“What else do you know about me?” I whispered.
Whatever he heard in my tone, Baird’s expression turned serious. “I know you swim three times a week, not just for the fitness but because it’s the one place your mind focuses and all your stress melts away for a while.”
Facts.
I held my breath, waiting.
“I know you love fashion and that you take your time presenting yourself to the world, not because you’re hung up on your looks but because it’s your armor. Because your mum’s situation made people look at you like you were less than, and you never want to feel that way again. I know you listen to Taylor Swift when you’re in a good mood,Paramore when you’re pissed off, and Lord Huron when you’re chilled out.” His lips twitched. “This is just a guess, but I think Hozier might be when you’re horny.”
My lips parted on a “Uh!” squeak as I whacked his arm. “How did you know that?”
Baird threw his head back in laughter.
I was half shocked at everything he said.
When his laughter trailed off, his eyes still danced with humor. “I pay attention, My. And believe me, there were days I came over and you were listening to Hozier, and I wondered what the fuck Willwasn’tdoing for you, and it was really hard not to make an arsehole move.”
My cheeks flushed. I was now fully awake again. “Oh my god.”
His gaze smoldered even as he reached for the cutlery. “I know your favorite dishes are cacio e pepe if it’s Italian, kung pao chicken if it’s Chinese, pad Thai noodles if it’s Thai, a haggis supper if it’s from the chippy, and butter chicken—Indian. You love fish but can’t stomach most shellfish. A mojito is your favorite cocktail. Champagne is your favorite overall, but you’re not a big drinker and you’d prefer to nurse a glass of bubbly because you think most alcohol tastes like, and I quote, ‘Swill.’ Whatever that means. I know you love traveling for fashion month, but I can tell you’re uncomfortable around industry people because when you talk about it, there’s always this wee telltale wrinkle between your nose and that light in your eyes when you talk about the actual clothes winks out. I know?—”
I reached up to cover his mouth with my palm, my pulse pounding in my ears. His eyebrows rose in question.
“If you say much more, I’m going to melt into a puddleat your feet.” I felt his smile against my palm. “And then die of guilt.”
Baird frowned, pulling my hand from his mouth. “Why?”
“Because … because while you are the one person who has ever given a shit enough to notice all those things about me … I didn’t even notice you felt that way.” Tears brightened my eyes. “I was such a blind idiot. Literally and metaphorically.”
Baird grinned, bending his head to press a soft kiss to my mouth. He pulled back to search my eyes. “No guilt, My. We were in different places. Now we’re in the same place, and that’s all I care about.” He leaned back and lifted the plate to me. “Now, eat something before you fall asleep. Go sit. I’ll make tea and grab some water.”
He was taking care of me.
In fact, Baird McMillan had been taking care of me for far longer than I realized.
I promised myself as I settled on the couch that I was going to start taking care of him right back.
So as tired as I was, I said, “Uh-uh” when Baird reached for the TV remote. “We’re going to talk. About what you said the night you told me you had feelings for me. About football. How you feel about it now.”
He swallowed his bite of stir-fried noodles. “Sneak attack, eh?”
“Well?”
“We can talk about that later. It’s been a long day, My.”
“We’ll talk about it later if that’s really what you want, but I’d like to talk about it now. I want to make sure that my fiancé isn’t dreading going to training every day.”
His expression softened. “I had a bit of a … what do you call it? Epiphany? Aye, an epiphany today.” He then went on to explain how I’d helped him feel grateful for what he had in life. How so few young men who dreamed of playing professional football ever made it into the league. How he was grateful for the eight years he’d played. “That’s how I’m going to keep looking at it. And if I start to think that my fears really are winning and I’m not enjoying the game anymore, I’ll walk away and be grateful for how long it lasted. I just … I still need time to figure out if I’m ready to walk away or if I want to fight for it. There’s no magic answer. Just … time.”
Pride flooded my chest, so I told him I was proud of him.
He gave me a boyish grin. “Aye?”
“Aye.” I smiled, lowering my eyes so he couldn’t see myoverwhelmingemotions. “You know, behind that gregarious ‘life of the party’ demeanor, you’re more mature than men ten years older than you. Maybe even more mature than me.” I shrugged self-deprecatingly.
“Och, I wouldn’t go that far, beautiful.”
I looked up to meet his tender but wicked smile.
