10
I feellike I’ve woken from the dead when I crack a crusty eye open and peek over at the alarm on my nightstand.
Ten-thirty.
I groan into the blanket. It’s Saturday. I’m supposed to have lunch with Lara, and I already slept away the morning.
I stretch my arms overhead and push myself up in bed. I’m still not used to my new home but that doesn’t mean I don’t love it.
I pull my cozy duvet up and cuddle into it, taking stock of the room. It’s decorated in a contemporary Spanish style that suits the house. Everything is incrediblyhigh-end. I’m in a four-poster bed for goodness’ sake. Which makes me think… None of this is Anton’s either. Is it?
He made a crash landing in Echo Valley only months before I first came, escaping captivity, adopted by the Mendezes… Anton told me on those stakeouts, he plans on staying. He said apart from an estranged brother who lives off-grid in Brazil, he has no family but Ava.
Neither of us are starting out with much of our own when this baby comes into the world.
Suddenly my stomach churns thinking about the list Lara made for my baby shower. The stroller. The crib…
Anton and I haven’t talked about money. Not really. Shadow Justice works, but it isn’t exactly raking it in—and yet Anton doesn’t seem worried. He drives a brand-new, souped-up Ford Raptor that costs more than every adult purchse I’ve made put together.
I stare at the carved oak of the four-poster bed.
There’s still so much I don’t know about him, and yet he always feels so familiar.
I try to remember the last time something felt this easy without consequences.
I can’t.Not with a man anyway.
I sit up slowly, stretching. Every muscle complains though my feet aren’t swollen anymore. Anton’s huge, strong hands kneaded out every bit of tension from them. I hadn’t thought twice about asking.
True, I wouldn’t ask just any friend of mine for a foot massage but also true, I’m not inviting any of them into the delivery room. And if I have a C-section or need any physical help after…in general, it’s best if we aren’t afraid to touch each other, isn’t it?
Asking for a massage felt right in the moment.
That’s the problem. Everything feels right with Anton.
I can’t trust “right” anymore. We can touch each other, sure, but I have to be careful about what I let it turn into.
If our hearts get twisted and it doesn’t work, I don’t just lose a man—I lose the one person who makes the idea of parenthood feel joyful instead of overwhelming.
Stability. Friendship. The baby.
I repeat the mantra to myself as I get dressed and brush my teeth.
By the time I’m dressed in leggings, a loose tee, and battered Nikes, the leftover warmth of sleep has faded, and I make my way downstairs.
The house is quiet.
A folded note sits on the kitchen counter under a mug of ginger tea, now completely cold, but the fact that he made one is so damn sweet.
The handwriting is neat, slanted, unexpectedly professional and clean for a man who looks like he doesn’t write a lot of notes.
Freya,
Didn’t want to wake you. I’m at the shed near the barn with the boys this morning. Follow the gravel path. Take your time, pastries are on the counter. If you need me, text.
— A
I sip my tea because I’ve never minded room temperature drinks, nibble a pastry because, um, pastry, and I let out a sigh that’s as much about the flaky crust as it is about the man who left it here.
