My hands grab on to the metal and chipped-Formica table in front of me like an earthquake has suddenly hit the diner. It might have. That’s the only way to describe the crazy force shaking me.
“I’m sorry, you what?”
“I want to date you. And I want you to move in with me.”
He holds no shame or embarrassment in his gaze, none of the bossy arrogance he used in my apartment when he saw the poor little dump I live in. Instead, there’s something else there, a heat that’s been swirling around us since the first time we met.
It’s the chemistry, the fact I can still practically feel his lips on mine from earlier, and the ease with which we can tease each other—him better at it than me—that is what made it so easy to approach him the night of Jenna’s wedding reception and suggest the night not end quite yet.
Because it’s Braxton, and he cried without a hint of embarrassment when he heard our baby’s heartbeat, and as soon as I mentioned lunch and what I was currently craving, he took me immediately to a place I could tell is somewhere he loves, and not somewhere convenient. I know that because it took us thirty minutes to get here and we passed dozens of burger joints and steakhouses on the way.
And yeah, I’d love to date him, to be with him in that way we were months ago, but I’ve jumbled everything up in the last few days and he didn’t even manage to reply to my text of an apology. So there’s a lot of unanswered questions and now that there’s a baby on the way, jumping into a relationship because there’s a baby on the way doesn’t seem like the most responsible choice either.
“Why? Is it because you don’t like my home?”
“No. Can I be completely honest?”
I’m not quite sure I’m ready for his brand of honesty. Although secrets haven’t helped anything so far.
“Sure,” I say, my voice wobbling with fear. “Honesty sounds good.”
He leans forward, the sleeves of his long shirt are pushed up to his forearms and have I mentioned how perfectly his shirts always seem to fit over the curves and dips of his chest and biceps? He’s so beautiful that as he sets those forearms, all his brightly colored inked designs on such beautiful and manly display, I almost forget he’s about to throw me into another tailspin.
He drops his head, pummeling me with sharp determination in his eyes and a wicked tilt of his lips. “I want you. I wanted you the weekend of the wedding and I wanted you the next day and I was pissed you snuck out so I didn’t bother Dan for your number. While we might have cleared up that misunderstanding, it still pissed me off.”
I’m so stuck on the I want you and I wanted you it takes me a moment to process everything else he said. “Okay.”
The tilt of his lips curve up into an almost full grin. “I can see I’m shaking you up a little bit right now, but going slow has never been my thing. I see something I want and I don’t hesitate to go for it. I want to date you because I enjoyed our weekend together. I felt something, what, I’m not exactly sure, but I know it was so good I wanted to see you again. So that’s what I want to do. I want to see you outside doctor’s appointments, for dinner, a few movies, whatever else we can think of to do together.”
I want that. Goodness, I really want that too. I want it so badly I force my hands into my lap so I don’t reach across the table and cover his gorgeous, strong hands with mine and beg Please, yes, let’s do all of it and more.
He also isn’t kidding. He doesn’t go slow.
I feel the urge to move at turtle speed, there’s more to us dating than having a good time. What if we try it and it doesn’t work out? Then we still have to raise a baby together with a failed relationship between us.
“What if we start as friends?” I suggest, trying to appease his need to speed through life with the force of a whirlwind and compromising.
“I’m not getting friend-zoned by you. I’m not risking that.”
“Braxton,” I say and then stop. I don’t even know what to say, how to say it, how to toss my fears at him when he seems so certain about this—about us. I grab my water and take a few small sips, waiting until it settles down my throat. The chill from the ice does nothing to cool the warmth pulsing through my body at his words and determination.
I’m saved by having to say anything else when Marissa appears with my onion strings and soup. She slides everything onto the table, dropping off small plates and rolled utensils all the while, still snapping her gum. “Anything else I can getcha?”
“No,” Braxton says, never once pulling his eyes off me. “I have everything I need.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head, and reach for a thin onion string and pop it into my mouth. “This is absurd,” I say after I’ve swallowed and I’m pouring ketchup into a massive pile on the plate.
“Your appetite? Yeah, it’s a bit absurd.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, smiling while I say it. It’s not what I was talking about and we both know it, but I like the way he feels so free to tease me.
I dip into my overwhelmingly large appetizer and eat a few bites of soup. I’m already beginning to feel full and the entire time, Braxton is watching me with a mixture of amusement and seriousness. When I slide the onion string basket into the center of the table, he takes a few and we both munch quietly.
I want to date him. I wanted to see him again too after the wedding, I was just so embarrassed.
