Page 74 of Heart Over Heels

I looked at Mercer and found his brow furrowed.

“That’s not true,” I amended. “I tried…at first. I tried for a long time.” My fingers knotted in my oversized shirt, French-tipped nails worrying the fabric. “But I think—I think I might have given up.”

The confession sat heavy in the air and heavier still inside me. It also obscured an uglier truth: I wasn’t just bitter about Maslow, or my helplessness, or my failure. I was jealous.

Zephyr had coaxed big daddy demon Beck into taking up our cause. The leggy, redheaded twinkubus got someone to fight for him and fall in love with him in the span of eight short weeks.

I’d been searching for a century. Wasted a hundred years waiting, hoping, then settling for scraps. I’d watched men come and go or futilely chased after them, only to be left behind every time.

I didn’t want a savior, but Ididwant a partner. Someone who would help me up instead of knocking me down. Someone who would choose me like Beck chose Zephyr.

But I knew how rare that kind of love was, and it hurt to realize that it might never come for me.

Somewhere in the midst of my confession, Mercer’s hand had stilled over my back. He pulled me in, and I lay my head on his chest as the movie played on.

We’d barely reached the witching hour when I noticed Mercer’s breathing had changed. Deep inhales chased tapering exhales, and his body went pliable beside me as he succumbed to sleep. I waited through the film’s ending credits, enjoying the closeness. Finally, I pulled free of him, being careful not to disturb what seemed to be much-needed rest.

Rising, I collected our dirty plates, the empty pizza box and beer bottles, and shuffled into the kitchen. I rinsed the bottles and tossed them in the recycling bin, then folded the box and tucked it in the trash. The s’mores supplies were still scattered about, so I put those away too. Lastly, I checked the fridge for something better than beer—box wine, maybe, or a hard seltzer. No luck. With a sigh, I cracked open another beer and carried it back to the living room.

Mercer dozed while the TV idled on the menu screen. He would have been cozier with a blanket, but a cursory search yielded none. Maybe in his bedroom.

The house was a rectangle with only one hallway, so I couldn’t possibly get lost. I made my way past Molly’s room and the half bath to the door at the end of the passage. It stood open a crack, and I hesitated before nudging my way in.

The dark bedroom was as minimally furnished as the rest of the home, containing only a queen bed with a pair of end tables and a dresser. There weren’t even lamps, just a charging cord to indicate which side of the bed Mercer claimed as his own. The whole space had his smell, soap that may well have been Old Spice and the detergent scent that informed me the sheets were not only made with a precision that could only be described as military, they were also clean.

But still no throw blankets or even a toss pillow. The door on the wall likely led to his closet, but a quick check of that found it stuffed to the gills with a folding treadmill and stacks of unopened boxes.

I spared a passing glance at the en-suite bathroom and found it immaculate. Sparse, but tidy. Soldier boy clearly didn’t need anyone to clean up after him. But there was something missing: comfort. The small touches that softened a space and made it feel inviting. Our rooms at the Dollhouse had suffered a similar deficit when Maslow held the purse strings, but with Beck’s blessing, I was fixing that. My boys deserved to feel well-nested, with things like photo frames and plug-ins so the place didn’t look like a frat house and smell like one too.

Mercer might not have lived under my roof, but he worked under my watch. That made him one of my boys too, and he deserved better than this.

Slinking out of the master bedroom, I started back toward the living area but paused outside Molly’s room. That place felt almost sacred. Set aside. But it called to me. Mercer’s care and the affection he’d woven into every detail resonated deeply.

I peeked past the open end of the hall to make sure Mercer was still asleep, then turned the knob and eased inside.

Once inside, I pushed the door to and flipped on the light.

Pastels and plush textures abounded, and I found myself in as much awe as I had been the first time I’d seen them. Not because the décor was lavish or abundant, but because love lived here.

It was intentional. Curated, like Mercer’s movie choice. He put thought into this room above all the others. My gaze traced over the bed and the plush toys, the rocking chair, the untouched surfaces.

Sorrow lived here too.

I remembered how frantic Mercer had been when he learned I’d met his daughter. His confession—that he hadn’t seen her in some time—carried a pain that echoed in me. I wondered what kept them apart, and what convinced his ex he needed more time to “adjust.”

From where I stood, he seemed more than adjusted.

It didn’t take long to observe all there was to see, and while I would have happily stayed here, there was a very cuddly Marine waiting for me on the sofa. While turning to leave, I noticed the closet door ajar. I moved to shut it, but the bedroom light caught on something inside and stopped me.

I slid the door aside, expecting more of Molly’s things or, with luck, an elusive throw blanket. Instead, I found a pair of crutches leaned against the inner wall and a collapsed wheelchair beside them.

I did a double take, but there was no mistaking what they were.

Why did Mercer have a wheelchair?

The closet was shallow and wide, so all it took was one more tug on the door to reveal the rest of its contents. A khaki duffelbag slumped in the corner, rugged and faded with age. Military standard-issue.

I should’ve stopped there, closed the door, and walked away.