I take a quick peek in the wall-sized mirror in the entryway. Messy braid, red cheeks, no lipstick. These yoga pants and tank top aren’t exactly my dream outfit for this conversation, either. But the whole point is tonotpretend anymore, right? This is who I am.
And anyway, I’m pretty sure Bridger likes thiswho.
From halfway down the hall, I have a straight view of himat the sink. His muscles flex as he rinses and dries a pot, then sets it in the rack. I cross the kitchen, coming up behind him quietly in my socked feet. He must feel my presence ahead of time—or hear me or smell me or some other sense—because his shoulders straighten, and he shuts off the water. Then he turns. “I couldn’t tell?—”
“Wait.” I cut him off, moving toward him.
“But—”
“Please.” I lift a finger to his lips. And he does what I ask. He waits.
Still, his jaw shifts, like he’s wrestling with something. Holding back. I hate that he feels like he has to hold back for me. He meets my gaze, pupils widening. How have I not seen this before?
Seen him?
This man who feeds me, and does yoga with me, and sings our wedding songs in the shower. Who loves our friends. Who visits my father because he cares about us both.
You have seen him, a voice inside me whispers.You were just scared.
“I don’t want to be scared,” I say under my breath. And before I can stop myself, I move to him, stepping in close, lifting up on my toes. And I press a soft, tentative kiss to his mouth.
He gasps.
Then his arms come for me.
One finds the lowest dip at my spine, notching in like it’s always belonged there. The other slides around my back, drawing my body nearer. And then his lips are on mine.
He feathers tender kisses at the corners of my mouth, my chin, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. When he slides to my neck, I can barely breathe. But in this moment, I don’t need oxygen or food or anything else. I just need him.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, coming back to my parted lips.
I believe you.
His words surge through my bones. Bridger Adamswould die before he hurt me. So whatever happens, whatever we decide, I know he won’t be the one to break my heart.
“We need to talk,” I manage, breathlessly, as his mouth traces my jawline. “So we should stop.”
“Yes,” he rasps against my skin. “We should.”
“Ahem.” There’s a prim throat-clearing behind us, and my heart bolts into my throat.
“By all means,” a strange voice says. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Loren
“I liked that greeting,” Bridger says in a hushed, gravelly timbre meant just for me. “And we’ll definitely have to talk later.” His breath is hot in my ear, and when he gives my hips a squeeze, I’m honestly surprised my heart doesn’t disintegrate on the spot.
“As for you”—his gaze shifts beyond my shoulder, and he raises his voice—“nice timing, Mom.”
I spin around to face my new mother-in-law. She’s still as a statue under an archway.
Designer skirt and blazer? Check.
Expensive shoes and jewelry? Check.
Zero curves on her angular body?