Kade exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard, his eyes full of regret.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KADE
I should know. I should know about her hormones. About the things that make her sick now. And I hate that he does.
I push my plate away, throwing the napkin down but keeping my eyes on Eden. She glances at the half-eaten steak, and I almost smile at her predictability. “Have it,” I say, pushing it closer to her.
“I’m fine with pasta,” she mutters, her cheeks blushing slightly.
“Eden,” I say firmly, and her eyes rise to mine, “eat the damn steak. I’m done.”
She bites her lip to stop the smile as I stab the steak and put it on her plate. Whenever we ate out, which wasn’t often in the later days, she’d order something bland and spend the rest of the meal eyeing up my food. And I always made sure to leave her half. It just became a thing.
When the dessert menu arrives, Peter glances at his watch. “I should take off.”
Eden’s hand shoots out, gripping his arm like it’s a lifeline, and I look away, jaw tight, determined not to let the jealousy crawl up my spine.
“I’ll come too,” she offers quickly.
“No,” he says gently. “I know how much you love dessert.” He smiles at her, soft and familiar, and I picture myself strangling him with his own damn belt. Then he turns to me. “Kade, it was a pleasure.” He reaches for his wallet.
I lift a hand. “I’ve got it covered.”
He hesitates. “If you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
He tucks the notes away and leans down, pressing a kiss to Eden’s head. “Text me when you’re home.”
“I’ll get her there safely,” I cut in, my smile tight.
He studies me for a second then nods stiffly and heads out.
The silence he leaves behind is loud.
We both pretend to read the menu. When the waiter returns, I order two lemon meringues without looking at her. I know it’s one of her favourites. Always has been.
As I hand the menu back, I catch the faint curve of Eden’s smile before she schools it away, and the sight of it gives another glimmer of hope.
“We didn’t do this enough,” I say quietly.
“At all,” she corrects.
I lean back, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “That’s not true. We went on dates all the time at the beginning.”
“Three times,” she says flatly.
“Three great dates,” I counter. “One of which ended with us getting hot and bothered in a bathroom.”
Colour creeps into her cheeks, and I lean forward slightly, my fingers hovering close to hers on the table. “Good times.”
She clears her throat. “So . . . visiting.” I frown. She draws in a slow breath. “How often? Where? When?”
“I’m not following.”
“Visitation,” she says clearly. “With the baby. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
