16. Amanda #3
“You seem upset.” I push down the disappointment scratching at my chest because it has no room or reason to be there. “You don’t need to be. I understand.”
He grabs my hand. His fingers are pruney, still slick with soap. “No, Amanda. No. Nothing like that,” he says, gentle but unmistakably firm. “I mean it. I want to go with you. As your date, if you’ll have me. I want all of it.” He exhales, shaky. “I’m—it’s Diego.”
I nod. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s not my place.” His mouth tightens.
I nod again. I understand. Diego’s my friend, but the two of them are on a different level.
“You and Diego are my people. I have the two of you, and my mom, and—” He breaks off and pulls me into him.
Our legs brush as his fingertips trace slow, absent paths up and down my bare arms, and the contact is almost unbearable.
Craving and fear in equal measure. “I don’t want either of you hurting,” he says quietly, his breath fanning my forehead.
I nod, staring into his eyes and taking in the specks in different shades of amber in his irises. I don’t want to hurt you ever again. I regret ever hurting you. Trust me to do better by you and this child this time. Promises swirling in his gaze. I avert mine, then swallow.
“So… we’re okay for next weekend?”
“We’re better than okay,” he says. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Even with Keith and your dad?”
“Even with them. I’m not there for them.” He turns away, setting a pitcher on the counter. A lemon wedge is already on the cutting board, as if I have interrupted him mid-task.
“You want tea?” he asks.
“Sure. Or lemon water. Whatever you’re making.”
He drops another slice into the pitcher, fills it, and slides it into the fridge, then sets two mugs on the counter. I take mine, letting the warmth sink into my hands. The house feels too quiet after all the noise Diego carries with him.
He joins me with his laptop, still closed. “Do you mind if I finish a few work things, then we look at next weekend? Maybe plan a little trouble?”
I nod. We work side by side in easy silence for a while. At some point, he reheats empanadas and sets the plate between us, eating one-handed while jotting notes in his planner.
Then he looks up. “Why aren’t you presenting at Val’s conference?”
I add a grant deadline to my Google Calendar, then shrug. “I’ve presented at her conference before. It’s not much of a curriculum builder for me, and my head’s just elsewhere. I can attend without presenting.”
“I missed your last presentation,” he says.
“True.” I sip my tea. “But there’ll be others, if you really want to learn about the effects of infant abandonment and its long-term impact on early adulthood.”
Eric smiles. “Amanda, I live those every day. I just want to be there for you. But you shouldn’t present if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t, and I won’t. Val will get it. Eventually.” I pause, then add, “There’s also a big reception and drinks with the speakers I have to go to—required academic schmoozing. Want to be there for me for that?”
He smirks, teasing but clearly pleased. “I’ll schmooze at yours if you schmooze at mine.”
“Deal,” I say without hesitation.
Then I remember that Simo might be there.
I haven’t seen him since I left Italy over a year ago.
Would Eric be this eager to schmooze with me if he knew?
Would I want to sit across a table from a woman who knows Eric the way Simo knows me?
A possessive feeling crawls up my spine, sharp and unwelcome.
He’s never been mine, though, and I’ve never been his.
He’s focused on his planner now, adding notes to his digital calendar.
I shake my head and turn back to my laptop.
After another hour of work, he stands up and moves to the couch, tapping my shoulder, then tips his chin to the cushion I have my feet on.
I sink into my corner and bring my legs underneath.
He sits then slides close to me to show me his laptop screen.
His thigh touches mine. “So. Resort rooms, or co-sleeping in a church basement?”
I smirk into my tea that he refilled a while ago. “God forbid.”
Eric pulls up the directions to Galena, and we decide to just drive straight there early Saturday and do an early check-in to take a nap. Then he scrolls through the resort’s website.
“Okay,” he says. “Option one: two queens, poolside. Perks include easy access to chlorine and other people’s kids.”
I lean in. “Yikes. Loud. Chaotic. No thanks.”
He grins. “Option two: king bed, lake view. Slightly more expensive, but comes with nature and the illusion of peace.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Illusion?”
“It’s a wedding. There will be screaming somewhere.”
I laugh, nudging his arm. “Let me see the pictures.”
He tilts the screen toward me. The room looks bright and roomy, with big windows that open to the lake. Minimalist, but warm. I can picture the early morning light flooding the space.
I sip my tea, stalling. The idea of sleeping beside him lodges in my chest like something unfinished.
We’ve slept side by side before, but planning to share a bed feels different.
Not sexual, exactly—though the goose bumps on my thighs aren’t fully convinced of that—but intimate in a way I’m not sure I want. Or maybe I do, and that’s the problem.
“Looks… nice,” I say.
“Nice,” he repeats, exaggerated. “Such conviction.”
I glance at him sideways. “Do you have a preference?”
He shrugs, but his fingers linger over the Book Now button. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
I look again at the two queens. They’re fine. Standard. Functional. A regular hotel room. But the king, with the lake and the quiet and the sense of space, feels like a treat. A choice, not a default.
“Looks like there’s a seating area,” he says. “I could sleep on the settee if it makes you more comfortable.”
“Eric, don’t be silly. You’re over six feet tall. You’d fold like an accordion on that thing. If anything, I’ll take the settee.”
He shakes his head firmly. “Absolutely not. You’re pregnant and already not sleeping well.”
“I hog the covers.”
“Hog away. I run hot. Besides, we’ll probably be exhausted,” he adds, still watching the screen, but his cheeks pinken. “We could always just go with the two queens, Amanda. I’m not freaking Diego. I don’t need a lake view.”
I pout. “I want the lake view.”
His eyes flick to mine, soft but steady. “So…”
I nod and set my mug on the coffee table. “Lake view. King bed.”
He smiles, surprised, but doesn’t question. “King bed it is.”
The room is quiet except for the faint voices of whatever came next after we half-watched a movie. I don’t even remember what we put on, and I don’t think either of us made it past the hour mark.
I wake slowly, warm and disoriented. My cheek is pressed against something solid, radiating heat.
Eric. He does run hot.
I am using one of his biceps as a pillow, our fingers intertwined loosely, and his breath stirs the hair near my temple—long, steady, threaded with sleep.
His arm is around my waist, hand splayed over the soft swell of my stomach, one of his fingers hooked half an inch under the hem of my shirt, not invasive, just there.
My back is against his chest, legs tangled, the blanket pushed halfway off in the shuffle of sleep.
We tangled easily into each other, like my body forgot it was ever supposed to do anything else.
I don’t move, though I know I should create some space. Everything in me resists. I’m sucker punched with the undeniable feeling that I love this. I press back into him just a little, the movement instinctive. He doesn’t stir.
My nose is cold, though the rest of me is too warm, and I tip my head to find a pocket of cool air.
I turn slowly in his hold until my front presses against his, enough to see his face, slack and soft in sleep.
His lips slightly parted. A light frown.
So characteristically his. His eyelashes catch a bit of light from the screen. Too handsome. So stupidly handsome.
I scoot up so his breath fans my lips. His hand rests now on my hips, and it tightens, keeping me from leaving. But I’m not. I press my nose against his—the lightest nudge, a quiet kind of dare.