Chapter 14
Fourteen
Luc
I’ve reread the same email three times without absorbing a single word. The cursor blinks, as if it’s judging me.
I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand over my face, already knowing what the problem is. Or who. Because it’s always her lately. Addison shows up in the quiet parts of my day—between tasks, in the small pauses when my mind should be clearing but, instead, keeps drifting back to her.
It’s not even sexual. That’s what really gets under my skin.
The night we met? Sure. That’s easy to explain. She’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel curated. She has no armor or sharp edges to keep people at a distance. I noticed her immediately. Anyone would have. Attraction like that doesn’t require justification.
But now…this is different.
Forget what now binds us permanently. This goes beyond that.
It’s in the way she talks about her art, how focused she gets, like the rest of the world drops out when she’s explaining a piece she’s doing for a client.
The way she lives in her space without apology.
The fact that she could’ve stayed cushioned by family money and didn’t, not in a dramatic, scorched-earth way.
Just a quiet, deliberate stepping apart.
She didn’t just protect herself. She chose herself. And that’s important to me in a way I don’t yet fully understand.
I tap my pen against the desk, check the clock, and stare back at the screen.
I should be able to push through this. I’ve handled worse on less sleep.
But my focus won’t hold. It keeps slipping to small, distracting details—the sound of her laugh, the way she looks at me without trying to charm me or shield herself.
I straighten in my chair, like posture might help. It doesn’t.
I want to see her.
And not because I’m restless or bored or chasing a distraction.
And not because it feels obligatory, like I owe her something.
Though of course I do—or at least I owe our child.
But this is different. I want her because she’s worked her way into the quiet parts of me the way no one else has. That realization gives me pause.
I don’t want to rush into this. I’m careful by nature. Controlled. I don’t chase impulses just because they’re loud. But this doesn’t feel loud. It feels steady. Persistent. It isn’t going to burn itself out if I ignore it. I knew that even before I knew about the baby.
I pick up my phone, set it down, and pick it up again.
Dinner feels reasonable. Neutral. Safe. I can ask her out, keep it simple, no pressure. What she wants here is as important as what I do. We’re going to be in each other’s lives. Why not explore the possibility of connection?
I consider calling her but worry she might be resting.
Me: Hi. Are you up for dinner tonight?
My thumb hovers over send for a beat, but then I let it go and put myself out there.
No response comes right away, so she is probably resting.
I struggle with my email inbox a bit longer and then deal with a case of eczema and send a referral off to a hand specialist for a hockey injury.
Her response comes well after lunch.
Addison: What are you thinking?
I recognize what’s happening immediately. She’s cautious above all else right now, and probably, a repeat of being in public with me isn’t appealing. I don’t blame her for that.
Me: How about I pick something up and bring it over? We can stream a show and hang out.
Addison: Are you looking for Netflix and chill?
I laugh. She’s not wrong, and I like that she doesn’t pretend the subtext doesn’t exist.
Me: I’m always open to options, but mostly, I thought it might be more relaxed without the prying eyes. I enjoy spending time with you. You’re pregnant, and you must be craving something.
Addison: Well, okay. I’ve been craving lemongrass pho from I Love Pho on Main Street. What time is good?
Me: I’ll pick it up about 6 and head over if that works.
Addison: Sounds great. See you then.
I set the phone down and feel lighter as I finish my day. I meant what I told her. I enjoy spending time with her, and I’m excited to see what the evening holds.
When my last patient is out the door, I call in an order of lemongrass chicken pho for two.
As I collect my keys, the awareness settles in.
I tell myself I’m not chasing a moment. I’m choosing one.
Though I’m not entirely sure what that distinction means yet.
I just want to be intentional about this.
I Love Pho is busy. I give them my name, pay, and then lean back against the counter and check my phone.
While I’m standing there, I catch myself wondering when dinner turned into something I thought this much about. Not the logistics—those I can handle—but the weight of it. I don’t want Addison to feel like I’m another thing to manage. Is it possible I could actually be a help to her?
The box is warm when they pass it over, two lids taped down, bags around them knotted tight. I cradle it carefully and realize I’m smiling at nothing. I adjust my expression, hopefully before anyone notices.
