want to think about the general time of year?”

  “Probably depends on how big an event we want to have, right? Bigger means more planning time?”

  “True. I really liked the feel of Grant and Kat’s wedding—not to copy the details, and I’m certainly not brave enough to have an outdoor wedding. But the balance. Not too formal, not too crafty or trendy. And it went smoothly, right?”

  “It did.”

  “And you said the planner was a friend of Kat’s?”

  “Her roommate’s little sister. Still in college, but she’s been doing events a long time apparently. She’s actually here in Kentucky, in Louisville.”

  “Let’s get her information and talk to her. Having a good event planner makes things much easier, and she can help us make decisions. And as far as how big, we’ve got our families as the bare minimum. Everything after that is negotiable.”

  “Small and intimate works for me.”

  “About the date—I know Thanksgiving last year was a tough time for you, but that was also the tipping point that convinced you to get help. That led to our meeting on New Year’s. I’d like to think about a date near Thanksgiving, or near New Year’s.”