“Holy shit,” I gasp, my head whipping back and forth between the artwork and Bridger. “You painted this?”
“I’m not sure why you sound so surprised, tattooing is art with skin as the canvas,” he grumbles.
I wrap my hands around his bicep and lean into him, the contact sending a jolt through me and I’m instantly transported back to the night we spent together. I’m not even sure how many times I’ve thought about that night since I walked out of the hotel room. Even though I tried to convince myself the chemistry between us was all in my head, the moment I touch him I know it’s real.
But things are so much more complicated now.
“I figured you did the art on the wall in the space where you were sitting earlier and was blown away.” I shake my head and swallow hard. “I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well and I’m afraid I’m going to keep putting my foot in my mouth.”
He reaches over and brushes some of my hair back off my shoulder, his brown eyes studying my face. “It’s okay, Avery. I realize our worlds are pretty far apart.”
I squeeze his arm and whisper, “This painting should be in a museum. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I gush, hoping I won’t offend him, and he can feel my sincerity.
“Thanks, Sweetheart,” he whispers.
This time, I don’t let it go and tease him, “Are you blushing?”
He scoffs, but now part of his neck is red and the tops of his ears. I make a humming sound, but don’t say anything else even though I’m dying to.
“Come on,” he grunts, his hand finding mine. Our fingers entwine like it’s natural. When he looks down at our hands, I can see the surprise in his eyes.
It’s surprising to me too. Holding hands isn’t really something I do. Or public displays of affection. I never felt the need when I was dating someone in college. Honestly, I shied away from it.
But, somehow, holding Bridger’s hand feels right.
He shows me the rest of the house, including the sunroom which he’s turned into a studio and two guest rooms. Then there is the primary bedroom with the spa-like bathroom which contains my dream shower.
When he opens the guest room closest to the master, Bridger mentions, “I was thinking we can turn this room into the nursery.”
With the sunlight streaming through the windows, I can see myself in a glider with our baby in my arms. Warmth fills my chest; this room feels right.
“I think this will be perfect,” my words are thick with emotion.
Today has been too much, but here’s Bridger opening up his home to me and our child.
I turn toward the man quickly and he eyes me cautiously. “Why aren’t you freaking out more? Shouldn’t you be yelling at me or something?”
My father’s angry words echo through my head and not just the ones from today. I realize Bridger is not my father, but shouldn’t this whole thing be a problem? Especially for a man who never wanted a relationship or kids?
“I’m not much of a yeller,” he admits and turns toward me. His brown eyes bore into mine. “I’m also not going to berate and lay into the woman who is carrying my child. Will that mean I’ll never fuck up? Not even a little bit; I’m sure I will. But this?” He motions between us. “Surprisingly, I’m not finding this difficult to wrap my brain around.”
I blink at him a few times. “Wrap your brain around what?”
“You’re here. You’re pregnant. The baby is mine. Your parents, especially your father, suck. You needed an out today and you came to me. I have room here and,” he sighs, “even though I should want to run and be pissed about it all, that’s not what I’m feeling.”
As much as I want to look away from the intensity of his gaze, I can’t. “What are you feeling?”
Bridger’s large hand comes up and cups my cheek. “I don’t want to run. I’m scared about all of it, but I’m also so fucking relieved you came to me when you didn’t know where else to go; that took a lot of guts.”
His words wash over me and leave me feeling secure in a way I wasn’t expecting. Bridger’s eyes dart down and my lips part. I remember the way his lips against mine felt that night. My body starts to buzz and lust pools in my belly.
I want him but jumping him is probably a horrible idea. Talk about complicating things.
When he starts to lean toward me, I find myself matching his movements. A loud knock comes from the front door, and I yelp as I jerk back from him. His hands shoot out and he steadies me before he growls over his shoulder.
“It’s probably Amelia,” he grunts and leads me away from the room that will become our baby’s nursery. And I find that I have more questions than answers after our little talk.
Top one on my list? Who the hell is Amelia?
