I let out a short laugh. “That’s why I’m telling you first.”
He chuckles. “Smart man.” He points at me. “You call her daddy before you do it. He’ll want to know first.”
“Already did.” I went to see Mr. Samba as soon as they returned from their trip.
My father stops and looks at me, something shifting in his face—pride. The kind that makes his chin lift and his chest expand.
“That’s my boy,” he says quietly.
I drive to Ina’s that night with the ring in my glove box and a conversation I need to have before I get on one knee.
She’s on the porch when I pull up. My favorite version of her. Bare feet. Shorts that show off her thick, gorgeous thighs. One of my T-shirts…she keeps stealing them and I keep letting her because seeing her in my clothes does something to my brain that borders on feral. The shirt hangs loose on her shoulders but stretches across her tits, her dark nipples pressing through the thin cotton. Her braids are piled up messily on her head. She’s holding her lemonade. Smiling at me before I’m even out of the truck.
My chest aches. Every time. Every fucking time I see this woman, something inside me cracks open wider.
I climb the steps. She tilts her face up for a kiss, and I give her one …slow, deep, my hand cupping the back of her head, her braids soft under my fingers. She tastes of lemon and sugar. Her free hand grabs my belt loop and tugs me closer. I feel her breasts press against my stomach through the shirt. My cock stirs. It always stirs. One kiss from this woman and my body’s ready to go.
“Hi,” she says against my mouth.
“Hi, baby.”
“You look serious tonight.”
“I’m always serious.”
“More serious than usual.” She pulls back and studies me. Her dark brown eyes…warm, sharp, seeing everything. Her full lips curved in a half-smile. “What’s going on in that big head of yours?”
I sit on the porch swing. Pull her down next to me. She curls into my side…natural, easy, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks. Her bare thigh presses warm against my jeans. Her head drops to my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her and breathe in the scent of her shampoo and her skin and my shirt on her body.
“I want to talk about something,” I say.
“Uh-oh.”
“Not, uh-oh.”
“When a man says ‘I want to talk about something’ in that voice, it’s always uh oh.”
I press my lips to the top of her head. “Just listen.”
She goes quiet. Her hand rests on my thigh. Her fingers curl against the denim. Waiting.
“Every time I say I want to put a baby in you, I mean it. Every time I come inside you and press deep and hold…”
She lifts her head off my shoulder. Looks at me. Her dark eyes are wide. Her lips are parted. I can see her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
“Beau…”
“I want kids with you. Not someday, not maybe.” I turn to face her. Take her hand. Her small fingers in my big, rough palm. “I want to watch your belly grow. Want to feel our baby kick. Want to be the man standing next to you in every room for the rest of your life.” I bring her hand to my mouth. Kissher knuckles. Her skin is soft and warm against my lips. “I want everything with you.”
Her eyes are filling. Her jaw working. She blinks, and a tear slips down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb.
“I’m thirty-eight,” she whispers. “What if I can’t…”
“Then we figure it out.”
“What if it takes a long time?”
“Good. More practice.”
