I can't speak. Can barely breathe.
"My father left before I was born," Donovan continues. "Never even met me. And mymother—God, my mother—she worked three jobs trying to make up for it. Killed herself trying to be enough. And then she died when I was sixteen, I found her, and I learned that loving people means losing them."
"Donovan—"
"And then Vanessa." His jaw tightens. "I proposed to her thinking I was ready for marriage. For family. For all of it. And she cheated on me for six months with her tennis instructor and then told me it was my fault for being married to my work. Then she got… pregnant.” He meets my eyes. “And I had to discover the hard way that the baby wasn’t mine.”
My vision is blurring with tears.
I can only imagine the hurt Donovan must have felt, the shame.
I felt it with Josh, but it’s nothing compared to thinking that you’re not only going to share a life with someone, but also a family, only to have the rug pulled from beneath your feet.
His expression is pinched, his handsome features pulled into something indecipherable.
He steps closer, and I can feel the heat from his oversized body.
“And this…” he soldiers on, “is why I want you to understand why I'm so fucking bad at this. Why I walked away instead of fighting. Why I convinced myself that giving you space was noble when really I was just protecting myself." He steps closer. "I'm terrified of being a father. Of failing our child the way my father failed me. Of proving Vanessa right. Of losing you the way I've lost everyone else."
His voice is raw. “And when you pushed me away—“
"I shouldn’t—“
"That's on me." He's close enough now that I can see the paint on his hands, the exhaustion in his steely eyes. "I'm not good at this, Emma. I don't know how to be vulnerable without feeling like I'm going to die. But I know that losing you—really losing you—is worse than any risk. I love you. I've lovedyou since Miami, maybe before I even knew your name. And I'm so fucking sorry I didn't fight for you when I should have."
The tears spill over, and Donovan cups my face, thumbs wiping away tears.
“Because you are everything to me, Emma Nicole Sinclair. Your independence. Your ambition. Your smile and sense of humor and wit.” His forehead touches mine. “If you don’t choose me out of all your options, it’s because I didn’t make you feel safe that you could. I don’t want to run from this like my father did. Let me stay and matter… like my mother showed me how.”
I'm crying in earnest now, shoulders shaking.
Since I left Donovan, I’ve had a chill in my bones that no summer day, no heat wave could push away.
It’s only in his arms that I feel warm, that the cold disappears.
I nod, as he nuzzles his nose against mine. "I choose you. I've always chosen you. Even when I was pushing you away, I was choosing you."
"Then let me choose you back." His voice is rough. "Let me be your partner. Let me help with the nursery and the late-night cravings and the doctor's appointments. Let me fail at being a perfect father and try again. Let me love you even when we're both scared."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes." I kiss him through my tears. "I love you. And I'm sorry I said that I regretted telling you about the baby. I didn't mean it. I was just hurt and—"
He kisses me back, cutting off my rambling apology, and it's different from our other kisses. It’s slower. Tender. Like we're both letting the warmth in.
When we pull apart, we're both practically panting.
"You have paint on your face," I observe.
"You have paint under your fingernails."
"I was paintingmy shitty nursery corner when Margaret called."
“I’m more than certain that your nursery corner is far from shitty." He brushes hair from my face. "But this one has more space. And a rocking chair. And—" His hand moves to my stomach—tentative, asking permission. “Enough space for the both of you.”
I cover his hand with mine. "Okay."
