CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bryce
Eighteen Weeks ~ Baby is the size of a candy apple
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask over my shoulder while Leanne slips her shoes off by the front door.
Her quiet steps draw my attention and I turn to see her taking in the open living area of my house. “Can I be nosey first?” She peers toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.
“Of course. Let me give you a tour.” I lead the way, feeling the heat of her at my back and trying not to feel self-conscious that she’s in my space.
This is the first time she’s been to the ranch since Jenna’s wedding, and it’s her first time in my house.
It’s always clean and tidy, but I spent most of this morning dusting and decluttering to make it look as inviting as possible.
I’ve spent more than my fair share of days at her house since she told me about the baby, but this is new.
Everything we’re doing today is new and I think we’re both a little nervous.
“I have two spare rooms. One is a guest room and the other is an office.” Though I hope that one will eventually be a nursery. A pang of bittersweet longing twinges in my gut at the thought—Sarah and I never got to put together a nursery for Sam.
Leanne and I haven’t talked about what happens after the baby is born—how we go about sharing time with and parenting this tiny human we created together—but eventually, I’ll want them to spend time here too, and I want Leanne to be comfortable with that.
I follow her as she walks into each room, opening closets and running her hands over the furniture, pulling open drawers in the bathroom.
She wasn’t kidding about being nosey, but I don’t mind.
I have nothing to hide. Not here anyway.
Sarah was never in this house with me. I built it after she and Sam passed, so the memories in this space are all mine.
I remember visiting their graves after I moved in and describing it to Sarah.
That memory mirrors the one from just a few days ago, on Thanksgiving, when I trudged through fresh snow to sit with them for a bit.
It was always her favorite holiday—family, food, and gratitude, she’d say.
I sat shivering in the snow and told her all about Leanne, about our baby, and about how scared I am of losing them. I told her a lot of things.
I walked away with an overwhelming sense of peace—like it was all going to be okay—and a gnawing guilt that I still needed to tell Leanne the whole truth.
I keep assuming the right time will present itself, but it never does.
And the longer I go without telling her, the more it feels like it never will.
At least my anxiety about Leanne’s pregnancy becomes more manageable by the day. The thoughts of worst-case scenarios crop up less and less. And after yet another appointment yesterday, I’m quickly becoming obsessed not only with the sound of our baby’s heartbeat, but with Leanne as well.
“And that room?”
I jolt upright from where I was leaning against the wall in the hallway, lost in my thoughts while I waited for her to finish snooping.
She points to the room at the far end of the hall. Her blonde hair falls in waves around her face and down her back, and the smirk on her pink lips looks like sin. The part of me that still can’t believe how beautiful she is wants to kiss them and see if she tastes that way too.
Not friendly, I growl inside my own head.
I scrub my hand in my beard like I’m thinking. “Hmm, that room, huh? You don’t want to see that room.”
“I don’t?” she asks with raised brows.
“Nah,” I say with a casual shrug, leaning a shoulder back against the wall and crossing my arms.
“Hmm, well, I think I do.” She does a lithe little sidestep and a ridiculous twirl that draws a bark of laughter from me. She bounds around me and heads straight for the door.
She strolls into my bedroom like she owns the place, and I know in my bones that if she wanted it, I’d let her have it.
Her hips sway and I can’t keep my eyes from going to her ass…
That perfect ass. I stifle a groan and remind myself I’m not supposed to be looking at her that way. She doesn’t want me to.
She flicks on the light and it illuminates the king bed that takes up the majority of the space. Her soft gasp tells me she’s intrigued before she glances over her shoulder and moves toward it.
“Did you make this?” she asks, admiring the craftsmanship I only wish I had the skill for.
“Nah, my best friend Will works with repurposed wood and epoxy as a side gig. He made it for me.”
The headboard is built from multiple pieces of live edge walnut wood, connected with a dark blue epoxy running through them like a river.
The darker hues in the epoxy match the navy blue of my comforter and the lighter blue facets match the pillows.
