Chapter 38
HOLLY
“Ithought of some baby names.”
We’re tangled up in his bed, enjoying the afterglow. My head rests on his shoulder, one leg hooked over his, and my fingers trace the slow rise and fall of his chest. He holds me close, his arm around me, thumb dragging lightly across my skin. Neither of us has moved in what feels like an hour.
“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing down with a soft smile. “What’ve you got?”
“I like Faith. Or Scarlett.”
“Faith works.” He shifts slightly, wrapping me into him. “Scarlett sounds like she comes with a petticoat and fans herself in the hot Louisiana sun.”
I snort. “Thanks. Now I’m going to picture that forever.”
“You brought it up.”
“Okay, what about Ava?”
“Ava, I like. Ava Thorne.”
I lift my head. “Excuse me? She’d be Ava Bishop. We’re not married.”
His thumb skims along my spine. “We’ll see.”
My brain stutters.
Wait. Was he talking about the name? Or… marriage?
I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. But my stomach flips at the idea of her having his last name. It’s always been a given she’d have mine. I’m her mother, I’ll be raising her. But if I stay… the idea of her being a Thorne doesn’t feel wrong. It feels… possible.
“You should still think of boys’ names,” he says casually. “We’re having one.”
“You still think it’s a boy?” I ask, burying my face into his shoulder.
“I know it is.”
I deepen my tone. “For lo, I am the mighty Thorne, breeder of sons.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Your words, not mine,” I remind him.
“Feels like a boy.”
“Feels like a girl.”
He gives my hip a slow, possessive squeeze. “Compromise, then.”
“Fine,” I say. “Name your imaginary son.”
“Max. Or Tyler. Or Josh.”
“Pass and pass and pass.”
“Keith.”
I lift my head just enough to look at him. “Now you’re just messing with me.”
He chuckles, then he’s quiet for a second. “Evan.”
Our eyes meet. My heart squeezes. “Your dad’s name.”
He gives a small nod.
Of course. Of course he’d offer something like that. He wants to give our kid a family name. This man is going to ruin me. I lean in and kiss him, soft and slow. A don’t you dare let go kiss.
“You’ve gotta stop being so damn adorable,” I murmur against his mouth. “It’s killing me.”
He scoffs. “I’m not adorable.”
“Says the big guy who wants to name his baby after his dad.”
“Say it.” His hand slides to my waist.
“What?”
“That I’m tough.” His fingers tighten, just enough to make me squeal. “Say it.” Another small squeeze.
“Fine!” I giggle. “You’re tough-er than you look.”
His fingers immediately start tickling me. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe, wriggling in his arms. “Okay, okay! You’re tough… manly… utterly intimidating. Scary as hell!”
He stops tickling me but doesn’t let go, just pulls me in closer. “Glad you’re catching on.”
I just sink against him, laughing. God, this feels nice. My giggle turns into yawn.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs. “We can eat later.”
“Good idea.” I roll over, letting him spoon behind me. “They weren’t kidding about pregnancy fatigue.”
“Shush, just rest, Holly.” He tucks his arm around me.
I snuggle into him, tucking myself tighter against his chest. His hand drifts over my stomach, gentle, moving in slow circles.
“There’s a baby in there,” he says low, almost in awe.
I place my hand over his. “It’s wild. There was nothing, and now… a little baby.”
His hand tightens, just slightly. “A little you and me.”
And just like that, I melt. Every part of me. I can’t stop the sudden mental image of us lying this way months down the line, when my stomach will be large and round, and we’ll be able to feel little feet kicking. My heart aches when I realize how badly I want that image to come true.
That’s the moment I know.
I’m in love with Dexter Thorne.
And it’s not a fun, flirty, silly crush I can laugh about or shrug off. This is real, the kind that settles in your chest and refuses to move. It’s been there longer than I want to admit.
Of course it’s him. Who else would it be.
I know it. And the way he looks at me, I bet he knows it too.
How beautiful it feels.
That’s the last thought I have before I succumb to my exhaustion and doze off. Somewhere in the haze, I feel him press a kiss to my temple before he slips out of bed.
It’s hours later when my eyes drag open again. I can tell because it’s twilight out and the room has a dreamy darkness about it.
I reach out, instinctively searching for his hand, but the bed is empty and the sheets beside me cool.
I blink, trying to remember. Right. I told him I wanted a snack (of course I did).
Somewhere in the fog of sleep, I mumbled something about how a full belly equals a happy Holly.
Basic math. “Or at least a somewhat less cranky Holly,” he’d teased.
Noises sound from his kitchen, and it smells like he’s cooking, but I’m too drowsy to get up right away and check it out.
