Chapter Nine
~ Macon ~
I woke with the false dawn, the hour when the world was only half-real and anything might be waiting at the edge of the bed. The old house breathed around me, wood creaking in the rafters, cold air drifting up through the cracks in the floorboards.
I reached for Carter without opening my eyes, hand searching the sheets for the familiar line of his shoulder, the faint heat of him in the hollow he’d left behind.
He wasn’t in the bed.
I cracked my lids, all nerves and muscle memory, and scanned the room. There he was: at the window, backlit by the pale Montana sky, arms folded in that way he had when he thought too hard about something.
His right hand cradled his belly—impossible to miss, even in silhouette—and his left rested against the cold glass, fingers splayed as if he could catch the horizon and pull it closer.
For a second I watched him, not moving, letting my brain piece together what the light was telling me. He looked different. It wasn’t just the pregnancy or the way his hair had gotten long enough to curl at the nape. It was how he held himself. Taller, somehow. Like he’d learned overnight how to take up space.
I propped myself up on one elbow, slow, careful not to groan and startle him. I had a catalog in my mind of every version of Carter I’d ever seen—nervous, angry, half-drunk and spinning insults at anyone who got too close.
This Carter was none of those. He was calm, almost serene, staring out over the blank fields and the river haze as if he finally understood his place in the world.
“You ever sleep?” I rasped.
He didn’t jump. Just looked back at me, a soft smile pulling at his mouth. “I did,” he said, “but the sunrise here is better than any dream.”
He pressed his forehead to the glass for a second, then let it go.
I watched the line of his shoulders, the way he braced himself as he turned to face me. The room was cold enough that I could see his breath, a little cloud of fog as he exhaled. He padded over, bare feet slapping the floor, and sat on the edge of the mattress.
For a minute we just looked at each other.
“You okay?” I asked. My voice came out gruffer than I meant it to.
Carter shrugged, but not like he was dismissing me. “Yeah. Just thinking.” He ran a thumb along the curve of his belly, absently smoothing the fabric of his shirt. “About Jojo. About the baby. About… everything, I guess.”
I reached out, palm up, and he set his hand in mine without hesitation. His skin was cold from the window, his fingers long and elegant. I rubbed my thumb over his knuckles, grounding both of us.
He squeezed my hand, and for a second I saw all the nerves in his face. But then he blinked, and when he spoke again, there was iron in his voice. “I want to see the Hargrove property today,” he said. “If we’re going to build our home there, I need to know what we’re working with.”
The words hit me with the force of an order. I waited for the rest, but he just looked at me, clear-eyed, like he expected me to say no and wasn’t afraid to fight for it.
“Yeah,” I said. “We can do that.”
He let out a breath, and the tension in his jaw eased a notch. “Good. I want to get a real sense of it. Not just what’s on paper.”
I tugged him forward, enough to get him under the covers, and pulled his back to my chest. He fit there like he’d been madefor it, and the baby—ours, mine—pressed between us, warm and alive.
We lay there for a few minutes. He shivered once, and I wrapped my arm around his middle, palm flat to his belly. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, steady and sure.
“You hungry?” I asked, mouth pressed to the soft patch of skin behind his ear.
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Not for eggs again.”
“Toast?” I offered.
“God, yes. With butter. And honey, if Jojo didn’t hide it.”
I grinned. “You’re not supposed to have that much sugar.”
He elbowed me, gentle. “You’re not my doctor.”
