Page 14 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Seven
OREN
My bedroom looks as though a small tornado hit it. Clothes tossed everywhere, half of them folded, the other half discarded, some tried on and rejected, and others still warm from the dryer.
I should’ve packed last night, but instead I stood in front of the mirror, cycling through outfits as though I was auditioning for America’s Next Top Little. Too babyish? Too grown-up? Too “Please adopt me, Daddy”? Ugh.
In the end, I land on my trusty overall shorts and a Marvel tee—the one with all four Heroes in tight spandex suits that bulge in all the right places. It’s comfortable, playful, and I don’t have to suck in my stomach. Win-win.
Socks? I’m not choosing. I scoop up every pair I own and dump them into the bag. Keane can’t ask for a report if I’ve brought the whole damn inventory.
At the last second, I reach for my journal—the one with the embarrassing cover and the even more embarrassing insides. Pages of dirty bedtime stories no one’s ever seen. No one except maybe… if I’m brave… someday… him. I slip it between my socks like contraband.
But I can’t zip it shut yet. Not without debating The Duck. Quackers has been with me since I was nine years old, bedraggled and floppy but loyal through every move, every heartbreak, and every nightmare. He deserves to come. But if I end up in a tent with Keane… will he think I’m pathetic? A grown man with a stuffed animal? My stomach twists.
I’m still clutching Quackers in indecision when a knock rattles the door.
Keane’s voice calls out, “Oren? You ready?”
Panic detonates. I scramble, trying to shove Quackers under a pillow, but he slips out of my arms and lands with a soft, traitorousplopright by my bag.
“All ready!” I call out brightly, opening the door.
Keane steps in, and the room recalibrates around him as his broad shoulders fill the doorway. He’s still wearing his jacket, tie loosened as if he’s already anticipating the weekend. He smells faintly of clean soap and something warmer underneath—coffee, maybe, or leather. His presence isn’t loud, but it’s decisive, like gravity deciding where things belong.
With one glance, I’m hooked. Not just interested. Not just curious.Hooked.
My eyes land on his handsome face and refuse to move, like my brain has suddenly forgotten how to look anywhere else. He’s bigger than I expected—not just tall, but solid in a way that makes the space around him feel smaller. His hair is darker than it looked in the picture, a little mussed like he’s run his hand through it on the drive over. And his eyes—God. I want to lose myself in them.
My stomach does a weird, swooping drop. My pulse jumps somewhere up near my throat. Even the air feels different, like it’s suddenly thicker, harder to breathe.
This is the man whose words have been living in my phone for weeks. Who calls me kiddo as if I belong to him. The one that makes my shoulders loosen and my thoughts slow down.
Seeing him in person is… a lot. Too much, maybe.
His eyes sweep over the room and land—of course—on the duck.
“Not yet,” he says, crossing the room in two strides. He scoops Quackers up without hesitation, tucking him under one arm as if this was always the plan. With the other, he lifts my duffel easily, as though it weighs nothing at all.
“Now we’re all set.”
Something tight in my chest gives way. My throat closes, not with panic this time, but with relief so sharp it almost hurts. Just like that, Keane made everything okay. Not because he fixed anything—but because he saw it. Sawme. No laughter. No pause. No shame.
All thanks to Quackers.
The car hums along,and I try to swallow my nerves before they bubble up into a mouth-disaster. Keane must sense it, because he leans back in his seat, calm as ever, and says, “Why don’t you pick the music, kiddo?”
I fumble with his phone when he passes it over, nearly dropping it in my lap. My hands are too shaky for something so simple, but he doesn’t comment. I scroll through his playlists and pick one that feels neutral: oldies, a mix of nineties rock and soft pop. Daddy music.
“Now drink some water,” he says next, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. He reaches for the bottle in the cup holder and hands it to me. I unscrew the cap and take a long gulp, throat dry from all the nervous swallowing.
“That’s better,” he says, satisfied.
And for the first time all morning, I actually breathe.
We drive a few more miles, music filling the space, when Keane glances over at me with a quiet smile that makes my tummy feel squishy.
