“This one,” he says, and I’m surprised to look down and find a cartoon doctor staring up at me, wearing a white coat just like the one in my office at the hospital.
I read the book, and when I think he’s asleep, I close it gently, preparing myself to get to my feet and sneak out.
But Gus reaches out and catches my arm, his little hand almost feverishly hot. Staring at me from under heavy lids, he asks, “Will you come with me on TV, Russell?”
I should talk to Jules first, make sure she’s okay with it. Even knowing that, I can’t stop myself from pushing his hair back, smiling down at him as he drifts off to sleep, “Of course I will, Gus.”
And in the dark of his room, holding a bedtime story in my hand and aching with wanting for all this to really be mine, I realize I’ve definitely bitten off more than I can chew this time.
Chapter 22
Jules
Even with Sienna teasing me subtly all night about Russell, this has been one of the best days of my life.
The driver comes back, just like Russell said he would. I sit wrapped up in my impossible comfortable—impossiblyexpensive—new coat, swathed in warmth, watching the lights of the city pass me by as we head away from the market and toward my place.
Russell was right about one thing. This definitely beats walking home, my head bowed against the bitter Chicago wind in a coat that was far too thin to stand a chance against the wind.
The driver idles at the curb while I buzz into the building, then waves before pulling off. I climb the steps with an extra pep in my step, knowing the fizz I feel is at the thought of finding Russell in my apartment when I open the door.
And, sure enough, when I push the door open, the first thing I see is him sitting at the kitchen counter, a book open in front of him. He sits so casually, so comfortably, that it almost knocks the breath out of me.
I like seeing him like this. Relaxed in my home, like he belongs here.
He stands and comes over to me, taking my bag and helping me undo the buttons on my coat, like it’s something he does for me every day. Impossibly natural, instinctive.
Then, as though he can hear the silent plea in my head, he follows me to my bedroom, waiting until the door is shut to speak.
“How was the market?” he asks, his voice low, quiet and deep. I gesture for him to sit on the end of the bed, and he does.
I disappear into the closet, changing into my pajamas and talking to him about the work tonight—Sienna opening up to me, that kid coming back to buyanothercandle for his mother, but clearly having a crush on Sienna.
When I emerge, I ask about Gus, and Russell tells me about putting him to bed. That he was good and now has a crystal dinosaur to hang on our Christmas tree, which he thinks we should put up soon.
“He asked me to come when he goes ontoday… tomorrow. I told him I would,” Russell says, his eyes locking on me as I pull thick socks onto my feet. I’m wearing a set of black pajamas I got from Target—nothing salacious. Just black shorts and a button-up top, but Russell is looking at me like I’m in lingerie.
More specifically, he’s looking at my chest like his mouth is already watering.
Ismymouth watering? Russell looks good, even better than he did bundled up in his coat on the street. There’s an ache between my legs, and reminders in my head of how good it feels to have him bracketed over me.
Can we have sex with Gus here?
I’ve never even had to face the question before. By the time we moved into this apartment, I’d decided dating just wasn’t for me.
“…I hope that’s okay,” Russell finishes, and I realize I’ve been so caught up thirsting after him that I forgot where his sentence started.
Gus.Today, Tomorrow. The show.
“Oh, of course,” I say, blinking when my voice comes out even huskier than normal. Is the air between us charged, or am I imagining it? Would Russell ever consider sex right now, knowing Gus is here, too?
To distract myself from my wanting, I add, “You’re good with him.”
Something flickers over Russell’s face, and he says, like a rehearsed response, “Pediatrician. All in the training.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, letting down my hair and grabbing my brush from the dresser, just for something to do with my hands. Stopping for a minute to point the brush at him, I say, “I think you’re a natural. That’s why it’s surprising to me.”
“What is?”
