I reach for him, threading my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and pulling him down into a kiss that’s slow and deep. He responds immediately, his lips soft against mine.
“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I whisper against his lips, tasting the smile that flickers there.
“Let me clean you up.”
He slips out of bed and comes back with a warm, damp cloth. The way he moves is filled with care as he gently swipes my skin.
When he’s done, he tosses it into the hamper, then tugs me into him, my back pressed to his chest, his legs tangling with mine. I lie there wrapped up in him, skin clean but nerves still sparking, and wonder what the hell just happened. Not the sex. I mean, yes, that too…butthis. The way he took care of me after. I think I liked that more than anything else.
Who even am I? Since when does a warm washcloth and a kiss do more damage to my heart than anything that happened before it?
Because, yeah, the rest of it wasruin mehot, but this? Him holding me like I’m his.
That’s the part I’ll never recover from.
thirty-four
LUCY
Ilove my flat, but it just doesn’t feel like home anymore. Home is starting to feel like the little house at the end of the lane, where Isla’s laughter echoes in the evenings and Aidan’s presence fills the rooms with a kind of warmth I’d been missing terribly.
I haven’t moved in, but my toothbrush has taken up permanent residence in the bathroom, and my favorite mug sits on the shelf next to Aidan’s.
He’s only a few weeks into the new job with a local construction crew, but I can already see the change in him. He comes home with sawdust on his jeans and sun on his skin, that worn-out look in his eyes framed with peace. He jokes more, teasing me about the way I load the dishwasher or how I hum off-key when I think no one’s listening.
He’s happy.
I’m happy.
Every afternoon after closing the café, I take over for Aidan’s mum, spending time with Isla until Aidan gets home. Dinner, a little playtime, then bedtime—it’s second nature.
I’m at his place now, wiping down the kitchen counter, when a sharp knock on the front door pierces through the house.
I pause, frowning slightly. Aidan never knocks. His heavy boots usually announce his arrival long before I see him.
Another knock—louder this time, more insistent.
My stomach tightens as I dry my hands on a dish towel and head for the door. My fingers hesitate on the handle for just a second before I pull it open.
The woman on the doorstep is breathtaking. Tall and willowy, with golden curls that catch the evening light like spun silk. Her striking green eyes widen slightly as they meet mine.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought—” She trails off, glancing at the number on the door, her brows knitting together. Then her gaze returns to mine. “Is Aidan here?”
My heart pounds as I grasp for words. “He’s… He’s not home yet,” I manage, my voice thinner than I’d like. She lifts her chin, and I can practically feel myself shrinking an inch.
She nods slowly. Her shoulders stiffen, and she presses her lips together. Her gaze shifts past me, sweeping over the house. “And Isla?” she asks, her voice tight, carefully measured, but I don’t miss the way her fingers clench slightly at her sides.
I step into the doorway, blocking her view of the house. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I force my voice to stay even. “I’m sorry, but I can’t share anything about Isla with someone I personally don’t know. I don’t think I caught your name?”
Her gaze snaps back to mine. If she’s looking for weaknesses, she’s probably already found a dozen.
“Emily. Isla’s my daughter.”
My stomach clenches.No.No, no, no.This isn’t happening.
“I see,” I reply as gently as I possibly can. “I think you’llneed to talk to Aidan about it. He’s not home right now, and it’s not my place to speak for him. I’m sure you understand.”
The tension coils tightly between us. My fingers curl around the doorframe, gripping it like an anchor, refusing to be the first to look away.
