20. Amanda
CHAPTER TWENTY
AMANDA
Eric smells of sage and eucalyptus, of earth and safety.
Being held in his arms carries a particular weight, a heaviness that screams he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go.
It’s easy to get swept up in the feeling that I will never let go of him.
Not ever. It’s delusional, this familiar brand of one-sided possessiveness flaring at the worst possible moment.
His heart pounds against my cheek, fast and uneven, sending an urgent message his lips refuse to give voice to.
I don’t understand how he can carry this inside him, hold me as if I belong with him, and still throw it all away by never choosing me.
Every time we crossed a line, he pushed me back.
So why does he hold me like this is the only thing that has ever made sense?
Diego’s voice echoes in my head. “You didn’t know?
” I didn’t. I want to crawl into Eric and apologize for ever leaving.
I also want to slap him because I had to leave.
After we kissed and he—I couldn’t stay. When I came back, I drew a hard line around that night and never spoke of it again.
Eric did not push. He wanted to, but he never did.
And the wounds stayed, quiet and unhealed.
People are watching. I can feel it. Friends, relatives, maybe even Daray. But I don’t care. I’m not hiding. Daray and Cassie may think they embarrassed me by pushing their narrative, but all it did was free me. Us.
Eric’s arms are tight around me, yet there’s no performance in the way he holds me, my barely noticeable bump. Us. His affection isn’t for anybody who is watching. It’s just for me.
This man who holds me like I’m a treasure has hurt me, and somehow, hurt himself even more. The realization steals my breath. It demands to show him I’m not leaving, that he’s a father to this baby in every way that matters.
I lift my face to his and whisper, my breath brushing his chin and raising goose bumps along his neck. “You promise you are all in with this?”
He pulls back slightly, light catching in his eyes and softening the amber. The pulse in his neck jumps.
“Let’s tell Daray,” I say. “Let’s tell everyone. That it is you, me, and this baby.” I rise onto my toes. “Kiss me.”
In my head, it is about telling people. In my heart, I just want to feel his mouth on mine, to be sure he is here with me.
We freeze inside this new possibility.
His whole body says yes. He slides one hand higher on my back, settling between my shoulder blades. He brushes his nose against mine. I lift my chin, and everything I have ever asked of him rushes through me.
Kiss me. Please, fuck me, Eric. Be with me.
Every moment he has ever refused me flashes through my mind. In this instant, he could undo all of it, heal me with a single kiss. His lips hover so close I can taste the wine on his breath.
Then he shifts away. There’s no time to feel hurt before he pinches the front of his slacks, his legs trembling, as he lowers himself onto both knees.
“Eric, what are you doing?” I hiss, heat flooding my face. People are definitely looking now. “Please, get up. Everyone’s going to think you’re proposing.”
A soft blush paints his cheeks before his lips settle into a smile. He brings his hands to my stomach, cradling the shape still mostly hidden by my dress.
“You wanted a declaration,” he says. “I want to give you one.”
He isn’t tense or embarrassed. If anything, he is calm, certain. He moves his hands over the curve of my belly, thumbs resting low, as if committing the feel of it to memory. Then he presses his mouth there, just below my navel—one long, deliberate kiss.
When he lifts his gaze, the longing in his eyes takes my breath away.
“I am not kissing you now,” he says. “When we do—if we do—it will be because we want it. Not because we are proving something to people who don’t matter.”
He presses his palm against my belly once more before he stands, arms sliding around my waist again. My head finds his chest. His eyes never leave mine, his heart racing under my cheek.
Mine is too.
“Eric,” I ask quietly, “do you want to kiss me?”
His mouth curves faintly against my forehead. “Do you want an honest answer?”
I don’t. Admitting the want is more overwhelming than a kiss. Between his question and my silence an understanding passes between us anyway.
Because the kiss he did give me feels like devotion. To our baby. To us. And I don’t feel rejected; I feel chosen.
Diego’s voice cuts through the moment. “Okay, amigos, it’s that sweet time of night. Keith and Cece are ready to cut the cake! Come on over to cheer them on! Otherwise, take a seat at your tables.”
I try to pull my hand from Eric’s, but he keeps it—not tight, just sure.
Because he knows that now that the moment has passed, rejection is creeping up again, and he won’t let me sit alone in it.
Maybe it is not rejection at all. He said, “When we do, if we do, it will be because we want it.” I want that, even with this sourness clinging to my mouth, stubborn and unspoken. Again.
He keeps his hand wrapped around mine on top of the table, warm and steady. I try to focus on that. On the grounding feel of his fingers curled over mine, the gentle pressure that says he’s sitting in wanting with me.
“Babe!” Cece calls as she rushes over, cake plates in hand, already tugging my arm.
I glance at Eric, and he nods, holding on until the last second before I walk away with his warmth still on my skin.