I want to believe him, and I am starting to think I will.
29
SAM
Before I even open my eyes, I know I must be dreaming. I slept through the night—for the first time in months.
I turn my head and catch the faint scent of rosewater shampoo, Becca’s scent. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to hold onto this feeling for as long as I can.
Then I feel her arm slide across my chest.
When I open my eyes, I see a tangle of wild blonde hair spilled across me, her hand resting warm against my stomach. Becca is curled into my side, fitting perfectly like she always does.
Most people think Becca’s the kind of woman who doesn’t need anyone. And they’re not wrong. She rarely lets herself be vulnerable, even with me. But this? Her reaching for me in her sleep? This is a glimpse nobody else gets to see, and I’ll be damned if I ever let anyone else have it.
I stay in the moment a little longer, memorizing everything and how right it feels. I know last night didn’t magically fix the distance I created between us. I don’t knowwhen I’ll be invited back into her bed again. So I bottle up this feeling, storing it for the next time I earn it.
Careful not to wake her, I ease my arm out from under her and reach for the pillow behind me. I slide it gently beneath her head. She barely stirs, still out cold.
As great as she always looks, I know she hasn’t been sleeping much either. I climb down the ladder into the small kitchen, smiling like an idiot.
She doesn’t know how much of the work I actually did in here. Sure, Jones handled the foundation and framing, but the rest? The flooring, light fixtures, and cabinet assembly? That was all me. Hell, I even made the butcher-block countertop myself and had Jones pretend it was included in the cost.
I open the fridge. Just as I thought—eggs, fruit, toast, turkey bacon—the basics. She must’ve caught the bacon on sale. She usually won't splurge on herself. That used to be my job, and I plan on it being my job again.
I pull out the ingredients and start making her favorite: poached eggs on toast. Becca never makes them for herself because, as she told me once, she’s usually too hungry in the morning to bother with perfecting a poach.
When we first started dating, I asked her how she liked her eggs. That night I went home and cooked an entire carton just to learn how to make them perfect for her.
I’m finishing up the bacon when I hear the ladder creak behind me. I glance up and damn near lose my balance.
Becca’s climbing down in my old U of O shirt, the hem barely skimming the curve of her ass. She turns, gives me a smile that hits me like a punch to the gut.
How did I ever get so lucky?
And how the hell did I ever let myself mess this up? Ishake the thought away, knowing I can’t undo what I’ve done.
Becca crosses to the kitchen, peeking over my shoulder at the bacon.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to cook bacon naked?” She gives my ass a playful smack on her way to the coffee pot.
I grin. Her teasing, her ease, it lights me up—something I haven’t seen in too long.
“My shirt’s still wet from last night,” I say, plating her breakfast and setting it down on the tiny dining table.
Her eyes widen when she sees the plate, and she dives in like she hasn’t eaten in days. Between mouthfuls, she says, “Thank you, Sam. I don’t know why I’m so starving this morning.”
I can’t help myself and say, “I do.” Shooting her a wink as she flushes but keeps eating.
We eat together in quiet comfort, and for a second, everything feels easy. Like maybe we really are on the way back to each other.
Then my phone starts ringing.
We both glance around, trying to remember where we tossed it last night. Becca finds it first, but her face falls the second she looks at the screen. She holds it out to me without a word.
“It’s Holly,” she says, attempting a neutral expression.
And just like that, I see it. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes drop back to her plate. The way she shuts the door on me, not all the way, but just enough to feel it.
