Page 149 of The Difference Between

He places both hands on either side of the window and leans into them. “But you were worried.”

I let out an annoyed sigh. “Yes. For Addie because she doesn’t deserve to live with a madman. I’ve already informed the authorities.”

Gavin’s eyes catch the dim light of the lamp, making them dance.

“Bet the reindeer like this weather,” he says.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “No.”

His lips twitch. “You gonna let me in or make me stand out here all night?”

Again, I scoff. “You mean the same way you made me stand out there?”

He dips his chin. “I was mad. I needed a minute. Plus, your apologies are kind of shit and I’m on a roof.”

“You could be on the fucking moon, Gavin. I’m mad.”

“Nah.” He smirks. “You’re happy I’m here. And I have something for you. Invite me in.”

I don’t care about gifts—I buy myself whatever I want—but I do care about gifts from him.

Wordlessly, I step to the side, my jaw shifting and knee bouncing.

The rain picks up, rivulets streaming down his face and body and skin and clothes, but he doesn’t budge. “You have to say it, Reese.”

“Are you a fucking vampire now?”

His lips twitch.

“You can come in.”

It’s pouring again.

He shakes his head. “Nicer than that. Tell me you want me to come in.” Then: “And say please.”

I glare at him but through clenched teeth say, “I want you to come in, Gavin.” At his raised brows: “Please.”

He grins, smug, then climbs through the window like a damn teenager.

Soaked and in my bedroom, he reaches outside to grab a paper bag from the roof then closes the window. He does a double take at my bare legs.

“I was in bed,” I say with a sneer.

His eyes drift around the room, landing on his application on the desk next to a towel and blow dryer. I reach for something snarky to say but come up empty. He knows I tried to save it because he knows it mattered to me. There goes that charade.

“You mean it?” I ask.

“You think I’d go through all this if I didn’t?”

I knew it as soon as I read the note he did, but the notion still sends a thrum of electricity from my toes to the crown of my head. Because it’s been six weeks to the day since I first saw him. That’s not enough time to have a baby with someone. “It’s too fast.”

“Hm.” A single droplet runs from his temple down his neck. “You know in the right conditions that sand can become glass in thirty minutes?”

I rub my sternum to make sure my heart’s still beating. This is illogical. Being with him is one thing—but a baby? With him? After six-weeks?

He adds, “Who knows what it would be in six weeks.”

“I’m not sand,” I remind him. “What’s in the bag?”