Part of me wants to argue, to dig in my heels and insist that I’m a grown woman who can make her own decisions about her own body. But the truth is, I am exhausted. My feet ache. My back hurts. And the thought of curling up in bed with Connor sounds infinitely better than spending another hour staring at patient files.
“Fine,” I relent. “But I’m walking out of here on my own two feet.”
Connor nods and releases my hands. We make it about halfway down the hallway before my knees start to wobble. I grab his arm to steady myself, and he shoots me a look.
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Thinking what?”
“That you were right and I should have left hours ago.”
“I would never.” His lips twitch. “Okay, maybe I was thinking it a little.”
We reach the lobby, and I’m about to push through the front doors when Connor suddenly stops. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he bends down and scoops me up into his arms like I weigh nothing.
“Connor!” I yelp. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you home.”
“I can walk!”
“You can barely stand. Just let me carry you.” He pushes through the doors and starts down the sidewalk. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. My mate is tired, and I’m going to take care of her whether she likes it or not.”
I want to protest more, but honestly? Being carried feels amazing. I let my head drop against his shoulder and breathe in his familiar scent as my eyes drift closed.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he murmurs. “We’re almost there.”
The walk to our cabin takes about ten minutes, but it feels like seconds. One moment, I’m being carried down the main street of Silvercreek, and the next, Connor is nudging open our front door with his foot and carrying me through to the bedroom.
He lays me down on the mattress with a gentleness that still surprises me, even after all this time. I expect him to step back, to tell me to get some sleep, but instead he kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed beside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he stretches out next to me.
“Keeping you company.” He pulls me against his side and tucks me into the curve of his body. “Is that okay?”
“More than okay.”
We lie there in comfortable silence for a few minutes with my head on his chest and his arm wrapped around my shoulders. His hand finds my stomach, and he rests his palm against the small swell that’s started to show beneath my shirt.
“Can we talk about something?” he asks quietly.
“Of course. Anything.”
“It’s about us. About the lottery.”
I lift my head to look at him. “What about it?”
“We’ve never really discussed it. Not properly.” He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “We’ve just been going with the flow, taking things one day at a time. And that’s been good. Great, actually. But with the baby coming…”
He presses his hand more firmly against my stomach.
“I need to know where we stand, Fern. I need to know if this is real for you, or if you’re just making the best of a situation you never asked for.”
The vulnerability in his voice makes my heart ache. This big, strong man who would tear apart anyone who threatened me is lying here asking if I actually want him.
