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As my fingers graze her cheek, she raises her eyes to mine. I see the truth there and it makes my head spin.
My Nova.
My beautiful, stubborn, intelligent, bossydream.
Her gaze shifts from my eyes to my mouth. “We donothave time to make out right now.”
“Just a small one?”
She laughs and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I.” Another kiss to my jaw. “Love.” The corner of my lips. “You. Now go.”
I tug her to me and claim her mouth. She kisses me back with a sweetness that nearly burns me to the ground. My hand slides against her back. I taste her tongue and close my eyes, memorizing the feel of her in my arms and the sensation of her mouth submitting to mine.
She pulls away and it takes all my control to let her go.
“We’ll continue that conversation later,” I say scratchily, pressing the button for the lobby.
One corner of her lips arches up. “I’ll think about it.”
I release a full grin.
As the doors close, I flop against the metal bar and press a hand over my chest. My heart is stampeding like a horse out of the gate. I’m so happy I could pass out.
I step outside and take a deep whiff. Is it just me or is the air sweeter? Are the stars brighter? Am I floating or walking right now? I look down, surprised my feet are even touching the ground.
I love you,her words return to me, crystal clear.
Nova freaking Delaney.
I can always count on her to totally scramble my brain and leave me smiling in the aftermath.
* * *
Switchinginto dad-mode when I pick up Rowan is easier than I thought.
Mostly because Rowan doesn’t seem to be all that disheartened. He’s a little quieter than usual—I’m used to him chatting up a storm whenever he enters my general orbit—but he’s not outwardly distressed.
I keep a close eye on him when we get home, but he doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Whenever I pass his room, he’s on his phone and laughing at videos.
Rowan calls my name on what I think is my fourth pass down the hallway. Or is it my sixth? I’ve lost count.
“Yeah, bud?” I poke my head eagerly into his room, ready to do some grade-A parenting and grief counseling. I’m a novice in both, but I’m confident I can do a good job.
Besides, Rowan’s an eleven year old. How hard can it be?
“How many times are you going to march up and down? It’s distracting.” He frowns.
I step into the room. “You noticed?”
“You’d make a terrible spy.” Rowan draws his knees up and then pulls the blanket over his chin.
He’s using the same sandstone comforter as he did when he first arrived. It takes me by surprise. Why haven’t I fixed up the guest room for him yet? I’ve been so busy that I haven’t prioritized it. I make a mental note to do that within the week.
“Mind if I sit, bud?”
He shrugs.
I sink into the edge of the bed. “If you want to talk or anything, I’m here.”
