“I do not have an accent. Bar the obvious one,” she adds with a flick of her hand. “I worked very hard to get rid of it.Y’all.”
I smile, mainly because there’s nothing I can add. Nothing she wants to hear, at least.
“Can I get you a drink?” I make my way to the other side of the kitchen. “Juice? Tea? Water? Another decaf?”
“Water. Sparkling, if you have it.”
“Got it.” I turn to the concealed fridge, the size of a catering one.
“You have a beautiful home,” she says, taking in the dark cabinetry and fancy marble countertops. “Really, just gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” The Sanpellegrino bottlesclinkas I pull one from the shelf. I crack the cap. “The place had been split into flats when I bought it,” I say, pouring the effervescent liquid into a glass. “It’s been a labor of love.”
“You didn’t ...” She circles her finger in the air. “Your labor?”
“Well, I didn’t put in an underground basement, gym, and swimming pool, but everything I could do, I did. I designed the kitchen,” I add as I put the glass and bottle down in front of her. “Helped fit it. Repaired the Georgian moldings, stripped a hundred years of paint from the staircase.”
“You’re pretty good with your hands. I mean—”
“Glad to see you don’t have a bad memory.” Pleasure pulses through me as her gaze dips behind the curtain of her hair.
“It wasn’t your hands that got us into this predicament,” she murmurs, maybe not for my ears. I laugh anyway as I pull out a couple of side plates.
“Some might saypredicament. Others might sayblessing.”
“I like that.”
I pause and consider how I must’ve acted in the wine bar. I hope I’ve made my feelings clearer since then. “Yeah, I do too.” I pull open a drawer and lift out a couple of linen napkins.Now,wouldn’t that impress my mother.“I know there’s still lots to think about, logistics and such, but yeah, I’m excited.”
“Good.” She nods a few times, maybe in surprise. Or relief as she blows out a slow breath. “That’s good to hear.”
“I’m glad,” I say as I untie the string on the pastry box before spinning it around and setting it between us. “There’s a reason I brought you here today, rather than out somewhere for brunch.”
“As long as it doesn’t include a basement and handcuffs.”
I tsk again. “There you go spoiling my surprises.” I reach into the box, pull out a random pastry, and drop it to my plate.
“You’re a trip,” she says, following my direction with a slow, exaggerated shake of her head. I get a little kick of pleasure when she opts for the zeppole. Azeppola? I can’t feckin’ remember!
“That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Trips,” I repeat. “Specifically, about you leaving.”
She keeps her eyes on her pastry for a beat. “It’s not going to be easy. But like I said, this is on me.”
“No, this is not ayouthing, Ryan. Not anymore.”
“I appreciate you saying that, but you don’t need to feel as though you have to make things right.” Her attention drops again as she turns her littlezeppolabetween her thumb and forefinger. “We had one night together, and it was amazing. Just what I needed, as it turned out.” Her eyes meet mine again. “And an amazing but unexpected thing will come out of that night, and it’s great that you want to be part of it all, but that doesn’t mean anything more than that.”
That told me, didn’t it?
Well, fuck that.
“Anything more than becoming a father,” I retort. “And wanting to be involved in a child’s life?Ourchild’s life.” That’s my pivot, of course. I’m not giving up.
The thought of Ryan walking away ... it’s unthinkable. Because as much as I want to be in this child’s life, I want her too. It’s early days, and I get that these are big words and promises, life-changing sentiments. But I want her in my bed. In my arms. In my life. I want this to work.
I want that chance, at least. And I can’t have it while she’s living somewhere else.
“Turn off your skeptic’s radar for just a minute and listen to what I have to say. Please.”
