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All that indecision was wiped away. “Junia?” The sound of him speaking her name sent tears spilling over her lower lashes and rolling down her cheeks. Nobody had ever said her name the way he did.

“Adriano,” she choked out through the emotion now clogging her throat. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Are you all right?” There was enough concern in his voice to bring fresh, grateful tears to her eyes. “Are you sick? In trouble?”

With a laugh, she replied, “No, I’m not sick—though I feel that way sometimes.”

“What does that mean?”

This was it. No going back now. Reaching deep down inside to find the last bit of her courage, Junia let the words spill out. “It means I’m pregnant.”

And that is when I drop the phone.

Pregnant.

Is it real? Is that true?

She told me she was on the shot. What’s the rate of failure for that? Maybe I should’ve looked that up. Maybe I was too horny to bother.

Is she really pregnant?

Is this her way of telling me? After all, I never gave her any of my contact information. I told myself it was for the best. That she doesn’t need me in her life, that I could never bring her anything good or worthwhile.

Now this.

Fuck it.

I don’t even read the last few paragraphs. I’m sure her story ends with a happily ever after as usual. Now I just need to make that come true for us as well.

It’s like the bed shoves me out of it. I spring to my feet, my mission clear. Fuck the next job. Fuck all of it. I’m not flying home today. I’m flying to Florida. To her. Because at the end of the day, she is my home. And if she can be brave enough to write that story, I can be brave enough to admit I love her.

I pick up the phone, already in the process of changing my ticket by the time I reach the bathroom. It will be a close call, but I can make the next flight.

Then I’ll know for sure whether this story is a figment of her imagination.

I recognize the apartment building, having studied the satellite images from all angles before now. It’s nothing exciting, but it looks well maintained. I only wish it had some sort of security in place, front desk, a guard, someone to buzz in visitors.

But that’s June. She probably never considered looking for a building with anything resembling security. I’m sure before we met, she would have happily followed a stranger to a windowless white van in hopes of helping him find his lost puppy.

It makes my task a little easier, though, and I’m heading straight to where I was able to learn she lives. Third floor, apartment D. My heart hammers painfully, doing its damnedest to burst out of my chest when I raise my fist to knock on the door. I came straight from the plane, getting into a cab and giving the driver the address.

Yet, somehow, waiting for her to answer the door is the most gut-wrenching part of all this. These last moments of anticipation.

She doesn’t keep me waiting long. “Yes?” she calls out from the other side of the door, her voice getting louder along with her footfalls. “Who is it?”

Surely she knows who it is by the time she reaches the door—she must peek through the peephole before pulling it open. At least that much sense of security.

With a gasp, she flings the door open, and there she is. In front of me again, alive and well.

And just as clumsy as ever. The pink Stanley cup in one hand drops to the floor. The top must not have been secured, since water splashes in all directions, covering my shoes and the hem of my pants.

“Shit!” Immediately she bends down to pick it up. The only problem is, I do the same thing, so our heads smack together.

I’m seeing stars when I straighten up. “Some things never change,” I mutter, rubbing the spot where I connected with her.

“I’m sorry!” She throws her hands into the air, then lets them drop to her sides. “What a reunion.”

“Was it true?” Smooth. Definitely the first thing you want to say to the woman you love after craving her for more than a month.