The door closes with a quietthunk. Declan’s fingers graze my thighs as he lifts the shirt up and over my head.
“Hey!” I protest.
He lets out a sexy caveman-style grunt and points to the bed.
Shaking my head, I dive under the covers, rolling to the far side and prop my head on my hand. He slides in slowly, his gaze never leaving me.
When he’s settled, he turns on his side, watching me with a raw, open intensity. “I’ve never wanted kids, Emery.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
He flicks his gaze to the ceiling like he’s searching for patience or maybe the right words. “I’m not saying it to hear myself talk.”
That’s true. Declan doesn’t seem to say anything he doesn’t mean.
“I serious,” he continues. “And usually when women hear that, they think they can change my mind which is, honestly, fucking annoying.”
I let out a small huff of laughter. How many times have people offered me their unsolicited advice or opinions? “I can imagine.”
“This curse. My family’s curse. It ends withme.”
I open my mouth to fill the silence, then stop. How much do I hate it when well-meaning people try to tell me I’ll change my mind, or share the name of some wacky fertility herb I should try? Why would I do that to him when I know how awful it feels?
Besides, his curse might end. Mine won’t.
“I understand,” I say.
We lie there, facing each other, the space between us small but intentional. His hand rests on the mattress near mine, not touching, close enough to choose if we want to.
For now, that’s enough.
I let my eyes close, enjoying his solid presence beside me.
Whatever comes next doesn’t have to be decided tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Declan
Morning light cutsacross the kitchen floor, pale and cold, catching on the edge of the counter. Emery claimed one of the stools and seems to like watching me while I cook breakfast for us every morning. Her bare feet dangling, toes brushing the bottom rung. This morning, she’s wearing one of my old flannel shirts—sleeves rolled up, buttons half-done—and not much else. A beautiful sight.
Even though we’ve only done this for the last three mornings, it feels natural. Like we’ve done this together hundreds of mornings. The home I rarely spend time in feels different with her here. Fuller. Brighter. I shouldn’t enjoy it so damn much. Whatever this is, one way or another, it has an expiration date.
I slide a mug of coffee toward her, then lean on the counter with my own cup. “Morning fuel.”
She glances up from her phone, an appreciative smile tugging at her lips. “You’re awfully good at this domestic thing.” She takes a cautious sip, then sighs. “And your coffee-making skills are A-plus.”
A slow grin spreads over my face, and I step closer until my legs bump into her knees. “You seem to hand out high marks in a lot of categories for me.”
She grips a handful of my T-shirt and yanks me closer. “That’s because you’re talented in so many areas.” Her lips meet mine in a soft kiss.
For a few seconds, the kitchen’s quiet except for the low hum of my ancient fridge and the slow slide of our lips.
Her stomach growls and she backs away, an embarrassed laugh spilling from her lips. “Sorry.”
I place one last lingering kiss on her cheek, inhaling her cinnamon scent. “Let me start breakfast.”
“Okay.”
