GARRETT
I KNOCK at Emily's door, one of my t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama pants in hand. They'll be too big, but they'll put my scent on her.
That shouldn't matter. Not anymore. Now that I know the situation between her and Patrick.
But it does.
I'm standing here exactly because it's my son's scent all over her.
Because I need to replace it with my own. The ugly truth is that it's driving me fucking crazy that another man had his hands all over her.
As I stand before the door, I tell myself this is about decency, about making sure she's comfortable.
The truth is less noble, though.
I need an excuse to see her again. To stand this close, to breathe her in. I want that sugary warm skin in my lungs. On my tongue, if I could.
She's delectable. Even through the door, her own natural scent is somehow more intense than it was even in the dining room. Even sweeter, more complex.
Just like it was when I kissed her.