I want everything he’s offering besides the moving-in-together thing. It’s much too fast. If we date, I want to move forward at a natural pace, not feeling like I’m one of his fostered animals he takes in because they need help and a home.
And perhaps it’d be safer for me to say no, for us to remain friends. Two friendly parents who aren’t together have to be better than parents who can’t stand to be in the same room together. My priority is no longer me and my needs, our baby’s needs come first.
It’s that thought that has me changing my mind on everything. For the first time since I decided to move forward with this pregnancy and confess the truth to Braxton, I finally feel what Jenna’s been trying to tell me.
I’m going to be a great mom. I can do this. And because I have this new, settled confidence and hope, I figure…what the hell, I’ve promised Jimmy something too.
Live for us, Cara. Live the life I won’t be able to have. Follow your dreams. Grab hold of them, please, promise me this.
I wash down the emotion thinking of Jimmy always brings and face Braxton.
His eyes meet mine and whatever he sees in my expression wipes away his grin.
“Cara—”
I cut him off.
“Is all of this because of the baby?”
“No.” His eyes slide to the left and he runs his hand across a hint of stubble that tells me he’s the kind of man who shaves frequently, but even twice a day wouldn’t keep his thick, black scruff away completely. “Okay,” he says, shaking his head and turning back to me. “Maybe a little. At least the moving-in part, but that’s because I want to take care of you. I don’t want to miss a thing about this baby or your pregnancy, and I don’t think I’m a jerk for not wanting to miss out on anything. Besides,” he says, and he gives me that teasing grin, “how can I run out and get you midnight cravings if I’m not around you at midnight?”
I can think of a few ways and those thoughts sear a heat to my chest before I can shake them off. It’s sweet. Too fast, but sweet.
It’s the sweetness that draws me in because he’s not the kind of guy who appears like he should be sweet, and yet it’s his kindness that pulled me in as soon as I met him. It took me approximately thirty seconds to see past the muscles and the sex-on-a-stick body and all that ink I wanted to lick all over the place. It’s his kindness and honesty that seal the deal now. At least with some limits.
“This Friday, the art gallery has a showing. Would you like to be my date?”
“Yes.” He nods and does what I wanted to do earlier. He reaches across the table, takes my hand in his and runs his thumb over my palm. “Yes, I would like to be your date.”
“Okay then.” I pop an onion into my mouth and nod. “Good.”
“And moving in with me?”
“Too soon. We can try dating, but not that.” I fumble with how to say it, not wanting to hurt him, but like I’ve already said, honesty is what we need right now. “I moved out on my own to prove to myself I can do it. I still need that, I guess.”
“Understood.” His hand is still holding mine, his thumb swishing back and forth along my palm and it’s such a small touch, but it’s not innocent. That tiny little swipe of his skin against mine sparks a sweet hot sensation and spreads it through my body. “Would I talk you into it if I tell you Lucy misses you?”
“She does?” I smile. I liked his dog. I’ve never been able to have one and have always dreamed of having a pet. Mom said they smelled and made messes and she couldn’t be bothered with anything that would disrupt her perfectly ordered life or home.
“Every night I let her out of her kennel and she runs straight to the guest room. She whines so much when I take her out I eventually just put the kennel in there.”
“That’s…” Weird, I think, but I don’t say it. It makes my heart warm in a way I can’t remember it ever feeling. “I miss her too. But do you want me moving in with you just because I like your dog?”
I’m teasing him, and I hope he sees it. Based on the fact he doesn’t get upset, or annoyed, but smiles that heartbreakingly beautiful smile of his, I figure he gets it.
“No. I don’t want you to move in with me just because you like my dog. I want you to like me.”
I pull my hand from his slowly and regretfully, but while I’m trying to jump and reach for my dreams, small safe jumps are better than leaps. I smile at him, showing him what I’m not yet capable of saying, that I like him too, but not enough.
I dig into my soup.
“Friday,” Braxton says, sitting back in the booth. “We’ll start with Friday.”
He has a plan cooking in his eyes, something I’m sure I don’t want to know about, so I nod my agreement and take slow, measured sips of my soup.
This is good. There’s a chance we might be good, but I still hear the whispered voices of disapproval from my parents, and a rock settles deep in my stomach.
At some point, I’m not only going to have to tell them I’m pregnant, I’m going to have to introduce them to Braxton. I might have just climbed a significant hill, but I’m not sure the mountainous obstacle of Mr. and Mrs. Cliff Thompson is one we’ll be able to scale unscathed.
But Friday. We can start with Friday.