A happy sound escapes her, lighting up her whole face. “I love you too, Steven Jones.”
Then I kiss her, deeply, almost desperate. Like I need her to breathe. She responds with equal intensity, her hands tangling in my hair and pulling me closer. Her grip on me makes me lose my balance, and I bracket my arms on either side of her. She sinks into the bed, tugging me down, biting her lip as her fingers play with the collar of my shirt.
“You can’t do this to me right now,” I moan, feeling heat coil deep inside me.
“Then get me out of here.”
I laugh, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. “I’m on it.”
“Good boy.”
Her eyes flash a dark, dangerous green, and that warmth spreads lower, making it impossible to think straight.
“You’re trouble,” I tell her.
And trouble she is. She can’t keep her hands to herself the entire drive home.
Her hand slides, tantalizing, along the edge of my thigh. She traces a finger gingerly along the seam of my pants, daring to go higher before she giggles, embarrassed, and drifts back down.
“Are we sure we shouldn’t be worried about your head?” I tease.
“You know…” She bites her lip. “I was going to pretend I didn’t know who you were.”
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest, feigning offense.
She laughs, a loud, unfiltered laugh. It’s infectious and spreads through me like sunlight, warming everything it touches. She is pure sunshine, every part of her.
“This is corny,” I say as we pull into the driveway, “but can I do something?”
“Okay?” She eyes me skeptically.
I jump out and cross to her side, guiding her up the porch steps. But before she can reach the door handle, I slip an arm behind her knees and lift her, pulling her tight against me.
“Just in case it never comes back to me,” I whisper, cradling her so close I can feel her breath hitch against my ribs. “I want to remember it this time.”
Her smile blossoms in approval, and then, I carry her over the threshold of our home. Husband and wife. Feeling more alive than ever. Breathing in the miracle of still being here and still being together.
Chapter forty-two
Emma
“Sowe’rereallydoingthis?”
Steven laughs as he wrestles the safety goggles over his eyes. The apron he picked is tiny, red with hot-pink paint splatters, and it barely covers his stomach. He tugs the straps as loose as they’ll go, but it still hangs awkwardly on him. He grins at it, then at me, unbothered. My heart swells at his willingness to do this with me.
“Unless you want to fight at Dr. Belo’s?” I tease.
“We can do that next week.”
“Ah…” I smile. “So, this fighting thing will be a weekly occurrence?”
“If that’s what we need to call it, sure.” He shrugs, but a mischievous grin tugs at his mouth.
Afternoon sunlight filters in through the single window of the art room, dappling his skin in warm specks of bronze. He looks happy, younger even, but still him. Always him. My chest aches with how much I love the sight of him like this. Playful, unguarded, and mine. All mine.
He picks up a mallet, tests its weight, then trades it for a baseball bat. When he pushes his sleeves past his shoulders, his arms tighten and shift, muscle moving under skin in a way that makes my stomach pull tight. The motion alone feels like an invitation.
I want him. Not just in this teasing way, but in the deep, constant way that lives in my bones. I want his hands on me, his weight, his voice closeenough that I can feel it. The way you can only want someone that is promised to you and you alone.
