Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“Yes, please.”
He takes Maxwell into his arms like he’s been doing this all along. That’s something I’ve noticed. He’s adapted to the news so well, too well. It makes me wonder if he understands the scope of what it means to be Maxwell’s father.
Of course, I could come up with assumptions, but I have a feeling that Noah will want to be a part of every step. Many things are within my control, but this is not one of them anymore, and I’m okay with that.
He guides me through the space—kitchen, dining, bar area, which granted, he’s twenty-five and single so a bar makes sense, office, guest bedroom, and then he finally opens the last door at the end of the corridor. Angels aren’t singing. It’s quite the opposite.
I think this is where sin comes to life. “Oh wow, Noah.” I walk into the bedroom. “It’s stunning.”
Sexy and soulful. Like the man.
A gorgeous walnut wood-framed bed. King sized. Doesn’t surprise me. The walls are the prettiest shade of deep brown bordering on black. It’s rich and comforting, like Noah’s arms wrapped around me at midnight. The heavy drapery matching the paint color has me thinking you wouldn’t know if it were day or night when they’re closed. Muted gold accents the room and a plush rug is tucked partly under the bed but would keep the feet cozy when walking around barefoot.
I say, “Your room is the opposite of mine in color palettes, but I really love it. Warm and inviting. Homey but high end.” I go to sit on the bed and decide to lie instead. “I bet it’s so cozy in here in the winter.”
“Guess I’ll find out in a few months.”
He sets Maxwell down who immediately pulls at the bedding and brings a pillow to fall like a rockslide. “Sorry.”
He picks up the pillow and tosses it on the bed. “It’s okay. It’s his home too.”
The sharp stab of reality has me taking a breath, holding in any initial negative reaction I might have. I close my eyes and let myself feel what I need to feel to help move past the moment. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
While he starts packing a bag, I lie there thinking about how hard it’s going to be to drop off my son and leave him here. He climbs onto the bed next to me, and our eyes meet when we turn to look at each other. His hand slides over to take hold of mine.
The stillness.
The comfort.
The peace.
It’s not a small feat, but he manages to settle my racing heart merely by his proximity. We stare into each other’s eyes, not needing to say anything to fill the space. It’s filled with spinning thoughts and shared breaths.
He pushes over to kiss me.
Like every other time we’re together in this way, he manages to share the fire that burns inside him with me, igniting more complicated feelings. It was never no-strings attached with him. Now I realize that was not a possibility. The desire to attach myself to him in ways that could be called stringy surges through my veins.
When it comes to us, it’s getting harder to separate fact from fiction because he has me believing in the fairy-tale ending. But that’s not who we are, not at our cores. We aren’t that naive. Things haven’t gone according to society’s expectations, but they’ve worked out how the universe planned.
I need to be careful . . .
We’ve had fun for the past twenty-four hours. Noah gave me grace and jumped feet first into a life I’ve kept secret. He’s been here for us, fully showing up when I told him the truth. But come Monday, he has his own life again. A life that only includes Maxwell. Noah isn’t mine and doesn’t owe me anything, so where does that leave me?
I roll over to move closer to him, wanting to make the most of the time we do share. His hand slides over my cheekbone and weaves into my hair. Holding me still, he kisses me with intention and pressure, and then slows, ceasing altogether.
He pulls back, though the tips of our noses are so close that our breaths still mingle. “What’s on your mind?” he asks.
I let my gaze drop between us because it’s so much easier to stare at his shirt than look into his eyes. There’s too much truth to discover in his irises, and I just want to play house with him for a bit longer. “What’s not on my mind?”
When we hear, “Dada. Mama,” our eyes flit back to each other because we know it’s time to go. I lift, not any happier than he is about ending this so early, but we don’t need any little witnesses to the confusion of our relationship.