Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
We cross to the beach, and he waits while I kick off my heels, never letting go of my hand. The air is cool and the sand is cold against the bare soles of my feet, but it’s welcome after the heat of the crowd inside the bar.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it,” I say, when we’ve walked for a couple of minutes and he still hasn’t replied. “I do. And it’s tempting but . . . I know how you feel.”
He swallows. “But do you really know? Because I don’t think you do, and that’s on me.”
“I know you want to protect me. I know you care about me.”
“Do you know that I want to be with you?”
“Of course I know, but things are complicated, and I get that.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve asked me before. You’ve asked me why I want to be with you, and you asked because you needed me to explain it. You asked because you didn’t believe it. Ask me now.”
“What?” I blow out a breath and search for the courage not to take anything from him he doesn’t truly want to give. “Easton, you and I have never gotten the timing right. No one will judge you for how you feel about this pregnancy.”
“Ask me why I want you.”
My heart squeezes as I remember having this conversation before. When I asked him in Paris, he needed me to find the words. And he stumbled when I asked him at the cabin on Sunday. It shouldn’t have mattered and it did. I shake my head. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Ask me.”
Does he know how fragile I am? Does he understand that I don’t have the energy or the emotional fortitude to write my own love poem? “I already know. Same reasons I want to be with you, right?”
“Ask. Me.” He squeezes my hands, then whispers, “Please.”
“Why do you want to be with me?”
He grins, like the question itself is a gift. “I want to be with you because I think about you all the time. Sometimes when you’re away from me, I convince myself I’ve made up how good it feels to have you close, because there’s no way one person could make me feel so damn good. But then I’m near you again—like right now—and I know I was right.”
My heart somersaults. I did need to hear this, whether I knew it or not.
“I want to be with you because I was born with this anxious kernel in me that whispers that I’m going to fall short. But when you’re there, when you’re looking at me with those big brown eyes, when you’re in my arms, when I hear you laugh—those whispers are silenced.
“I want to be with you because you knew who you were before anyone else, because some days I feel like I’m floating in space and still don’t know who I am, but being next to you is like always having steady earth beneath my feet.
“I want to be with you because the sight of the Eiffel Tower at dusk makes you weak in the knees, and because you see the world with a reverence that makes me realize how much I’ve missed by walking through life blindly. I want to be with you because when I think of happiness, I picture that day we took a boat ride down the Seine, and I watched the wind whip your hair in your face. I think of how beautiful your smile was that day—how you rivaled the sun—and how whole I felt just because you were by my side.”
I open my mouth, and he presses an index finger to my lips. “I’m not done.”
I laugh, but I think it might sound like a cry. Maybe it’s both. “Okay.”
“I want to be with you because you stepped back to let me be the kind of father I thought I needed to be, because you believed I could make the right choices for me and my daughter. I want to be with you because life is short, and I want to spend the rest of mine with you by my side. And because you’re my family. No matter what you decide or where you go or where you live, you’re a part of me the way Abi’s a part of me. You never stole my heart. You tucked a piece of yourself into it and made me better.”
“You know you can’t say stuff like this to pregnant women.” I sniffle and look around desperately. “I don’t even have a tissue.”
He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “I brought it for you. I figured I’d either need it for your tears or my bloody nose—which I’d probably deserve.” He shrugs. “Can I go on?”
I wipe my face and nod.
He exhales slowly, then starts again. “I want to watch you grow with this child and hold your hand while you learn what it means to be a mother. Because I know you’re going to be incredible, whether you do it alone or with someone by your side. But damn it, Shay, I don’t want you to do it alone, and I don’t want you to do it with anyone else. I want all of your babies to call me Dad. I want to be the person who wakes up with you during the sleepless nights and who reminds you that you’re kicking ass when the kid turns three and becomes a miniature demon. And hey—lucky for you, I’ve been there and can assure you that they do grow out of it.”