Harper sighs softly and burrows more deeply into my chest.
Her hair is an unruly mess that’s tickling my nose, my forehead, getting in my mouth, sticking to my beard, and I just hold her closer.
She’s not an inconvenience, not a burden I have to bear.
She’s the woman I love, the woman I’m never going to let go of.
Not because she’s been through too much already.
Not even because I’m going to protect her and make sure she always feels safe and secure and wanted.
But because she’s Harper.
And she’s mine.
Forever.
And, finally, that’s not a scary thought.
I wake up with hair in my mouth and the woman I love in my arms.
Yeah, I’ll take that trade.
I glance at the clock, see that even though I don’t want to move, even though I want to linger and enjoy just holding Harper, I need to get up.
The guys and I have ice time this morning, and then I’m meeting with the strength coach to rework my training plan.
Which likely means more devious exercises that will have me crying foul.
Or maybe just crying.
Either way, I can’t stay where I am.
Carefully, I slip out of the bed, making sure not to wake her.
Then stand there watching her, probably looking like a total creeper as I watch her sleep. She’s peaceful, those long lashes resting on the tops of her cheeks, her breathing even and steady. Her face is more rounded than before she was carrying my baby—and her breasts are too (not that I’m complaining about either—but I’m certainly not bitching about those gorgeous tits of hers). Her belly has begun to grow too, curving in a way that makes me want to beat at my chest and declare I did that.
To declare she’s mine.
It’s fucking ridiculous being a man sometimes.
Even with the changes, she’s still as beautiful as ever, and there’s a softness I’m compelled to protect.
More of that mine-ness.
I smooth back her hair, tucking it behind her ear, then head to the bathroom to take care of what I need to take care of.
I have my gear and a gym bag in my trunk, which means I can go straight to the rink to start my day. But I make a pit stop in the kitchen. I don’t want Harper to wonder where I am, so I locate a notepad and?—
“Shit,” I mutter as I knock a stack of mail to the floor.
Bending, I start to gather it up.
Then freeze.
Past Due.
Overdue.