Addison’s place isn’t far from the restaurant, but the drive gives me time to think, which isn’t always a gift.
This is just dinner, I remind myself. Just hanging out.
I have a responsibility to be what she needs me to be right now.
And I need to check my focus on how my shirt fits and my reflection in the rearview mirror.
When I’ve parked, I grab the box and head up the stairs.
Her apartment is on the second floor, and she answers the door barefoot, in a dress that mostly hides her pregnancy. Her hair is in a loose knot with a paintbrush holding it.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I reply, holding up the bag. “Still into pho?”
Her smile is immediate. “Very.”
She takes the box, and I follow her inside, leaving my shoes by the door. We set everything out on the counter.
“Did you get anything for yourself?”
I’m confused at first. “If you’re hungry enough to eat two phos, go for it. I’ll enjoy watching you eat.”
“That sounds a little naughty.”
I laugh, and she hands me my bowl and set of chopsticks. We migrate to the couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
We eat shoulder to shoulder, knees occasionally knocking. She hums softly after the first bite, and I file that away without comment.
“What kept you busy today?” she asks.
“Dr. Hutchinson is back from his vacation but only coming in two days a week,” I tell her. “I mostly answered patient questions about his retirement, and I got the usual small-town interrogation.”
“About what?”
“If I’m staying. If I’m married. If I plan to be.” I shake my head. “As you know, the rumor mill of Paradise is its own power plant. I didn’t give them anything, but you were on my mind a lot today.”
The corner of her mouth turns up. “Someone in my family is always at the center of the gossip. Well, my family or the Paradise family. You’d think they’d have better things to talk about than you and me.”
“Oh, I got other gossip.”
Her eyes light up. “Do tell.”
I lean in close. “Maisey got loose and was in the Eisner grapes. It took me a long time to figure out Maisey was a cow.”
Addison throws back her head and laughs.
The sound of it creates something warm in my chest. I say nothing about that either.
When the containers are empty, she stacks them neatly and reaches for the remote.
We scroll through options without committing to anything, our commentary half-hearted, attention drifting.
I’m aware of her beside me in a way that’s hard to ignore now—the warmth of her arm, the faint trace of her perfume.
It’s subtle, not trying to be sexy.
Which makes it worse.
I shift slightly, not to put distance between us exactly, but just to ground myself. I want to stay here in this calm, shared space and see what happens when neither of us rushes it.
She looks over at me, eyes thoughtful, like something has crossed her mind and she’s deciding whether to let it out.
I wait. That’s the difference from the first time we met. There was no waiting on my part the first time I saw Addie. I pursued her immediately. But the stakes are much higher now.
She doesn’t pick anything to watch. The remote stays idle in her hand, thumb resting on the button without pressing it. I clock the hesitation immediately, the way her focus drifts even though the screen keeps offering us choices, like that’s the real decision.
“Can I ask you something kind of weird?” she finally says.
I smile. “You can ask me anything.”
She hesitates again, eyes dropping to the remote like it might give her an out. Then she looks back up. “Why are pregnant women so horny?”
Oh. That’s a medical question, my mind decides. “Hormones,” I begin, thinking carefully about my explanation. “Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, shifts in estrogen and progesterone—”
I stop.
Because she’s watching me differently now. Not amused or awkward. Just present. Like she’s waiting to see if I’m going to keep spouting information or actually realize where she’s standing.
I clear my throat and reevaluate, letting the clinical part of my brain step back. “That wasn’t a medical question, was it?”
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. “No.”
I turn fully toward her. “Okay. Then what are you asking me?”
“If we hadn’t already had sex,” she says, “we wouldn’t be in this position. But we did. And now, it’s…something I think about. That night with you wasn’t really like me, but it was fun. I think about it quite a bit.”
There’s no embarrassment in her voice. Just honesty. She’s not deflecting or joking this away.
I sit with that for a second. I feel the same way, but I don’t want to take advantage of her situation. And we’ll need to be able to cooperate together for the next eighteen years at least.
“So you’re asking if I want this,” I say carefully. “Now.”
She meets my gaze. “Yes. I’m asking if you do.”
That’s the moment I feel the shift. It isn’t urgency or hunger. It’s a decision.