Lying here with a woman I love, our son safe in the next room, pets downstairs. Friends who would drop everything to set up what was ultimately the best date I could’ve dreamed of, talking and laughing with Emma over a menu custom-made forher with all of her favorites. A community that I’ve only just started exploring that loves her and Bash fiercely.
It’s like living in one of my family’s movies.
Except better.
There’s no final curtain call coming on this life withmy family.
No last scene to anticipate and dread at the same time.
No pondering where to go next.
Not that I often ended one project without knowing what was coming for at least two more projects.
I’m itching to stroke her hair, to brush that lock out of her face. Her lips are parted, and I think she’s drooling.
So. Fucking. Perfect.
So fuckingreal.
She snorts suddenly, bats at her face, and her eyes pop open a split second before she pushes herself up, letting the candles illuminate her pert nipples and small breasts.
She blinks three times, looking at me, and I see the moment she registers that I’m still here.
“Hey,” I say softly, giving in to the urge to stroke her hair.
She stares one more long moment, and then a sleepy smile crosses her face while she lowers herself back to the mattress. “You never get bedhead, do you?”
That makes me laugh. “Yes, I do.”
“I don’t believe you.”
That mouth. Those dancing eyes behind sleepy eyelids. The teasing tone.
“Here. Look. I’ll mess it up.”
“No. No, let me.” She shifts on the bed so she’s facing me, reaching across me to ruffle my hair.
My eyes slide shut.
Can’t help it.
I love it when she touches me.
“Have you slept?” she whispers.
“No.”
“What time is it?”
“Close to midnight.”
“And you haven’t slept at all?”
I peek one eye open. “Didn’t want to wake up and find out this was all a dream.”
She stares at me like she’s looking for the punchline, and it utterly kills me that she still has these moments of self-doubt.
That she questions why I’d like her.
