Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Emery.” He reaches for me, fingers brushing my elbow, but I move closer to the edge of the bed.
“I…I normally don’t blurt that out or tell, well, anyone, but since we, since, you know…” I wave my hands in the air, flustered and ashamed. I turn to see his face—tight and intense. “My ex, um, he hinted he wanted to propose and well, I thought…it just never seems like a good time to share that but um, he took it hard and was pretty cruel about it. Accused me of…well, it doesn’t matter. I should’ve known it could be a deal-breaker. I just thought…never mind. It ended badly. I hate talking about it—”
“Emery.” He stops my wild rambling with his warm, confident voice. “I think you’re perfect the way you are.”
One simple sentence. And from Declan, I believe he means every word.
“Thanks,” I mumble, hurrying to the bedroom door. Feeling exposed, vulnerable, and unbelievably stupid, I grab the first article of clothing I encounter—Declan’s T-shirt—and throw it on so fast, I get tangled in the sleeves. My elbow smacks into something hard and unforgiving. “Ow. Dammit,” I curse at the doorframe.
“Emery—”
“Be right back,” I call over my shoulder, finally wrestling the shirt into place and escaping the room without banging into anything else.
I hurry across the hallway and burst into the bathroom, safely closing the door behind me before the tears fall.
Dammit, I thought I was over this.
I take care of business, stop crying, and wash all sadness from my face with a blast of icy cold water, then check the mirror. Except for red-rimmed eyes, I don’t look like I’ve been crying.
After a few deep breaths, I open the door.
And find Declan waiting for me, arms folded across his bare chest. Apparently, he has no qualms about exposure. He didn’t bother with a stitch of clothing.
“Your ex is an asshole,” he says.
“Agreed.”
“Good.” He holds out his hand. “Now come back to bed with me.”
I’d be nuts to turn down that invitation.
I grasp his hand and hurry to keep up with him as he leads us back to his bedroom.
The door closes with a quiet thunk. Declan’s fingers graze my thighs as he lifts the shirt up and over my head.
“Hey!” I protest.
He lets out a sexy caveman-style grunt and points to the bed.
Shaking my head, I dive under the covers, rolling to the far side and prop my head on my hand. He slides in slowly, his gaze never leaving me.
When he’s settled, he turns on his side, watching me with a raw, open intensity. “I’ve never wanted kids, Emery.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
He flicks his gaze to the ceiling like he’s searching for patience or maybe the right words. “I’m not saying it to hear myself talk.”
That’s true. Declan doesn’t seem to say anything he doesn’t mean.
“I serious,” he continues. “And usually when women hear that, they think they can change my mind which is, honestly, fucking annoying.”
I let out a small huff of laughter. How many times have people offered me their unsolicited advice or opinions? “I can imagine.”
“This curse. My family’s curse. It ends with me.”
I open my mouth to fill the silence, then stop. How much do I hate it when well-meaning people try to tell me I’ll change my mind, or share the name of some wacky fertility herb I should try? Why would I do that to him when I know how awful it feels?
Besides, his curse might end. Mine won’t.
“I understand,” I say.
We lie there, facing each other, the space between us small but intentional. His hand rests on the mattress near mine, not touching, close enough to choose if we want to.
For now, that’s enough.
I let my eyes close, enjoying his solid presence beside me.
Whatever comes next doesn’t have to be decided tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Declan
Morning light cuts across the kitchen floor, pale and cold, catching on the edge of the counter. Emery claimed one of the stools and seems to like watching me while I cook breakfast for us every morning. Her bare feet dangling, toes brushing the bottom rung. This morning, she’s wearing one of my old flannel shirts—sleeves rolled up, buttons half-done—and not much else. A beautiful sight.
Even though we’ve only done this for the last three mornings, it feels natural. Like we’ve done this together hundreds of mornings. The home I rarely spend time in feels different with her here. Fuller. Brighter. I shouldn’t enjoy it so damn much. Whatever this is, one way or another, it has an expiration date.
I slide a mug of coffee toward her, then lean on the counter with my own cup. “Morning fuel.”
She glances up from her phone, an appreciative smile tugging at her lips. “You’re awfully good at this domestic thing.” She takes a cautious sip, then sighs. “And your coffee-making skills are A-plus.”