I sink deeper into the pillows, too content to move just yet. I could get very, very used to this.
I doze off again, just for a few more minutes, until my bladder decides it’s done letting me be comfortable, and the urge to pee forces me out of bed.
I hit the bathroom. His walls are hung with breathtaking photographs.
Nude studies, black and white, shadows on skin, the kind of art that stops you cold because it’s beautiful before you even realize how erotic it is.
The bodies are mostly faceless, perfectly composed, but there’s no mistaking the intimacy caught by the lens. They’re not all his work, but some of them are. I can tell which (and not just because a few of the framed photographs were gifts from me).
He learned photography as part of his architecture studies, of course, so he knows the basics: composition, light, how to frame a shot.
Enough to take something decent, but it never went further than that.
He once said, “Maybe when life slows down, I’ll pick it up again.
” Architecture has always been his first love, what he cares about most, what he’s truly focused on.
The rest of the photographs he collected, and he keeps the best pieces up here, in the more private rooms. The dressing areas. His bathrooms. And the ones in here… these are beautiful.
My favorite is “La fille au bonnet de bain” (“Girl Wearing a Swim Cap”) from the seventies.
She wears a white swim cap and high-waisted black bikini bottoms, the kind they made back then (only the seventies could pull that off).
She’s standing topless on the weathered larch decking planks, dipping a toe into the water, and laughing with the purest, happiest smile I’ve ever seen.
I could stare at her all day.
Maybe Dexter is right. More photos could be nice. Of me, of the pregnancy. Having something to look back on… maybe isn’t such a bad idea. A set in the second trimester, another in the third, to show the stages.
Feeling happy and oddly light, I wash my hands, but instead of crawling back into bed, I decide to find out what he’s cooking. I’m hungry and want to eat before my nausea returns.
I slip on my underwear and one of Dexter’s discarded button-ups. It hangs past my thighs, and it smells like him: clean soap, a little like the earthy cologne that lingers on his skin. I breathe it in as I button it over my chest and quietly pad across the room.
That’s when I hear a knock on the front door.
I slow.
Who would be stopping by so late? Dexter didn’t say anyone was coming over. Not that he has to tell me. But I probably should put pants on if we’re having company. I hang back in the doorway, out of sight, as he opens the door.
“Hey,” Dexter says, voice low. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, boss.”
It’s Keith. I relax a little. Keith won’t stay long. No need to get dressed, I’ll just wait it out. Dexter won’t hesitate to send him packing so we can get back to being wrapped around each other.
“Just wanted to pop in and let ya know everythin’s grand with the—”
“Shh,” Dexter cuts him off. “Keep it down. Holly’s here.”
I freeze.
I’m not one for being nosey, however, something immediately puts me on alert. And not because Dexter said my name. But because of how he said it.
Keith wasn’t being loud. Dexter didn’t hush him because I might be asleep.
He hushed him because I’m here.
“Good on ya,” Keith goes on, tone light. “Ye two gettin’ serious?”
Dexter ignores the question. “What did you wanna tell me?” he asks instead, his voice clipped.
“Ah, right, I should’ve known. Always the business first with ya. The fake Ashford Motors article is out. Means we’ve got a leak on our end.”
“Goddamnit.”
“Yeah, but it narrows it down. Won’t be long before we know who the snake is.”
“We need to move fast,” Dexter says. “If Swan finds out I’ve got rats inside, I’ll lose the entire account. Nobody will deal with a firm that can’t hold onto its data.”
“I’m goin’ to sort it, boss. No worries. Oh, and good news on the UK yoke. It’s all set.”
Wait. What?
What did he just say?
UK?
Dexter doesn’t have business over there. He’s never mentioned family or clients.
Unless…
A flutter starts in my chest. Warm. Hopeful. I wonder if he’d been thinking of going with me to the UK when I left. Was he planning to follow?
The thought makes me swoon, and my pulse speeds up in excitement.
Maybe he was making arrangements to move some of his business overseas, and shifting his life for mine. For the baby. For us.
My heart swells with so much happiness, and a wonderful warmth spreads throughout my body.
“I take it there wasn’t any trouble,” Dexter rumbles, voice quieter now.
“None. Julian did the walk-through, sorted the back-and-forth, all that boring shite. We were on a call yesterday, Julian, the estate agent, and meself. And get this, yer man from Harrington & Co swore he’d never seen a deal closed that quick.
Near pissed himself. The property title came through about an hour ago.
Everything’s signed, and the landlord’s already transferred the deposit back to her sister, Shelby. ”
I stop breathing.
Wha—
The deposit?
Returned?
Shelby?
No.
And just like that, the warmth in my chest is replaced by ice.