Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Harper
“Thanks for bringing me dinner,” I say softly, still a little disconcerted, still at a loss as to why he’s here at all.
Maybe it’s as simple as that commitment to be friends.
Maybe it’s more, something scary, something that can’t be, something that won’t ever be what I dreamed of.
Because it’s been…
Nice.
Peaceful.
Easy.
Kind of like the night that got us here—only tonight we stayed far, far away from my bedroom.
But the talking is here, the banter and laughter and sense of knowing this man far more than I possibly can.
Even if it’s just over dinner and arguing about the gender of the baby I’m growing in my womb and discussing nothing important.
“I’m just glad you were able to eat without getting sick.”
I press my hand to my belly. “Me too.” Then I yawn. “Oh gosh,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face. “Sorry.”
He reaches over, as though to brush back an unruly strand of my hair, but stops, his fingertips mere millimeters from my skin.
My lungs hitch.
His hand drops to his side. “I think it’s time for me to let you get to bed,” he says gently.
“Yeah,” I agree, even though part of me rebels at the thought of him leaving. “I’m sure you have things to do too.”
He pauses. “Too?”
“I just meant I’m sure you have things to do.”
“Except you said too.” His eyes fix on mine. “Tell me the other big plans you have tonight.”
“I should kick you out, just for that presumptuous attitude alone.”
“Yeah?”
“One hundred percent.” I lift my chin.
His lips twitch. “Should I remind you I gave you my fortune cookie?”
I snort, but he’s right. He let me eat all the fortune cookies. So, I just roll my eyes then tilt my head to the living room, my plan for the evening currently sitting in a lumpy, knotted ball on my coffee table. “There.” I point. “That’s what I’ll be working on tonight.”
He picks up the yarn. “Craft time?”
“I’m learning to crochet.” Or something like that because the learning part isn’t going well.
“My mom made me a blanket when she was pregnant with me. I thought I would…” Embarrassment begins creeping in and I bite the inside of my lip.
“Well, I don’t know if I’ll figure it out enough to make it look good, but I’m trying anyway. ”
He doesn’t say anything and my embarrassment grows.
“So yeah, I’m torturing myself with crocheting and getting caught up on episodes of the show the girls and I are watching right now so I can properly discuss it with them. That may be one episode.” I shrug. “Or it may be the three I’m behind.”
“Three hours of reality TV?”
Another shrug. “I see it as plenty of time to brush up on my crochet skills.” A beat. “Unless I fall asleep before I untangle this mess.”
His eyes dance with humor. “I think that may take you the full three hours.”
“That’s okay.” I shrug. “Sometimes good things take time.”
He stills, and it’s like he’s suddenly gone a million miles away.
“What?” I ask.
A blink, his body jerking, his gaze flashing back to mine.
And there’s something in his deep brown eyes that has my heart squeezing.
Then his face softens.
“You want some help?”
My eyes peel open, and for a second, I don’t understand where I am, what I’m feeling…
Whose body I’m curled up against.
But it only takes another heartbeat, another inhale of the spicy male scent for me to realize where I am.
In Leo’s arms.
The last thing I remember is squinting at my lopsided stitches, thinking that no matter how many YouTube videos I watch, I’m not going to magically master crocheting.
Now the TV is in sleep mode, cycling through ads for shows I won’t be watching, and moonlight is shining through the windows.
Groaning softly, I reach for my phone, see it’s right after midnight.
I should wake Leo up, send him on his way.
But his arm is wrapped tightly around my middle, and his face is in my hair, and he’s so big, so strong, so…much.
I can’t make myself shift away.
So, I just lay there listening to him breathe slow and deep, steady and even.
And—as stupid as it may be—I feel my eyes start to slide closed.
At least until he murmurs in a groggy voice, “Harper.”
Just my name.
But also not.
Because it’s filled with so much longing it hurts me to hear it, so much it calls to the yearning inside me and sends it spiraling outward with such urgency that I freeze—my body torn between sinking deeper into his hold and bolting for the exit.
“Fuck, Harper,” he groans softly. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
The words are so clear, so intense that I look up.
But his eyes are closed, his body full of tension—as though he’s in a nightmare.
Or maybe that’s me.
I need to get out of here, need to wake him up and tell him to go home.
But when I push against him, his arm wraps tighter, pressing my face into his chest as he buries his face in my hair and inhales deeply. “Harper. Baby.” He groans. “Fuck, Harper.”
The anguish in my name, it’s killing me.
“Leo,” I whisper.
He jerks, his arm going tighter, and when I look up this time, it’s to see his body still beyond tense. But his eyes are open, blazing as they connect with mine.
As the moment stretches.
As I become critically aware of every inch of my body pressed to every inch of his.
Every hard inch.
His hand shifts on my back, sliding up my spine, curving over my shoulder, cupping my jaw. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he rasps.
The words are breathtaking.
The heat in his eyes is scorching.
The intensity of his voice is everything.
“So,” he says, tilting my face up. “Fucking.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Beautiful.” To the tip of my nose. To my cheek. My jaw.
But he doesn’t keep talking.
And he doesn’t keep kissing me.
Certainly not where I’m desperate for him to.
My mouth. My lips. My tongue.
Instead, he just watches me, those eyes burning into my soul.
And that’s when I abandon all reason…
And I kiss him.