Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Leo
“I’ve got that,” I say as Harper goes to reach for her wallet.
She frowns, pulls her hand out of her purse. “O-okay,” she says.
But it’s more question than outright agreement.
“I know you offered to treat me”—I touch my phone to the payment screen, hear the little bleep that it’s been accepted—“but just call me old-fashioned.” I kiss her jaw.
She leans back, studies my eyes for a moment.
Then just smiles softly. “Thanks.”
Relief ripples through me and I hand her the plate with her apple turnover, snagging my own cinnamon roll and the number placard for our drinks—tea for her, a lame green juice smoothie for me (because the season fast approaches and I need to get my nutrition on point)—then follow her over to what I’ve begun to consider is our table.
The first time we leveled with each other.
So why am I not leveling with her today?
Why haven’t I leveled with her over the last couple of weeks?
Because she seems so happy and settled. Because she’s growing our baby and I love her and I want her to continue feeling happy and settled.
Because having her in my house, waking up to her beside me, coming home to her in my kitchen, sitting next to her on the couch while she puts stickers in her planner and picks the perfect pen to use to write out her to do list and teases me about my fumbling with the crochet project is fucking perfect.
But…what about those bills?
Does she need help?
Is she still struggling?
Or is living with me helping her get ahead?
Her lease was up in a few months but I paid the fee for her to break it without her knowing, which is probably—no, is definitely—overstepping. But it cleared the way for her to move in with me, and now she doesn’t need to worry about money.
I’ve got her.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know?” she says as she sits down.
“I know.” I drop into the seat across from her. “But I like treating you.”
Her brows drag together. “You’ve been treating me a lot lately, though.”
“Have I?”
Her frown deepens. “Yes, you have.”
“Well, you’ve been cooking most of the meals at home,” I say, thinking fast. “I figure this is the least I can do.”
“Hmm.”
“I—”
“Here you go.”
I smile up at the teenager who’s brought us our drinks. “Thanks.” He nods and disappears, and I refocus on Harper. “I’m happy to cover things like this. It doesn’t bother me, and I like buying you things you like.”
“I appreciate that, I really do. I just…it’s…”
“Just what?”
She sighs. “I just don’t want things to be uneven. And I’m used to being on my own.”
I take her hand. “But you don’t have to do it on your own any longer, Harp. We’re in this together.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Which brings me back to finances. I know you keep insisting that you don’t want me to pay rent or contribute to the mortgage, but maybe I can pay for insurance and utilities? And groceries—I mean, I think you’ve bought every meal that we’ve eaten out.”
“Like I said—”
“You’re old-fashioned that way.” She turns her hand over in mine, squeezes. “I know and I appreciate the sentiment, that you want to look after me, but I need to pull my own weight.”
“Why?”
She frowns again. “Why?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re together. I like taking care of the people I consider family—and you’re carrying my baby, so you’re definitely family.” Her expression softens. “Plus, you’re doing all the hard work, mama.”
“How do you see that?”
“You’re growing our little boy.”
“I thought we agreed it’s a girl.”
I nudge her apple turnover closer, silently encouraging her to eat.
Something that’s apparently obvious because she rolls her eyes…but picks up the turnover.
“Should we make a bet?”
“About our baby’s gender?” she asks through a bite of turnover.
Fuck, she’s cute.
I lean over, wipe away a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Yup. If I’m right, I get oatmeal raisin cookies.”
Her nose wrinkles. “You’ve barely finished the last batch I made you.”
A shrug. “They’re delicious.”
“I mean, I know my oatmeal raisin cookies are delicious, but you could expand your options. Try something like white chocolate macadamia with cranberries—”
I make a mental note because she’s mentioned that variety of cookie a handful of times over the last few days.
“—or chocolate chip, or peanut butter, or…basically any type of cookie that’s not a fake.”
“How are oatmeal raisin cookies fake?”
“Haven’t you ever picked up one up thinking it was a chocolate chip cookie?” She shudders. “Then you bite in and instead of getting all that yummy chocolaty goodness, you get chewy, flavorless raisins.”
I chuckle and take a sip of my smoothie.
Talk about flavorless.
Fine, it’s not flavorless. It’s just not the flavor I want.
“No,” I say as I chase it with a bite of cinnamon roll. “Can’t say that’s ever happened to me.”
She scowls. “Because you’d be happy to have the oatmeal raisin.”
I grin. “Or chocolate chip. I’m an equal opportunity cookie consumer.”
A roll of her eyes.
But she’s smiling.
Beautiful and happy and mine.
Yeah, life is pretty fucking perfect.
Which means that it’s also the prime moment for it to all come tumbling down.
I take her hand as we pull onto my street, loving that I can touch her, tease her, kiss her, make love to her any time I want.
Well, obviously, she’s part of that decision-making process too.
I just…
I love that she’s here beside me.
Even if she has to go back to her kitchen this evening so she can pick up the food she prepped.
She has a full schedule for the next couple of weeks and point-blank told me that she’s taking every job she can for as long as she can.
I hate that.
Hate that it’s because of the bills. Hate that I can’t shoulder that burden for her.
I have the means. The desire to help her.
So why don’t you just talk to her and ask if she needs help, dumbass?
Because she’s worried about paying twenty bucks for breakfast when she had a stack of bills on her counter and is taking so many jobs she’s working every day for the next two weeks.
Which brings me back to: Just talk to her, dumbfuck.
I bite back a sigh.
Because I know my inner asshole is telling me the truth.
I need to talk to her, need to tell her I know about the bills, and—
“Leo? Are you okay?”
I blink, realize I’ve pulled into the driveway.
“Yeah. Sorry, I’m good.” I shift the transmission into park. “I was just thinking you were right earlier. We should discuss—”
A flicker in the corner of my eye has my mouth dropping open.
“What the fuck?”
Her hand takes mine. “What’s wrong?”
I groan, turn back to Harper.
“It’s my parents.”