Page 104 of The Trouble with Flings

We work in tandem, cleaning up from dinner and chatting. When we’re done, he says, “We make a good team. Ready for dessert?”

I put my hand over my stomach and blow out a breath. “I can’t eat another bite…but ask me in an hour.”

He laughs and kisses me again. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

I fall into step beside him, feeling a little warm and floaty.

His home is all clean lines and soft textures, cradled by sturdy wood, solid stone, and so much glass it feels like we’re moving among nature. He moves through the rooms pointing things out with pride, like the view of the lighthouse from his office and the way every room has views of the water. But he’s not being ostentatious. He does it with a thoughtfulness that shows how special each room is to him and with a hint of something that makes me feel that my liking it matters, too.

Every room is comfortable and inviting, every piece of furniture solid without being over the top, and the pictures of his family bring the warmth that makes a house a home.

When we reach the end of the hall, my nerves catch as he opens the door to the master bedroom. I linger in the doorway, remembering this room. Not the soothing gray walls, the way the windows frame the ocean like a painting, the exact placement of the leather armchairs near the window and fireplace, or the low, wide dresser, but the feeling of it—the way the space held us and the man I’d only just met made me feel like the most interesting, sexy, precious thing he’d ever seen or touched. I remember moonlight pouring in through the glass walls and the way his plush, king-size bed, draped in crisp white and soft taupe, anchored us in every glorious moment.

My pulse flickers as that night comes back in flashes. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress. His voice a dark whisper in my ear as he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. The way he took control, letting himself go just enough to show me his rough edges, to feel the inferno beneath all that steadiness. I can still feel his strong hands on my skin, the way I felt safe and deliciously, wickedly wanted all at once.

Fitz sets my suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed and turns to me. “You remember this room, don’t you?” His voice is low and husky.

“Maybe,” I say, unable to quell my smile.

“Don’t maybe me, wild girl,” he says with a devilish grin. “I see it in your eyes. You remember every perfect second, just like I do.” He steals a kiss, then motions to the dresser. “I emptied a few drawers for you.”

This man is going to give me whiplash, taking me from hot and bothered to warm and fuzzy in the blink of an eye. “You made room for me?”

“Of course I did. I want you to be comfortable here.”

A wave of guilt hits me. I hadn’t thought to do that for him. My dresser is packed full, but I should have at least thought about it. I’ve been so caught up in trying to wrap my head around us and the baby, so focused on not letting my old wounds call the shots, I forgot to show up for him in the way he shows up for me. I’ve been so consumed with protecting myself from this going wrong, I haven’t done much to help it go right.

But he did.

He always seems to put me first, anticipating my needs. I want to be that person for him, no matter where we end up. I want to be someone he’s proud to claim as the mother of his child.

He takes my hand and, as he leads me toward the master bathroom, I catch a glimpse of a framed photo on the bedside table of me that stops me in my tracks. I let go of his hand and walk over to get a better look. I’m sitting on the beach in Costa Rica, gazing out at the water as the sun goes down.

“I don’t remember you taking this,” I say, touched that he has it.

“I snuck that one in. It’s my favorite picture of you. You were so relaxed and happy.”

I study the picture, remembering that day, learning to surf, having a delicious lunch, and lounging on the beach, talking for hours. “I was relaxed and happy.” I look at him and realize, “I’m still happy. I’m happier than I was then, even if it doesn’t seem like it sometimes.”

His brows knit. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s a different type of happiness. That day on the beach was like an escape from real life. You were playing hooky from the conference, and I was the bad influence that caused you to do it. Now”—I put my hand over my belly—“I don’t want to escape my life.”

I set the picture down, and he takes my hand, drawing me into a tender kiss. “I’m glad to hear that. I have other pictures of you and of us that I want to put out, but I didn’t want to do anything that might send you running for the hills.”

Oh, my heart. “If I tried to run, I’d probably end up lost in the dunes.” I poke him lightly in the chest. “You picked the perfect location to make me your prisoner for the next several days.”

He cocks a brow. “My willing prisoner?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“I’ll take it.” He gives me a quick kiss and continues my tour, leading me toward the master bathroom.

My pulse quickens anew. I remember this gloriously sumptuous room, too, the decadence of its sleek marble and glass, the elaborate shower, the luxurious soaking tub. I run my fingers lightly along the edge of the counter, trying to ground myself as memories rush in of steam and heat and Fitz worshipping my body just as intensely as he had in the bedroom but wildly differently, gentler, pampering every inch of me beneath the warm spray of the shower.

“This room feels different from the rest of the house,” I say more to myself than to him.

“Purposefully indulgent,” he says. “I built this house eight years ago as my forever home. Somewhere to raise a family and grow old in.” He pauses for a beat, looking around as if deciding how much to share. Then those serious eyes find mine again and soften. “I figured if I was lucky enough to find love, our private spaces should be worthy of it. I never want my wife to feel like an afterthought. Not out in public, not in our home, and especially not after I’ve had my hands on her.”