40. Chapter 40
forty
Sadie
My hands shook as I picked it up. “On three?”
Diesel nodded and put his hand over mine. The weight of it steadied me more than I wanted to admit. How was he so warm, so solid, so damn confident when our lives were potentially about to change forever?
“One,” I breathed.
His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “Two.”
I hesitated before saying the last number, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
He leaned closer, voice low. “We’ll handle it. Whatever it says—we’ll handle it.”
“Three.”
I turned it over, but instead of looking at the result, my gaze went straight to him.
It was instinct—my first thought wasn’t what does it say? but how does he feel about it?
That answer, somehow, felt more important than my own. Was he going to panic? Pull away? Shut down?
And he was… smiling.
Not a nervous twitch or a forced curve of his mouth, but a real, easy smile that softened all the hard edges of his face.
My stomach flipped. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because,” he said, eyes locked on mine, “I’m not scared.”
After that, I finally looked for myself. Two pink lines. My breath caught. My eyes burned.
But then the questions came fast and relentless.
Was he thinking I’d done this on purpose? That I’d moved in across the street, batted my lashes, and set some kind of elaborate trap?
God, what if he thought I wanted to tie him down, that I’d tricked him into this?
Heat prickled my neck. My mouth opened before I even knew what I was going to say, some desperate rush to defend myself—
“Sadie.” His voice was quiet, steady. His thumb brushed my knuckles like he could feel every frantic thought ricocheting through my skull. “It’s okay.”
I took a deep breath and leaned into him, letting his warmth soak into my bones. His chest rose and fell against my cheek. He was steady where I was shaky. For once, it wasn’t just me holding myself up. For once, I wasn’t alone.
And then it hit me. And not in a gentle, dawning way, but with the force of a wrecking ball slamming through my ribs.
I was in love with Daniel Callahan.
Diesel
I held her close, breathing her in like I could anchor the moment in my bones.
I wanted to kiss her, spin her around, pop champagne, light up a cigar.
Hell, I wanted to stand on the damn roof and shout it to the whole street.
I wanted this. I wanted her, us, the baby.
All of it. And for the first time in a long damn time, the future didn’t scare me
“Tell me how you’re feeling.” I murmured into her hair, breathing in the faint sweetness of sugar and vanilla that always clung to her. My arms tightened like I could keep the world from touching her if I just held on hard enough.
“Like it’s not real.” She shifted against me, her fingers curling into the back of my shirt before she eased away just enough for me to see the shine in her eyes.
“It is real.” My voice stayed low, steady. “Do you want it?”
That question was the dangerous one—because I already knew my answer. I wanted this with her. No doubts. No conditions.
She bit her lip, gaze flicking to the floor before she forced herself to meet my eyes. “Do you want me to get rid of it?”
“No.” The word shot out sharper than I meant, my grip on her waist tightening. She flinched—not away, just a slight start—then stayed perfectly still, like she was weighing my reaction.
Her brows drew together, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “You don’t even know me. And you want to have a baby with me?”
“I do know you.” I softened my tone, brushing my thumb over her hip in slow, grounding circles.
“You leave a mess when you cook. You hum when you’re happy.
You always have flour dusted somewhere on you.
You’re sunshine personified. When I break down your parts, you’re the rainbow. The color in my world.”
Her lashes fluttered, breath catching just enough for me to notice.
“You think you’re too much, but you’re just right. Perfect for me.” I stepped closer, and she didn’t back away, her pulse thudding steady but hard under my palm. “I’m white walls, and you’re turquoise paint. I’m plain floors, and you’re glitter epoxy.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, then reached up, tracing my knuckles along her jaw. She leaned into the touch before she seemed to realize it, her lips parting. My fingertips tipped her chin toward me. “You make me better. And I hope I make you better, too.”
For a beat, neither of us moved, just the press of air between us, thick with things unsaid. Her fingers twitched against my shirt, like she was deciding whether to hold on or let go.
“If it’s too soon,” I murmured, brushing my thumb across the curve of her cheek, “you don’t have to say it. But if this isn’t it for you… you can tell me.”
Instead of answering, she pulled me the miniscule distance that was still between us, her lips warm against mine. The mint of her toothpaste was still fresh on her breath.
Sadie
He was offering me everything I never thought I would have. I’d told myself it wasn’t out there for me—that men like him didn’t want women like me. But he didn’t want me to tone myself down, didn’t want me to grow out my pink hair or trade my dresses for something “normal.”
