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I glance over my shoulder, smiling. “And don’t worry. If I ever decide to entertain applications for a fun addition, you’ll be the first to know.”

His groan echoes through the kitchen as I slip back outside into the sunlight, grinning to myself.

forty

. . .

Whitley

Beau and I have been together for six months now. Six months of learning the meanings behind his sighs and how to coax a smile out of a man who spent years teaching himself not to show too much.

I love him.

I love him in the way you love a favorite song that still makes your heart ache no matter how many times you hear it. I love him the way you love home. Not the place you come from, but the one you’ve been searching for your whole life without knowing it.

He makes me feel feral and soft and safe in equal measure. One minute I want to crawl into his lap and purr like a cat, and the next I want to ruin him for every other woman who dares to look at him. Which I know is insane. But so is love. Or at least ours is.

Six months in, and I still lose my breath when he walks through the door.

Six months in, and I’d still set fire to the world for him.

Which is…romantic, I think? Or maybe slightly criminal. Either way, the best part of all of this is that I never have to fake a damn thing. I don’t have to shrink myself down. He takes me as I am—loud laugh, occasional emotional spiral, and all.

And he’s still all gruff silences and broody stares that scare most people off, but it only makes me want to poke the bear.

But I fell for him exactly as he is. I’m a little too extra. He’s a little too guarded. But we speak each other’s language in a way no one else ever could.

His mom’s art therapy sessions have become something I look forward to more than I ever expected. The first few weeks, she barely spoke. Some days are easier than others. Some days, she tells me stories like they happened yesterday. Other days, she gets frustrated when her thoughts move faster than she can keep up with. But she always shows up. She always tries. And every time, Beau asks how she’s doing, pretending like he’s just making casual conversation. I see right through him. He needs to know.

He cares so much. I love that about him.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the sound of the doorknob turning. My heart does that ridiculous flutter thing, like it’s still the first and not the hundredth time he’s walked through my door.

Beau appears in the kitchen doorway, still in his work clothes, grease stains on his forearms and that five o’clock shadow that makes my knees weak. He’s carrying a paper bag that smells like those garlic knots from the Italian place I’ve been craving all week.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm.

“Hey, yourself,” I reply, moving toward him. “You brought food?”

He lifts the bag slightly. “Figured you’d be hungry after your session with Mom today.”

I reach for the food, but he holds it just out of reach, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Payment first.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh and narrow my eyes at him. “You’re seriously extorting me with takeout?”

“Damn right, I am.”

I rise up on my toes, fingers curling in his shirt as I press my lips to his. Slow and just sweet enough to melt the edges of his smug little smirk.

When I pull back, he’s already leaning in for more. “That was hardly payment,” he mutters against my mouth.

“Then consider it a down payment,” I whisper, fingers skimming the edge of his jaw. “The rest comes after what I hope are garlic knots.”

He chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound that still makes my stomach flip. “Yes, they’re garlic knots. And lasagna.”

“You’re a God among men,” I declare, snatching the bag with a triumphant grin. “How did you know I was craving Italian?”

“You mentioned it three times yesterday,” he says, following me to the kitchen counter. “And twice the day before.”