My heart is screaming yes. The baby is practically doing somersaults. But my head, the part that’s spent this whole pregnancy terrified and alone, hesitates.
"I don’t know, Nick," I say, even though some part of me has already decided. Probably decided the second he walked through that door.
He looks up at me, still kneeling, still touching me like I'm something precious. "Let me at least explain some things. Will you allow that?"
I should say no. I should protect myself, protect the baby, protect the fragile little balance I’ve managed to cobble together out of fear, stubbornness, and Ella’s fierce friendship.
But I nod.
Relief washes over his face, and he stands slowly, taking my hand in his. He moves to the bakery door and locks it, flippingthe sign to closed. Then he turns back to me, and there's a question in his eyes.
I nod again, not trusting my voice.
He leads me toward the back door and the stairs up to my apartment. Every step feels huge, like I’m walking straight into something that’s going to change everything. Again.
The baby settles as we climb, like she knows something I don’t. Like she’s been waiting for this all along.
And maybe she has. Maybe I have too.
At the top of the stairs, I unlock my apartment door with hands that won’t stop shaking. Nick stays close but not too close, like he’s worried I’ll bolt if he so much as breathes wrong.
"Come in," I say, and step aside to let him into my space, my life, my carefully constructed world.
Whatever he’s about to say, whatever explanations he’s got lined up, I know nothing is going to be the same after this.
The baby kicks once more, gentler this time.
And I close the door behind us.
Chapter Eight
Samantha
The apartment shrinks the second he steps inside.
It’s not that Nick is especially huge, though he is. Broad shoulders, tall, the sort of man who makes a room feel crowded just by existing. The real problem is me. Every cell in my body wants to cross the space between us, curl up in his lap, and let him tell me everything’s going to be fine.
I stomp that feeling down hard and focus on getting my keys onto the hook by the door without dropping them.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch like he owns the place. "Please."
"It's my apartment."
"I know." His voice carries that gentle insistence that makes my knees weak. "But you've been on your feet, and I'd feel better if you sat down."
The baby does a slow somersault. Maybe sitting isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had. Lowering myself onto the couch takes more effort than I’d care to admit. Nick watches me like I might shatter if I sneeze. I bite back the urge to remind him I’ve been doing this solo for months.
He disappears into my kitchen, and I hear the tap running. A moment later, he's back with a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table within easy reach.
"Do you need anything else?" he asks. "Are you comfortable? I can get you a pillow, or?—"
"Nick," I interject before he can finish fussing. "What I need is for you to do what you said you were going to do. Tell me everything."
He nods and takes the chair across from me, close, but not close enough to spook me. Like he thinks I’ll bolt if he gets any nearer.
Smart move on his part.
"Where do I start?" He rakes a hand through his silver hair, and the gesture is so familiar it hurts.
