Merry didn’t say anything, but he did glide his thumb along my cheek to edge the bottom of my lip and then back.

That meant he actually did say something, and what he said was unbelievably sweet.

I fought pressing my lips together or leaning in and pressing everything to him.

It was difficult, not only with his touch but the soft way he was looking at me. Another something from Merry I’d never gotten from another man in my life. And I was glad. I was ecstatic. Because staring into his eyes, getting that from him, if I knew that kind of thing existed and I went for days, weeks, years not having it aimed at me, I didn’t know if I could keep breathing.

This feeling caused me again to blurt out more words.

“I texted you the next day.”

I lost the look as his brows drew together in confusion.

“I didn’t send it,” I told him quickly. “I erased it. But I apologized. I explained. Then I erased it all.”

The look came back, and in those mere seconds from losing it to getting it back again, I became a junkie, knowing down to my bones I’d do anything—any-fucking-thing—to get that look as often as I could aimed at me.

So I kept fucking talking.

“I texted you more. I told you I’m worried I’m not feedin’ my kid right. I told you I tried to get him to eat carrots. I told you that didn’t work.”

Humor mingled with that look in his eyes and, fuck me, that was even better.

“I told you other stuff too,” I shared. “I texted you all the time, without texting you.”

“Glad you finally hit the right button, sweetheart.”

I actually hadn’t.

Or I didn’t think I had.

I was about to explain that to him when a knock came at my door.

I looked that way, and unfortunately, Merry dropped his hand as he twisted to look too.

We were in a part of the living room where I couldn’t see what was in the diamond window, and although the front curtains were opened, our angle didn’t show my stoop.

But I knew who it was. A package had been delivered yesterday for my neighbor on the other side, Bettina. I’d put a note in her storm door. Bettina worked a job where she had occasion to have some weekdays off.

She was probably coming to collect.

“That’s Bettina, my neighbor,” I told Merry, and he looked back at me. “A package was delivered for her.”

I tipped my head to the door where a thin but long and wide box was resting against the wall.

Merry looked, then returned his attention to me.

Another knock came at the door.

“I should give it to her.”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Just be a sec,” I muttered, moving by him, eyes to the floor, my mind belatedly realizing that I hadn’t yet taken my shower that day.

My hair was good. My hair was always good. I had an expert hand with hair and knew the precise quality (but inexpensive) products to use that would make my hair look good, even if I didn’t wash it for a week.