He looked stricken. “Sure.”
We headed down there, got today’s new code from Marcus, and were in the family space with the door locked, just the two of us.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I shouldn’t have gotten into your personal space like that and?—”
I grabbed him and kissed him, urging him back to the wall with athump. The impact jolted us both. A breath was knocked from his lungs and swallowed by my mouth. I kissed him like I needed proof that he wanted me. His hands came up, warm and sure at my sides, not pinning me, just holding me there, giving me something solid to push against. I bit his lower lip too hard, and he made a low sound that went straight through me, answering without taking over, meeting my mess with heat and patience until the room narrowed to breath and pressure and the fact he was still here.
“No, Cole, I’m sorry,” I whispered when I stepped back, the words scraped raw. He didn’t let go. Instead, his hand fisted in my shirt, and he pulled me back in a way that made my knees go weak. He tucked me under his neck, his chin resting on my hair, his breath warm at my temple.
“Talk to me,” he murmured, low and steady. Not reproach. Not distance. Just there.
I sagged, the fight draining out of me, my forehead pressed to his collarbone as I finally let myself breathe. His arm came around my back, solid and sure, holding me like I wasn’t fragile.
For a long moment, he just held me, rocking us slightly, grounding me without saying a word. And for the first time since the restlessness had started, my head went quiet enough that I could feel it: his heartbeat, steady and real, right under my ear.
“What do you see for us?” I whispered, the question terrifying in its honesty. We hadn’t been properly intimate; we were friends, we were more, we were something unfinished. All I could think about was what Ididn’thave to offer him—no job, no stability, no certainty beyond loving my daughter with everything I had. What could I give a man like him right now, except need and hope and a mess I was still trying to understand? “I don’t mean the three of us, I don’t mean you, Gabbi, and me. I mean, just the me and you part. Us.”
“What do I see for you and me?” he asked gently, and I nodded. He made some space between us and tipped my chin for a kiss. “Everything.”
I blinked at him, losing myself in his beautiful eyes, seeing nothing but honesty there.
“But what do you get fromme?” I was exasperated with myself. “What do I give you?”
He placed a hand on my chest, right over my heart. “This.”
I kissed him again, and this time it was gentle, and he cradled my face to talk to me. “Will you go on a date with me? Marcus, Alex, Jazz, and Tyler all volunteered to babysit, and I could take you somewhere nice, and it could be us on our own for a while?”
I imagined sitting in a restaurant, probably a fancy one, talking things out, maybe holding hands, waiting for food, people watching us, judging me? Judging Cole? The thought of it itched under my skin.
“Not with people,” I blurted. “Not where I can’t talk properly.” Fuck. I was more broken than I thought.
“Then, how about you come to my place, sweetheart,” he said, his thumb brushing my wrist, “and we spend some time together—just us. No audience. No expectations. You can get to know the parts of me you haven’t seen yet.”
“I’d like that.”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at five.”
FOURTEEN
Cole
I only changedthree times before I picked up Morgan, which I called a win, but I spent all afternoon remaking the bed, tidying the kitchen, and making dinner. Well, half of dinner at least. Still, as we made small talk in the car, I was worried about what he’d think of my place. The drive back took us past the sweep of Chicago, the familiar view opening up as the streets widened and the buildings shifted. My place wasn’t glass and flash and steel; it was solid and old, brick and weight and history, and I’d decorated most of it myself. When I opened the door, I was still holding his hand, fingers laced tight, in case he took one look and ran. Yes, it was big. Yes, it was expensive. But it was also my home, and I loved it.
Morgan murmured something as he stepped inside—about the light, the space, the way it felt warm instead of echoing—and the knot in my chest loosened just a fraction. I led him through to the living room and the sofa, where I’d set the table low and neat. There were canapés laid out on slate boards: little bites of smoked salmon and dill, filo cups with goat’s cheese and honey, olives still slick with oil, and bread warm enough that the butter softened on contact.
I tugged him in to kiss him, but he was tense, and I ended up kissing his temple.
“Something smells good,” he said.
“I made a lasagna,” I said. “But I ordered these in. If that’s okay. I’m… not the best cook.”
He smiled at me. “It looks great,” he said, and sat down. But his hand slipped from mine, and he curled into the corner of the sofa, shoulders drawing in.
“I have an awesome spare room that I could decorate for Gabbi if you wanted to visit with her? Like, get some toys, and a crib, or maybe a small bed with a side, I don’t know. What do you think?”
He glanced at the hall. “Sure.”
Not the biggest or most detailed answer, but I’d take it.
