15. Heather
— ? —
Heather
Three weeks of dates.
Three weeks of goodnight kisses at my door that leave me leaning against the frame after he walks away, my skin flushed, my pulse racing, my thighs pressed together in a way that makes me furious with my own body for wanting him this much.
Three weeks of him standing close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off his chest, watch his jaw tighten with the effort of not reaching for me.
Three weeks of him never pushing. Never asking for more. Just waiting, patient as stone, for me to decide I’m ready.
I’m thirty-four weeks pregnant now. Big and round and uncomfortable in a dozen small ways that add up to exhaustion by the end of every day. But I’m also certain of exactly one thing: tonight, I’m ready for more.
We’re supposed to be scouting venues for my business.
A coastal hotel two hours from the city, perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, the kind of dramatic backdrop that would photograph beautifully for destination weddings and corporate retreats.
The kind of place I need to see in person, need to walk through and touch and imagine filled with flowers and guests, before I can recommend it to clients.
We’re supposed to drive back tonight.
The storm has other plans.
“All roads are closed,” the front desk clerk says apologetically, her fingers clicking across her keyboard as she checks for updates.
Through the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the rain coming down in sheets, the sky an angry gray that shows no signs of clearing.
“The highway patrol just issued the advisory. Storm came in faster than predicted, and they’re saying visibility is near zero on the coastal roads.
” She looks up with a sympathetic smile.
“You’re welcome to stay. We have one room left. ”
One room.
Of course.
I look at Grayson. He’s standing very still beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the rain-lashed windows with an intensity that tells me he’s very carefully not looking at me. Giving me space. Letting me decide. Not wanting to influence the choice one way or the other.
“We’ll take it,” he says, still not meeting my eyes, his voice carefully neutral.
The clerk nods and begins processing the reservation. Grayson pulls out his credit card, and I stand there watching the storm rage outside, feeling my heart beat faster than it has any right to.
I have an out. I could insist we try to make it back anyway. I could ask for separate rooms, even if it means one of us sleeping in the lobby. I could keep the careful distance we’ve maintained for three weeks, the invisible line neither of us has crossed.
But I don’t want an out.
***
The room is beautiful.
Ocean view through windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, the waves crashing against the rocks below in explosions of white foam that catch the last gray light of evening.
A king bed dominates the space, its white linens pristine, its pillows plump and inviting.
Someone has already lit the fireplace, and flames crackle and dance in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the hardwood floors.
We stand in the doorway, neither of us moving.
The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we aren’t saying. The bed seems to take up more space than it actually does, seems to pulse with possibility and danger and the weight of three weeks of wanting.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Grayson offers, his voice rough. He still isn’t looking at me, his gaze fixed somewhere around my shoulder, like making eye contact might break whatever spell is keeping us both frozen in place.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Heather-”
“We’ve shared a bed for five years.” I walk past him into the room, dropping my overnight bag on the chair by the window with more confidence than I feel. “I think we can manage one more night without spontaneously combusting.”
He doesn’t argue. Just follows me inside, closes the door behind us, and stands there looking lost in a way that makes my chest ache.
We order room service. We talk about nothing important while we wait, our voices too bright, our words too careful.
Venues and vendors and the business I’m building.
The weather forecast for tomorrow. Whether the roads will be clear by morning.
Underneath every word is the awareness of that bed, that storm, the long night stretching ahead of us like an invitation or a threat.
The food arrives, wheeled in on a cart by a cheerful server who seems oblivious to the tension crackling between us.
We eat at the small table by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass, the waves below churning and wild.
I push salmon around my plate and try to remember what hunger feels like when my stomach is tied in knots.
The baby kicks, hard, her little foot connecting with my ribs in a way that makes me wince.
“You okay?” Grayson is on alert immediately, his fork forgotten, his eyes scanning my face for signs of distress.
“She’s just restless.” I press my hand to the spot where a tiny limb is making itself known, pushing back gently. “She doesn’t like storms.”
“Can I-” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
“You can feel.”
He hesitates. I watch the conflict play across his features, the wanting and the fear of wanting too much, the uncertainty about what he’s allowed to ask for after everything that has happened between us.
Then he’s beside me, pushing his chair closer, his hand hovering over my belly for just a moment before covering mine. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and when he presses gently, I feel something in my chest crack open.
The baby kicks again, right into his palm.
His face transforms. Wonder and grief and love all at once, everything he’s missed and everything he’s still hoping for written across his features in a language I can read as easily as my own name. His eyes go bright with unshed tears, and his hand trembles slightly against my skin.
“That’s her,” he whispers, his voice cracking on the words.
“That’s her.”
“She’s strong.”
“She gets that from me.”
His mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile but wants to be. “Obviously.”
We stay like that for a long moment, his hand warm on my belly, the storm raging outside, the firelight painting us both in shades of gold and shadow.
And something in me that has been closed for months, locked away behind walls I’ve built to protect myself, starts to open.
Like a flower turning toward the sun, helpless to do anything else.
“I should shower,” I say finally, my voice coming out rougher than I intend. “It’s been a long day.”
“Of course.” He pulls his hand away reluctantly, and I feel the loss of his touch like a physical ache.
I gather my things from my bag. Toiletries. Something to sleep in. I move toward the bathroom, and then I stop with my hand on the doorframe.
“Grayson.”
“Yeah?”
I turn to look at him. He’s sitting at the table still, his hands clasped between his knees, watching me with an expression that makes my heart pound against my ribs.
“I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”
“I know.” His voice is steady, accepting. No argument, no plea for more than I’m willing to give.
“But I’m ready for something else.”
His breath catches audibly. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.
” I meet his eyes and hold them, refusing to look away from whatever I see there.
“About whether I was ready. About whether I wanted something that was mine, that I chose, that had nothing to do with the pain of the last few months. Something that wasn’t about punishment or forgiveness or any of the complicated feelings I still haven’t sorted through. ”
“And?” The word comes out strangled.
“I’m ready.” I hold out my hand. “If you are.”
He crosses the room so fast I barely see him move, but when he reaches me, he stops. His hand hovers over mine without touching, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, his eyes searching my face.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because I need you to be sure. I need this to be what you want, not what you think I want, not what you feel like you should do-”
“Grayson.” I close the distance between our hands, lace my fingers through his. “I’m sure.”
He takes my hand.
***
I lead him to the bed.
This isn’t the desperate collision of the parking garage, all heat and hunger and months of suppressed wanting exploding at once. This is different. Deliberate. Chosen. Me in charge of every moment, setting the pace, telling him exactly what I want and watching him give it to me without hesitation.
I unbutton his shirt slowly, my fingers steady even as my heart races. The fabric parts to reveal the chest I know as well as my own body, the scattering of dark hair, the lean muscle beneath warm skin. I push the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
“I spent months feeling like my body wasn’t mine,” I say, my voice low.
His hands come up to trace the full curve of my belly, thirty-four weeks of our daughter growing between us, and I shiver at the contact.
“Like everyone had opinions about what I should do with it. My mother-in-law and her comments about my weight. The doctors with their measurements and their warnings. You, with your watching and your worrying.”
“I’m sorry-”
“Don’t apologize.” I pull his undershirt over his head, baring more of him to the firelight. “Just listen.”
He nods, his throat working as he swallows.
“Tonight, this is mine.” I take his hands and place them on my waist, feeling his fingers curl against the fabric of my dress. “You’re mine. And I’m going to take exactly what I want.”
“Okay.” His voice is rough, barely controlled. “Tell me what you need.”
I reach for the zipper at the back of my dress.