Page 159 of What Comes Around

The gates of the botanical garden had opened instead, and by the time we stepped into the conservatory, I understood. Flowers everywhere, soft light spilling through glass, the air warm and expectant.

My uncles and cousins were there, their kids weaving between them. My grandparents joined through a screen, smiling from miles away. Our closest friends stood nearby.

And Evan.

He stood close to my father, quiet and unsure, his hand wrapped in Brandon’s like he didn’t quite know where to place himself in all of it.

Knox had made sure he was there. Made sure he wasn’t left out.

That mattered more than anything.

After that, we didn’t let too much time pass. We visited when we could, called in between, kept that connection steady. Slowly, without forcing it, something shifted. I found myself caring about him in a way I hadn’t expected.

Brandon had to be there, of course. Evan was still too young. He hadn’t looked good that day, the bankruptcy hollowing something out of him that wasn’t coming back. But that wasn’t my concern anymore. Those were his consequences.

The ceremony itself was small and intimate.

Perfect.

And I had loved every second of it.

The memory lingered for a moment, before the heat of the shower pulled me back. Water ran down my back, the air thick with steam as I reached for the soap and rinsed it away, blinking it out of my eyes.

After washing up, I reached for the razor. My underarms were easy enough, and with some effort I managed my legs, balancing awkwardly against the tile. But the moment I tried to reach anything below my belly, I realized it was hopeless.

I couldn’t see anything past my stomach.

I let out a quiet sigh, giving up as I turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around myself just as the bathroom door opened.

Knox walked in.

“I can’t shave,” I said immediately, a faint pout slipping into my voice.

He paused just inside the doorway, his gaze dragging slowly over me, taking in the damp hair, the towel, the curve of my stomach. A slow, infuriating smirk followed.

“A little hair isn’t going to scare me away,” he said. “Might even be fun.”

“It’s important to me.”

Something in my tone must have shifted, because the teasing eased out of his expression. He stepped closer, adjusting the towel more securely around me.

“Then I’ll help you,” he said.

I blinked up at him. “You will?”

“Of course.”

His thumb traced slowly along my collarbone, following the damp line of water still clinging to my skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss just beneath it.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Sit.”

His hands slid to my hips as he lifted me onto the counter. The cool surface met the back of my thighs, making me shift slightly, instinctively steadying myself against his shoulders. His grip tightened, steadying me, keeping me exactly where he wanted me.

That brief flicker of self-consciousness barely had time to form before his gaze dropped over me, slow, deliberate, claiming.

He’d made it clear more than once. This body, every change, every inch of it, was his to admire. Carrying his child had only sharpened that edge in him.

He stepped between my knees and pushed them apart without hesitation, his hands sliding up my thighs, holding them there, keeping me open, exposed, his.