Page 163 of Revv

“Last night was vacation sex.”

Revel looks up from his plate, one brow lifting. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it?”

“Yes.”

His mouth curves around a slow, annoying grin. “Cool. Big fan of vacations, apparently.”

I give him a flat look. “I’m talking about the shit we were saying.”

“Ah.” He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too entertained now. “The part where you got all hot and bothered over me knocking you up?”

“¡Cállate!” I hiss, kicking him under the table as I glance around the patio. “Coño, Revel. The entire fucking restaurant doesn’t need to know.”

“What? You brought it up.”

“I brought it up because I’m clarifying.”

“Right.” He takes another bite, nodding like this is all very serious. “Vacation sex. Vacation rules. Vacation babies.”

“There are no vacation babies.”

“Probably for the best. Customs would be a nightmare.”

I stare at him and his grin widens.

“Are you done?”

“Not even a little bit, Mama.”

“Of course you’re not.”

I reach for my coffee, mostly so I have something to do with my hands. Revel lets me suffer for another second before some of the amusement finally leaves his face.

“I do know the difference, Cece.”

I glance at him over the rim of my cup.

“Between talking shit when we’re worked up and actually deciding to have a kid,” he says. “I’m not completely fucking stupid.”

“Debatable.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t run with it. “I meant some of it, though. I’ve thought about having a family before, and apparently my brain really fucking likes putting you in the picture.”

My stomach does an annoying little flip.

Fucking traitor.

“But that’s in my head.” He rests his forearms on the table, gaze holding mine. “Anything real would be something we both wanted. I’d never make that choice for you or assume I get to just because I’m, apparently, developing a very specific fucking problem where you’re concerned.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it, but something in my chest loosens with it.

Not because I genuinely thought Revel had walked out of that hotel room with a five-year reproductive plan and a list of baby names.

It’s that he understands there’s a line between fantasy and reality without making me draw it for him. He can want something, joke about it, get entirely too fucking excited by the idea of it, and still understand that anything involving my body isn’t a decision he gets to make.

“Okay,” I say.

He studies me for a second, like he’s making sure I actually mean it, then reaches for his coffee and moves on.