Page 82 of Tempting Tessa

“In here,” she answers from the kitchen.

I follow her voice, my heart doing that stupid fucking thing it does whenever I’m about to see her. She’s standing at the counter, her back to me, stirring something in a mixing bowl. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of my shirts.

She turns, and her eyes go wide when she sees my face. The spoon clatters into the bowl as she rushes toward me.

“Oh my god, what happened?” She reaches up, her fingers hovering near my split lip.

I catch her wrist before she can touch the wound. “It’s fine.”

She steps back, her eyes darting between my face and my ribs. “My dad? He did this?”

“He had every right.” I pull her against me, ignoring the twinge in my side when her belly presses against me. “And I let him.”

She tries to push away, but I tighten my grip. “Let him? You let my father beat the shit out of you?”

“Three punches is hardly beating the shit out of me,” I correct, brushing my lips against her hair. “And I blocked one.”

“This isn’t funny.” She pulls back, her eyes flashing. “He could have hurt you worse.”

“He didn’t.” I slide my hand down to her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. “And now we’re even.”

“We’re not even. You’re bleeding.” She pushes at my chest, more gently this time. “Sit down. Let me clean you up.”

I let her lead me to the kitchen island, watching as she grabs a clean dish towel and runs it under warm water. She stands between my legs, her belly pressed against my knees, and dabs at my lip with careful fingers.

“He got you good,” she murmurs, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Did he break anything?”

“Probably one of his knuckles.” I pull her closer, pressing my forehead against her stomach. “It was going to happen regardless, stellina.”

She cards her fingers through my hair, her nails scraping against my scalp in that way that makes my cock twitch. “What did he say?”

I look up at her, my hands sliding to her hips. “He’s going to call you tonight.”

Her breath catches. “He is?”

“He misses you.” I press my lips to her belly, feeling the baby kick against my mouth. “He’s not happy about us, but he wants to be part of your life. Part of the baby’s life.”

“Really?” Her voice is small, hopeful in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Really.” I pull her down onto my lap, ignoring the protest from my ribs. She settles against me, her arms winding around my neck. “He’s coming to the ultrasound next week.”

A sob escapes her, and she buries her face in my neck. I hold her while she cries, stroking her back, letting her get it all out. Her tears soak into my shirt, hot and wet, but I don’t care.

When her sobs finally subside, she pulls back, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her fingers tracing the edge of my bruise. “This is my fault.”

“Stop.” I catch her wrist, bringing her hand to my mouth. “None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?” Her voice cracks.

“Because you’re a good person who hates hurting people she loves.” I press my lips to her palm. “But sometimes, the right thing feels wrong at first.”

She studies me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Then she leans in and kisses me.

“I love you,” she murmurs against my mouth, the words barely audible.

My heart stops. Then starts again at double speed. She’s never said it before—not directly, not like this. We’ve danced around it for months, but she’s always held back, kept that last piece of herself separate.

“Say it again,” I demand, my voice rougher than I intend.