"I know." He nods, accepting the implicit criticism without defense. "I have a lot to make up for. A lot to prove. But I'm asking for the chance to try." He takes a deep breath, then adds quietly, "If you'll have me."
The old Camille might have jumped at the chance to be with him again, might have forgiven instantly just to have him back. But I'm not that woman anymore.
"I need time," I say finally. "And ground rules. And for you to understand that this isn't just about you and me anymore. It's about the baby, and Julian, and Tristan, and building something that works for all of us."
Alexander nods, relief visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. "Whatever you need. I'm not going anywhere this time."
The promise—so similar to what Julian and Tristan have both told me—feels significant coming from him, a man whose entire life has been built on leaving before he can be left.
I look at him standing there and feel something shift inside me—not forgiveness, not yet, but the possibility of it. A door cracking open that I thought was sealed shut forever.
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" I ask.
His smile—genuine, not the practiced one he shows the world—warms his entire face. "I'd like that very much."
I gesture for him to follow me into the kitchen, knowing that this evening is just the beginning of a conversation that will shape all our lives. There are no guarantees, no promises that this impossible situation will work out. But as I catch sight of the little elephant on my entryway table, I feel a strange sense of hope.
Chapter 32
Camille
Iopen my refrigerator and stare at its meager contents. I have half a bag of pasta, some frozen shrimp, and a lemon that's seen better days. But it's either this or takeout, and something in me wants to cook for him, to create something with my own hands rather than dial for delivery.
"I hope you like pasta," I say, pulling out the ingredients and setting them on the counter. "It's pretty much all I have."
Alexander moves closer, his presence filling the small kitchen. "I like anything you make."
The simple statement shouldn't affect me, but it does. I busy myself with finding a pot, filling it with water, avoiding his eyes.
"May I help?" he asks, rolling up his sleeves. The gesture exposes his tanned, muscular forearms and I have to force myself to look away.
"You can thaw the shrimp," I tell him, nodding toward the sink. "Tepid water works fastest."
He follows my instructions without hesitating, this man who probably hasn't prepared his own food in years. There's something surreal about Alexander Kingsley standing at my sink, carefully placing frozen shrimp in a colander under running water.
We work in surprisingly comfortable silence—me chopping garlic, him checking the shrimp every few minutes. The water boils, and I add the pasta, then grab olive oil and red pepper flakes from the cabinet.
"I didn't know you could cook," he says as I melt butter in a pan for the shrimp.
"There's a lot you don't know about me." The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften them with a small smile. "But yes, I can make basic things. My mom was more into social events than family dinners, so I taught myself."
Alexander nods, watching as I take the thawed shrimp from him, pat them dry, and add them to the sizzling butter. The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and shellfish, making my stomach growl audibly. Alexander's follows suit, and we both laugh, the sound breaking the tension between us.
"Sounds like we're both starving," I say, stirring the shrimp as they turn pink.
"I skipped lunch," he admits. "Too nervous about seeing you."
The confession surprises me—Alexander Kingsley, nervous? About me? I look at him over my shoulder and find him watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher.
When everything's ready, I divide the pasta between two plates, topping each with the garlicky shrimp and the small amount of parmesan cheese I found in the back of the refrigerator. It's not fancy, but it smells delicious.
We sit at my small dining table, knees almost touching in the limited space. Alexander takes a bite and closes his eyes briefly.
"This is excellent," he says, sounding genuinely pleased. "Thank you."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, both too hungry for conversation. I watch him from beneath my lashes—the precise way he twirls pasta onto his fork, the strong line of his jaw ashe chews. He's still the most beautiful man I've ever seen. That hasn't changed.
"Have you thought about names?" Alexander asks suddenly. "For the baby?"