He looked at me like I was the only woman he had ever wanted, and that gaze shattered my heart, then pieced it back together with gold seams and glitter epoxy.
“You’re everything I want, Daniel.” My voice shook, but I didn’t look away. “I don’t know how Jessie ever let you go, or how she ever treated you like a doormat. But I’m glad she was an idiot—because her loss is my gain.”
I drew in a breath and stepped back just far enough for him to see my whole face.
To know I was telling him everything. “I want this.” My hand hovered over my stomach, almost afraid to make contact.
“And I might be really stupid for wanting it. Because we barely know each other. What if you get tired of me leaving dirty dishes in the sink?”
“Then I’ll tell you.” He said it like it was obvious, like there was no point in worrying.
“And what if I forget them again the next day?”
“Then I might say it’s your turn to do the dishes. Or I might see you’ve been washing every dish in the bakery all week, shut my mouth, and just do them.” He shrugged like it was nothing, but there was warmth in his eyes.
I felt my lips twitch, even though my chest was still tight. “And what if I wash the clothes and turn all your white shirts pink by accident?”
“Then I guess I’ll match your hair.” He stepped in before I could say anything else, pressing a finger gently to my lips.
The air between us stilled. My pulse thudded against his touch.
“Sadie,” he said softly, “we can play the what-if game all day, all night, all year. It won’t change how I feel about you. And in all those what-ifs, did you think of anything I might do to make you mad?”
My brows drew together, and he gave me a look that was half challenge, half tease.
“What if I leave my toothbrush on the counter instead of in that cute little duck-shaped holder you have? What if I tracked oil into my boots because I wasn’t careful wiping them off? Neither of us is perfect, sunshine.”
He leaned in slowly, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath, giving me every possible chance to step away. To pull back.
But I couldn’t. Even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t.
It had been weeks of this slow burn between us, all glances and almosts, and I was ready to combust. My pulse thrummed in my throat, my hands curling in the front of his shirt like I could anchor myself there.
Well, it wasn’t like he could get me pregnant again, right?
“I need you,” I whispered, the words trembling but fierce. My chest pressed against his with every shallow breath. “Please.”
Because it wasn’t just my body aching for him—my heart did too—all of me.
Something shifted in his eyes then, like my plea had snapped the last thread of his restraint.
His hand cupped the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just under my ear, and then his mouth brushed mine.
It was barely a kiss, more like a promise.
The kind of touch that made my stomach clench and my knees weaken, not because it was frantic, but because it was deliberate.
I chased him when he pulled back an inch, but he caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding me still. “Slow,” he murmured, voice low enough to scrape along my nerves.
“I don’t want slow,” I breathed, though my body betrayed me, leaning into every careful touch like I’d been waiting my whole life for it.
His lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. It was more like he’d just won a game I didn’t know we were playing. He kissed me again, deeper this time, just enough to taste me before retreating. Each pass of his mouth was maddening, giving me exactly enough to make me desperate for more.
His other hand slid to my waist, fingers splaying over my hip, his grip firm but not pulling me closer yet. My heart pounded so hard it felt like he could hear it.
“Diesel…” I whispered, not even sure if it was a plea or a curse.
He dipped his head, his breath warm against my ear. “Say it again.”
“I need you, Daniel.”
Something primal flickered in his eyes right before he lifted me like I weighed nothing. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, my arms locking around his neck. His mouth devoured mine like he’d been holding back for weeks, just waiting for the green light.
When my back hit the bed, it wasn’t rough. It was careful, gentle, loving. But the second I was down, he shifted gears again. Slow, teasing touches. Long, languid kisses that left my lips tingling and my lungs aching for air.
My skin grew hotter with every pass of his hands, every brush of his mouth. It felt like my blood was simmering, boiling, in the best, most dangerous way. My hips shifted restlessly, chasing him without even realizing it.
I reached for the hem of my shirt, ready to strip it away, but his palm pressed flat to my sternum, easing me back into the mattress.
“I said slow,” he murmured, a spark of warning in his tone, “and I meant it.”
He took his time. Sliding the fabric up inch by inch. Brushing his fingers along my ribs as though he was memorizing the shape of me. His mouth followed the trail of skin he revealed, pausing at my shoulder, the curve of my breast, the hollow of my throat.
By the time he had me bare, I was trembling, but not from the cold. It was from the sheer, unbearable anticipation of what he’d do next.