And all I could think was:What the hell is he doing here with something that nice when I’m about to cram three car seats, two sticky toddlers, and a five-year-old into it.I had driven in his truck before, but for some reason I’d overlooked just how pristine he keeps everything: his apartment, his clothes, his truck.
Instant anxiety shot through me.
He was out of the truck a second later, tall, broad-shouldered, beard catching the morning light.
He looked so calm. Meanwhile, I was on the other side of the door trying to remember if I’d packed enough diapers or if my shirt had toothpaste on it.
A knock. Then his voice, warm and breathy: “Camille?”
He greeted me with that crooked grin. Before I could second-guess myself, he leaned down and kissed me. It was soft, easy. Like he was coming home after a day of work. That triggered butterflies, nerves, relief, all tangled up.
Then he pulled back, nodding toward the pile by the door. “That the load out?”
I laughed nervously. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s… a lot.”
“Not a problem,” he said, already scooping up the stroller effortlessly. He slung the diaper bag over his shoulder with his free hand, leaving me standing there blinking.
“Wait,” I called, following him toward the truck. “Do you know what you’re doing with those?”
But he was already opening the back door, placing each of the kids’ car seats in the truck, without a second thought. I stopped short. “You… you know how to install those?”
He smirked over his shoulder. “Yeah. My buddy Logan’s got a daughter. Made me practice until I could do it in my sleep.”
I stared at him as he clicked the first seat into place, muscles flexing, movements confident.
In that moment, it hit me: he wasn’t flinching, wasn’t hesitating, he was making space in his shiny truck for my kids’ car seats like it was the most natural thing in the world. He practiced so that he could do it right, which told me he might also be holding his own doubts close, fighting his own battles against long-held fears of his own inadequacies. Yet, he stood unwavering, and that vulnerability, whether voicedor unvoiced, mirrored my own, knitting our shared courage tightly together.
Within minutes, the twins were strapped in, happily squishing their toys against the car seat fabric, babbling to each other. Zeke climbed up into his booster, legs swinging, already peppering Hunter with questions.
And me? I stood there on the curb, a diaper bag still slung across my chest, watching Hunter tighten straps and double-check buckles with practiced hands.
“You don’t have to—” I started, but my voice faltered.
He glanced up at me, his blue eyes unwavering. “I want to.”
That’s simple. No fuss, no hesitation.
I slid into the passenger seat, heart racing, while he folded the stroller into the bed of the truck without a hitch. The second he climbed in beside me, the smell of his cologne mixed with the faint new-leather scent of the truck, and I felt my nerves spike all over again because here we were. Him behind the wheel. Me in the passenger seat. My kids in the back.
He glanced over before starting the engine, that grin tugging at his mouth. “Ready, Beautiful?”
“Do I have a choice?” I muttered, fiddling with the strap of the diaper bag.
He chuckled, leaned over, and kissed me quickly, right there with my kids squealing behind us. Just a gentle brush of his lips. “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” he said softly, before turning the key.
The truck rumbled to life. Zeke cheered. The twins squeaked their toys in unison, as if approving the plan.
And me? My heart pounded, my doubts hummed, but for the first time in a long time, I let myself sit back in the seat and hope.
Chapter Thirty Three
Hunter
The truck had never sounded this loud.
No, not the engine. The laughter. The chatter. The squeak of toys and the constant stream of questions from the backseat.
“Are we there yet?” Zeke asked for the third time, legs swinging against his booster seat.
