“We did.”
She drags her hands through the messy tangle of her hair. One long strand is stuck to her lips, and sunlight streamsthrough the parted curtains, lighting her face. As her blue eyes blink into alertness, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
Does she even realize she’s still curled in my lap?
“Oh!” Her eyes suddenly fly open.
Yep. She realizes.
Blurting out an apology, she quickly moves to her side of the sofa.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” I assure her. “I’m glad you were able to get some rest.”
“But … but … What about you?”
“I slept great,” I lie.
She touches her face and groans. “Did I … did I drool on you?” Her gaze drops to the wet spot on my shirt. Can’t lie about that.
“I mean … you didn’tnotdrool on me. But it’s fine. We’re married.” I hazard a crooked smile, not wanting to minimize her feelings if she’s truly upset about waking up on top of me. If, however, Loren is in the least bit worried about how I feel? Yeah.
Absolutely no need.
“How long did you let me sleep?” she croaks.
“Not long,” I tell her, which is technically true. “I only woke up a little while ago myself.”
“Was I too heavy? Did I squash you?”
“No. That’s not it.”
I glance at her phone, teetering on the edge of the coffee table. My jaw twitches, and I work it back and forth in a feeble attempt to loosen the tension. “You got some texts,” I tell her. “A few, from the sound of it. From Noah.”
As Loren lunges for her phone, my guts twist. As if I needed more concrete proof of exactly how panicked she’s been about her dad. For months now. Maybe years.
While Loren reads Noah’s messages, I read her face. Likea book I’ve been memorizing chapter by chapter. At first, there’s fear, as her eyes scour the screen. Then relief in the softening of her mouth. Concern replaces that in the tight knitting of her brows. Finally, she exhales. Squares her shoulders. Sets down her phone.
Resolve.
“Everything okay?”
She’s not showing me Noah’s texts this time, so I thread hope into the question to mask my … frustration. The thing is, I have notrueclaim over Loren’s heart. Just a piece of paper that says she’s my legal wife. And yet, raw possessiveness leaks through my chest, overwhelming logic.
“He told me he could be there when I talk to my dad,” she says. “About Havenwood.” Her eyes wander to me, and she blinks back tears. “But his offer just made the reality so … real, you know?” She coughs out a watery laugh.
“Yeah.” I squeeze her hand, one supportive pulse. “That tends to happen with reality.”
“Right.” She forces a smile. Nods. Swallows. “I know this is a good thing," she says. “It’s what he needs. What we want for him.”
We.
“I just wish we had more time.” Her lids shutter. “And I’m not even sure how to talk to him about it, to be honest.”
Watching her struggle sends an ache straight to my heart. “Maybe having Noah there would be good for you,” I push out, even as a vein in my temple throbs.
“No, I think…” She clings to my hand. “I think I want you.”
Her breath catches, and she gives me a weak smile. Then her tears flow freely.