The side tables have twin slabs of live edge walnut as their tops.
It was the first piece of furniture I bought after Sarah died, and to see Leanne’s hands moving across the planes of wood makes my heart beat erratically in my chest. She’s the only woman who’s been in this room, let alone touched my bed.
It’s not that I’ve been a monk these past six years, but I’ve never brought anyone here.
Until now.
“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says, continuing to run her fingers across the headboard, oblivious to the fact she’s got one knee on my bed, right by my pillow.
A fact that’s definitely bringing to mind something else that’s beautiful and would look lovely splayed across this very bed.
As if my imagination is pulling my fantasy into reality, she reaches along the line of epoxy with her delicate fingers and the foot she had planted on the floor slips, sending her toppling into the pillows with a whooshed exhale.
I clear my throat, stepping closer and struggling to hold back my laughter and my desire to touch her, knowing I can’t.
Friends, we’re friends.
She rolls onto her back and out of the pillows. The flush from her cheeks spreads down her chest, which rises with rapid breaths. I take one more step, which puts me at the edge of the bed, between her feet. It’s a position I’ve been in once before with her, and it’s one I’ve dreamt of ever since.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her gaze snagging on the intensity of mine. “I made a mess of your bed.”
Fuuuuuck. I groan, squeezing my eyes shut, because those words on her lips might be my undoing.
Her intake of breath, shallow and short, tells me she just realized what she said. “I didn’t mean… I just…”
My eyes snap open and I see the desire in hers, clear as day, like she’s remembering every touch, every sound, every movement of our night together like I am.
Her pupils dilate and her mouth parts on a gasp when I let my hand circle her ankle.
It’s not an overtly sexual touch, especially over the tall sock that peeks out from under her jeans, but it’s possessive as fuck and she knows it.
“Bryce.” My name is breathy on her lips and it makes my cock twitch in my pants. I want to hear her say my name like that when I’m inside her, and then I want to hear her scream it when she comes.
It’s like a different kind of switch was flipped when we walked in here and the chemistry between us that we’ve been denying—ignoring—rearranged with our close proximity to a bed.
“Yeah, blondie?” I husk, and she shivers like my voice alone was a rough touch against her skin.
She swallows thickly and finally looks away, breaking the connection as quickly as it formed. She pushes up with her arms until she’s sitting upright. I force myself back several steps so I don’t get any more ideas while her head is at the perfect level for—
Nope. Not going to even think about it.
As she scoots to the edge of the bed, I extend my hand and she takes it tentatively.
I don’t yank her into my arms and kiss her senseless like I want to.
Instead, I help her to her feet and walk backward out of the room with a parting “Take your time snooping.” I nod toward the closet and en suite, then turn to leave her be.
Entering the kitchen, I shake out my hands like it will lessen the lingering heat on my skin.
She wants us to be friends—partners—not a couple. I can respect that. I will respect that.
A few minutes later, she joins me, looking a little flushed. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to go crawling all over your bed.”
“Yes you did,” I tease.
She squeezes my forearm with her nails. “Okay, I did. But I didn’t mean for it to get weird.”
“Weird?” I quirk an eyebrow and smirk. I think I’ll keep letting her dig this hole.
“Fuck’s sake, you’re so annoying. You know what I’m talking about, you just won’t admit it,” she grumbles, then waves me away. “Fine, we’ll just pretend it never happened then.”
She turns her attention to the sourdough loaf on the counter, grabbing the knife beside it and cutting off the end without preamble. She takes a bite and I chuckle at the throaty moan that escapes her. “Did you make this?” she asks through her mouthful of bread.
I laugh in earnest now. “Yeah. I think you’ll find I’m a man of many talents.” I point toward another area of the counter where my starter sits. The label on the front says Quick to Rise.
“You did not name your starter that,” she scoffs, and shakes her head.
“Becca did.” I watch her cut another slice. “Hungry?”
“Always,” she says, taking a bite. “I’m always hungry. I won’t keep eating though. I know we have dinner soon with your… in-laws?”