Chapter 10 #2
“Sweetheart,” I say, leaning in just enough so she can feel the rumble of my voice without me crowding her again, “that was a moment. Trust me.”
Her eyes flick up—wide, bright, unsure in a way that makes me want to steady her by the shoulders and kiss her stupid all over again.
“Desmond…” she breathes. “We’re in the middle of a store.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And I still did it.”
She looks like she doesn’t know whether to shove me or kiss me again.
Probably both.
I reach out, brushing a thumb lightly across her cheekbone—careful, slow, giving her every second to pull back.
She doesn’t.
“You sure you’re okay?” I murmur. “That I didn’t push too fast?”
She shakes her head immediately. “No—no, it’s not that. I just…” She swallows, tight. “I’m not used to someone wanting me. Not… like that.”
That hits me right under the ribs.
Hard.
I tilt her chin gently so she has to look at me. “Get used to it.”
Her breath catches.
Leon squeals again, smacking my jaw with his toy like hey, remember me?
I huff a low laugh, stepping back just enough to keep the kid from knocking out a tooth.
“We should finish shopping,” she says softly, voice still unsteady but her lips curled in a tiny smile she can’t hide.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Before I forget where we are and try that again.”
She glares at me—blush rising, eyes soft.
“That wasn’t part of the plan,” she whispers.
I reach for the cart, grin sharp and low. “Brielle? I haven’t had a plan a day in my damn life.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now, real and warm.
And as we move down the aisle—her hip brushing mine, Leon babbling between us—one thing’s clear:
Whatever that kiss started?
It’s not stopping anytime soon.
----
Brielle Shaw
I’m half in autopilot.
I just kissed Desmond.
In public.
In the middle of a store.
In the goddamn diaper aisle.
And I’m still standing. The ceiling didn’t cave in. No alarms went off. No consequences struck like lightning.
Leon giggled, Desmond’s hands were warm, and I…
God.
I liked it. Too much.
Now we’re pushing the cart like nothing happened—well, he’s pushing the cart. I’m being pulled by the hand, trailing beside him like some wide-eyed girl who doesn’t know whether to run or hold on tighter.
He’s laser-focused, tossing things in the cart like it’s a speed run: baby wipes, formula, snacks for Leon, paper towels. It’s like his body’s on autopilot too—but every so often, he glances down at our hands like he’s checking that I’m still here.
It should feel… sweet.
It does feel sweet.
But underneath it?
That old, familiar itch is rising in my chest—the voice that always wakes up when things go right. The one that whispers you’re screwing this up already, this is too good for you, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
You don’t know what you’re doing.
Because I don’t. I’ve never been good at this part. The soft part. The part where someone likes you for you. Not for what you can give them. Not for how easy you are to manipulate or keep quiet. Not because you don’t fight back.
But Desmond?
He kissed me like I meant something.
And that scares me more than all the bad relationships I’ve run from put together.
“You okay?” he asks, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, fine.”
He pauses at the end of the aisle, not quite believing it. “You sure? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Maybe I did,” I say, trying to joke.
He doesn’t laugh. Just studies me a second longer. His hand tightens around mine. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there.
“I meant it,” he says, voice low.
“Meant what?”
“That I wanted to kiss you.”
I glance away, heart hammering. “I know.”
“And I’m not sorry I did.”
I swallow hard. “I’m not either.”
“But you’re scared,” he adds, like he’s not asking. Just… knowing.
I shrug, eyes fixed on a pack of pacifiers I don’t even need. “I don’t do this.”
“This?” he echoes.
“People like you,” I say softly, “don’t end up with people like me.”
He’s quiet a beat. Then he says, real low, “People like me?”
“You’ve got a life. A job. A kid. A home. You’ve got your shit together.”
He scoffs under his breath. “That’s a generous assessment.”
“You do,” I insist. “You feel steady. And I’m just…” I wave my free hand vaguely. “Trying not to screw up the one good thing I’ve got going.”
He stops the cart.
Dead center in the aisle.
Then he turns to me—one hand still holding mine, the other gently cupping my jaw. Not pushing. Just holding.
“You’re not screwing anything up,” he says, steady as stone. “You’re here. You show up. You take care of my kid. You care when you don’t have to.”
I blink hard. “You don’t know everything about me.”
“Then tell me,” he says. “Bit by bit. Or don’t. Either way, I’m not going anywhere right now.”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
Because what the hell do you even say to that?
Leon burps from the cart seat, perfectly timed like he’s in on the conversation. Desmond chuckles, low and warm, and his thumb brushes against my cheek like it’s second nature—like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Just… touching me because he wants to.
“Come on,” he says, voice softer now, almost shy beneath all that rough-around-the-edges certainty. “Let’s finish this. I wanna put this little guy down for a nap and kiss you more, if you want to.”
It’s so blunt, so honest, it pulls a laugh out of me before I can stop it. The kind that slips past your guard when you’re not expecting it. The kind that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds you didn’t even know you were under.
He just says it. No games. No waiting three days. No playing cool. He wants to kiss me. And he’s telling me straight.
Like I’m someone worth being clear about.
Like I’m not a mess, or a risk, or someone he’s keeping on the edge of things.
I duck my head a little, smiling down at the cart handle, trying not to let the warmth in my chest show too much. “You really don’t waste time, huh?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the P, and tossing another box of wipes into the cart. “Not when I know what I want.”
I glance at him sideways. “And you’re sure you want me? Like… me-me?”
He gives me this look—steadfast, amused, a little sharp around the edges but all heart underneath. “Brielle,” he says, “I’m standing in the middle of a store holding your hand, listening to my kid make dinosaur noises in the cart, telling you I want to kiss you again. That feel like maybe to you?”
I press my lips together, cheeks warm. “Okay. Point taken.”
He smiles—crooked and soft, and I swear it almost knocks the wind out of me.
It’s terrifying.
It’s good.
It’s real.
And maybe, for once, I don’t have to run from something good. Maybe I just have to walk through it. One aisle at a time.