Chapter Eleven
~ Carter ~
The first thing I felt was sunlight—hot, pushy, flooding the cracks between the curtains and burning patterns on my eyelids. The second thing was Macon’s arm, thick and heavy across my waist, his palm splayed possessively over the full curve of my belly. Not quite a vise, but not exactly gentle either; more like he was afraid if he let go, he’d wake up alone.
I peeled my eyes open. The old farmhouse bedroom looked the same as ever: quilt tangled at the footboard, walls bare except for the bad oil painting Jojo had picked up at the flea market. But it felt different, as if all the air in the room had been re-oxygenated overnight. Maybe it was the way Macon snored, just barely audible, or the fact that for the first time in my life, the day ahead felt like a gift instead of a trap.
I stretched under the covers, arms above my head, and arched my back until my spine popped. The movement jostled Macon, who grunted and pulled me tighter. I let myself stay there a minute, soaking in his warmth, the scent of sweat and sawdust and last night’s sex still clinging to his skin. My body felt loose, electric—a far cry from the usual morning heaviness.
Yesterday’s conversation with Barrett replayed in my mind, but this time the memory was stripped of its panic. My brother hadn’t come to blackmail me or drag me back to Texas. He’d come to check that I was still alive, and in the process, given me a green light to keep running toward the only future that had ever felt like it belonged to me.
I twisted to face Macon. Even asleep, his jaw was set like he was bracing for incoming fire. He must have sensed me watching, because he blinked awake, dark lashes flickering.
The first thing he did was scan my face for damage; the second was check my belly, hand sliding across the slope of it like a craftsman inspecting his most important project.
“You awake?” he rumbled, voice graveled by sleep.
“Been up for an hour,” I lied. “You snore like a chainsaw.”
He smirked and squeezed my hip, fingers digging in just hard enough to make me gasp. “You love it.”
I did. I didn’t say it, but I did.
We lay there a while, sharing the kind of silence that only exists after someone else has finally seen you for who you are and not run for the exit. The baby kicked—soft, like a foot caught in a bed-sheet. Macon felt it and grinned, then pressed his lips to my navel, whispering some wordless apology to the future.
“Want breakfast?” he asked, already propping himself up on one elbow.
I shook my head. “I want to show you something.”
He eyed me, as if trying to read whether this was a trap, but I was already rolling out of bed, feet slapping the cold floorboards. I hauled on the closest shirt—one of his, because my old ones didn’t come close to covering the belly anymore—and padded out into the hall, Macon trailing behind with a lazy, predatory gait.
The kitchen was empty. Rawley and Jojo must have already left for the feed store. The only sound was the clock ticking above the fridge and the gurgle of the old Keurig as it attempted to birth one more cup of life from its dying innards.
I went to the kitchen table and fanned out the stack of architectural magazines I’d been hoarding from the Black Butte library. Some people got off on porn. I got off on blueprints.
Macon eyed the stack, one eyebrow cocked. “You running away to architecture school?”
“Better,” I said. I tapped a page showing a low, modern farmhouse—clean lines, big porch, solar panels glinting on the roof. “We’re going to build this. Or something like it.”
He let the words hang, waiting for the punchline. When I didn’t deliver, he lowered himself into a chair, gaze flicking between me and the page. “You want to break ground before the baby comes?” He said it flat, but his eyes betrayed him—wide, a little stunned.
“Yes,” I said, not bothering to modulate the excitement in my voice. “I want to wake up in a house that’s ours. I want a nursery that doesn’t double as an armory or a panic room. I want—” I stopped, suddenly embarrassed by the size of my own hunger.
He reached across the table and caught my hand. His thumb traced the back of my knuckles, rough but careful. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I lifted my chin, daring him to doubt me.
Instead, he smiled, slow and wide, and flipped the magazine around so he could see it right-side up. “This is a two-story. You sure you want stairs with a baby?”
“I’ll get jacked,” I said. “Or we can install one of those chair lifts for the elderly. It’ll be like a theme park ride.”
He snorted, then settled in, scrutinizing the floor plan like it was a classified briefing. “We’ll need insulation. Triple-paned glass or you’ll freeze in winter.”
“Already circled the best supplier in the state,” I said, flipping to the next page. “And I found a government grant for sustainable materials if we use local timber.”
He looked at me, almost awed. “You did all this since yesterday?”
I shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for months. I just never thought I’d get the chance to—” I stopped again, throat going tight.
